WARNING: The following exposition contains dialogue of a frank, and sexual nature.
Turn back now, if that may be unsettling to you, or if by reading the phrase, “frank and sexual nature” you are expecting a story that includes me dorking a goat…
See that huge head of mine in the picture? It’s so big (mainly due to my ego) that the picture couldn’t capture the top of it.
But, it is also enormous because I have a massive brain.
My vast cranial canyon is full of knowledge, foresight, and thought; however, I am having a sexual problem with the Schmoop, and in spite of my super human intellect, I don’t understand it.
Schmoop and I have been living in sin together for nearly nine years. Although we have had our ups and downs just like any other couple, sex has never been a problem.
It has always been smokin’ hot. In fact, mere days after hooking up with me, she even got rid of her battery operated boyfriends because they couldn’t compete with me.
That is a fact that I cling to like grim death. ’Cause, well…my incredible ability to sexually satisfy is my only accomplishment in life. Anyhoo…
As many of you know, I have an affinity and skill for what some of us now call, Number Nine.
If you are unfamiliar with that Bagwine term, it means going south of the equator on a chick and seeing what the tuco-tuco of Patagonia tastes like. Schmoop’s little Southern Hemisphere rodent is delicious.
I think it may even contain Vitamin C, but I digress…
Lately during our sexcapades, as I am doing my best Magellan impersonation by orally exploring her Terra del Fuego, she will suddenly squirm and cut me off from my lady wallet osculation of her.
Schmoop, with the instant gratification characteristics of a man, will say:
“C'mon baby, I want dick!!”
Y’know…Here I am spending all of this time taking care of every inch of her body, and NOT being a wham, bam, thank you ma’am kinda guy, and what do I get for my efforts?
Heartache, that’s what.
I don’t get it. She likes me doing what I do. I loooooove it, and yet, when I start really getting into it, she just has to have the Matt-Meat.
Have I become so good that she can’t contain herself? Am I just so incredibly desirable that when I tongue her love button, she goes sexually ballistic?
Is my tongue the catalyst for a type of orgasm unseen in history since the time when a newly turned 13 year old Ann Coulter blew out the candles on her birthday cake that was designed in the shape of Richard Nixon’s head?
Or, has Schmoop developed man genes that dictate that she has to have it right here, right now, and with no regard to my feelings of love and longing to share quality time in our sex?
I tell ya…I am at a loss, and I need your help. We need your help.
You see, I am working during the day today, so Schmoop and I will be together tonight. We plan on having sex.
I was counting on you brilliant folks to give us some profound advice.
I hope that when I return home from work Monday evening and I open the comments, Schmoop and I will see some sage advice for my tongue, my Johnson, and her vagina.
I thank you in advance.