During a dirty, sweaty, lustful exchange of bodily fluids exclaiming "honey you're fucking the shit out of me" is the greatest compliment I can voice; in actuality however it's much more an oxymoron (explained below). Whilst in the moment, thoughts do flash between "this is fucking amazing" and "oh my god I think my spleen is now lodged permanently near my esophagus - probably not a good thing"; flick alternatively in my mind's eye.
After the paroxyms of a fabulous orgasm have finally ebbed away and the soles of my feet have stopped burning; (a true manisfestation of an organsm off the Richter scale) I'm left knowing that such a great fuck has dire consequences for future bowel movements. I've not had the shit fucked out of me but into me. For some reason however, my verbal proclamations of said lover's skills doesn't include, "honey, you're fucking the shit into me"... it just doesn't flow - literally.
So, now after four days of tremendous but quite hard-core fucking with Soy Boy I'm wondering what kind of therapist I desperately need to visit in order to have my internal organs repositioned to their natural place, and what anti-constipation concoction I can drink to help ease my discomfort.
Am thinking that perhaps a reflexologist would help and maybe I can create some kind of smoothie laced with chilies.
Wednesday, May 12, 2004
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
