The Harder They Cum

Now I’m talking about cum. Good cum. The kind of cum that looks like the result of someone punching a tube of paste. You’ve seen it before: A leaking tube of white paste oozing out in a thick lake of tasty, white goodness.  Oh no!  Someone needs to clean that mess up!  Call the Environmental Protection Agency.  Some kind of protection, at least.

Indeed.   Cum is a messy business.  Hell, the war of “Come” vs. “Cum” rages in my mind to this very day.  I hate using the word “cum.”  “Cum” should be strictly reserved for Julius Caesar and all of his Roman buddy boys.  “Come” describes the act of coming.  Yes!  Arriving!  Sex is a journey . . . and you are my destination.  Bilbo Baggins and his little ring have nothing on Jacob Baggings and his magical cock ring.  You want a quest?  I got your quest hanging!

You’re thinking the same thing that I’m thinking: What happens when you bust a nut on your own face?  It’s happened before.  I’ve pulled out, let a pretty young lady pull on my beast and . . . oh . . . Oh . . . OH . . . *bing* Right beneath my right eye.  It’s always the right eye because I jerk a little to the left and I pull it into a right trajectory.  Maybe it drips a little in my mouth.  Hey!  I’m not ashamed to admit that I tasted a little of my own batter.  I think everyone needs to taste a little of what we’re made of in order to appreciate the whole beauty of procreation.  Personally, I’m not in favor of procreating, but it is a nice thing . . . sorta.  Pigs procreate, too.  Think about that.  Do you want to sink to the level of a pig?  You can just cum in your eye after all.  I prefer the latter over the former.  Cum in the eye, me mateys!

I want to ask all of my readers to do something for yours truly.  Please go back, search your bookshelves, or borrow, or buy a copy of O. Henry’s collection of short stories.   I’m not sure if I believe in reincarnation or kindred spirits, but I feel O. Henry and I think emulating the broke, alcoholic author is the way to go.

Be well.