Me:I had a really terrible dream last night.
Boyfriend: Oh, I'm sorry.
Me: I cheated on you with Judge Reinhold. I was devastated.
Boyfriend: Didn't you have that dream before? When we were in Memphis?
Me: No? Did I? You're bullshitting me.
Boyfriend: No, you did.
Me: I went to an underground sex club located in a strip mall. Judge Reinhold was there. He was like a sex god. Women and men swarmed around him, wanting to touch his penis. I remember that Judge Reinhold had a really big penis. It was massive.
Boyfriend: That's interesting.
Me: But yeah, I was totally devastated.
Crossposted at Manhattan Project
Showing posts with label huge male members. Show all posts
Showing posts with label huge male members. Show all posts
6.04.2008
3.18.2007
Sexx Laws
[Full disclosure: I might be dating this bisexual dude, hence my trepidation about entering the bedroom and finding a slithering wet vagina awaiting me for a threesome.]
So last night, I fucked a woman. A forty-year-old virgin.
She had discolored skin, blue plugs of it drooping from her chin and bubbled scars a la Seal. Clearly, this poor woman had been parched in the biggest five-alarm blaze since Ron Howard's Backdraft.
"I like it hard and slow," she told me, even though she never had 'it' in her forty years. She reminded me very much of Ms. Crabtree on South Park, the constantly bedraggled ragamuffin bus driver who says things such as "my cooch hasn't been paid this much attention since I was a ripe flower."
I remember saying to myself, "just picture it as your potential boyfriend's ass...just picture it as your potential boyfriend's sphinx."
In a later dream segment, I started gettin' hot and heavy with the openly gay indie-rocker from Nashville who shall remain nameless.
In real life, I've been crushin' hardcore on this Roxy Music-era guitar slinger, sending him steamy text messages that could make Sue Johanson blush.
But last night in the dream...man. Let's just say that when my cell phone alarm clock blared, I cursed Cingular Wireless president Kathleen L. Dowling's mother.
So last night, I fucked a woman. A forty-year-old virgin.
She had discolored skin, blue plugs of it drooping from her chin and bubbled scars a la Seal. Clearly, this poor woman had been parched in the biggest five-alarm blaze since Ron Howard's Backdraft.
"I like it hard and slow," she told me, even though she never had 'it' in her forty years. She reminded me very much of Ms. Crabtree on South Park, the constantly bedraggled ragamuffin bus driver who says things such as "my cooch hasn't been paid this much attention since I was a ripe flower."
I remember saying to myself, "just picture it as your potential boyfriend's ass...just picture it as your potential boyfriend's sphinx."
In a later dream segment, I started gettin' hot and heavy with the openly gay indie-rocker from Nashville who shall remain nameless.
In real life, I've been crushin' hardcore on this Roxy Music-era guitar slinger, sending him steamy text messages that could make Sue Johanson blush.
But last night in the dream...man. Let's just say that when my cell phone alarm clock blared, I cursed Cingular Wireless president Kathleen L. Dowling's mother.
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