By George Clonewolf Cloney
I want to shaggle with you. I’d like to gently, yet warmly kiss you girl and slosh tongues in the same rhythm that you’re sloshing tongues. I’m tired of using one of my hands to rub one out so please lover, romantically, drop down to your knees, raise your arm, and take it in your hand. I’d like you to rest the other hand on my pucker star, which is the second favorite part of my body because it’s a straight and bony pucker star, nothing like your curvy, soft one.
I’d like to stay there long enough until my manly release if that is ok? Or until our awkwardness goes away. Either is good, but for the record I would prefer the manly release. I’d like to feel you give into the slamnatious rhythm of my hips. Don’t ask yourself if this is too intimate.
Don’t worry about sending me signals that you like me too much. The fact that you’re doubled over with legs in the air and makeup smeared from tears of jackhammer joy lets me know full well that you think more of me than “just a friend”. Don’t
think about what will happen tomorrow after you cook me some eggs. Stop wondering if we are being intimate enough and how much longer it will be until I get off of you so we can snuggle.
Make a joke after a few moments of post-coital, one of those jokes that
isn’t funny because its “girl” humor which isn’t normally funny to a guy anyway, but funny because it’s a comment on our current geographic location with respect to the wet spot on the bed. Let our moment of closeness be designed to make both of us ease further from the wet spot that we’re currently floating in.
You could say something about how I’m as bad ass a lover as Burt Reynolds or someone, or how your Buddha statue is staring at us from the corner and now you feel guilty, or how the lady upstairs is totally hot and you might possibly be “into it” if I was. And we’ll laugh together. Not the laugh that we shared in the bar with our friends. Not the laugh that comes when you watch an episode of “Different Strokes”. Not the laugh that you
force when your boss says something that makes me want to ride my scooter down to Starbucks and clock him in his Barrista-smiling scone-hole, no this will be the laugh that
you saved just for me, the one that’s weird, publicly embarrassing, yet sweet,
because that’s how you’re feeling towards me right now.
You won’t think about all the coffee cups and oven mitts I tried to steal while waiting for you to finish shopping at Kohl’s last week, and which somehow, I don’t know, made you angry? You won’t feel guilty for overreacting like you did when picking me up at the holding tank for non-violent criminal violations. I still don’t know what got you so pissed off. Anyways, you won’t plan what you’re having for dinner tonight because I stopped at McDonalds on the way over and picked you up a fish filet and a football follies DVD to watch together tonight. You will soak the right now of this up. Our moment. Football follies. Fish Filets. Boom.
I’d like you to play with my hair. Anywhere you want, where ever I’m growing it. I’ve got hair everywhere and that is what you love so much about me. Especially that I like to show it off with a good old fashioned skin-tight low cut tank top. Don’t pat the head with a flat
hand, put your fingers under it, on it, and then run them through the hair like it’s a bush of love. Wrap both of your arms around the pooper and give me a long, tight squeeze, the kind where in the last second, I accidentally release a little bomb back there, you know the kind, where your straining and straining to hold it in and you are on the precipice of gaseous destruction and even the slightest little thing can cause the greatest, longest blast of fish-filet smelling nastiness that we don’t even want to talk about in our moment of intimate romance, watching football follies.
Then I’d like you to close your eyes, so I can adjust myself freely without you watching me, I’ve got some pride too you know. I want to again gently yet warmly kiss you girl, fondle your globes, slosh my tongue against yours. I want to stroke the slope of your nose and your eyelids without getting any tartar sauce on them and admire from afar, how much time it takes for the average girl to put mascara on.
I’d like you to run your thumb over my lips. Cup my face with both of your hands. And I want you to suck my tongue right out of me. This will be a kiss that is sloppy with overactive saliva glands brought on from the salt of the fish filets and lukewarm french fries. Let it go from light sucking to deep turbo vacuum sucking and then just straight up oral sex again I guess. Seemingly endless oral sex that doesn’t lead to my having to reciprocate necessarily, I mean, I could, I guess but, It doesn’t need to. You’ll do it simply to feel the warmth that it brings on its own.
Then I want you to roll me over. Gently rest your beer on top of me and hold mine while I do some pilates exercises in the nude, with all my body hair, flowing in the gentle breeze of that fan I bought you from Walmart for Christmas.
Then, I want you to start at the beginning and do it again.