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And the alien did decree: "because in Lambert Law, this is a 1st Amendment"
I'm a sucker Okay; let's rearrange this: what DO I want? Can it be a female, for once? I was thinking about Ty earlier; he said that types only limit us. (Ergo, keep us from ever finding the right mate.) Sage advice; when I'm not scared of him anymore, perhaps I will thank him. I know I muse on and on about my beloved archetypes: the singing brunette, and the saucy redhead. It appears that I've never explained to this crowd about the origins of those archetypes. Brunette: stems from a Christian girl who lived up my street as a child. We dabbled a little in things.. kissing, lotioning her boobs. That sort of sums it up. She sang country songs. I thought she was so damn pretty. I think I might have been a little crazy about her. I was, I know, for sure, jealous of that little bastard Joshua, her classroom crush. Though I didn't know it at the time, not completely -- I wanted her to want me. Brunette is the one I talk about a lot, in my jokes about "I found myself in the closet". Somewhere, out there, there is a girl from Alberta, who kissed me in my bedroom closet. Redhead: she was a childhood chum, a child of one of Mom's schooltime friends. Redhead was a hotblooded, firey little fox. She was mean to me, prolly because she noticed that I had a little kiddie crush on her. To get back at her for humiliating me, I stole a green marble from her. To reminisce my feelings, I named a doll after her -- who promptly got redubbed "Nibbletoe" after having Joel's dog eat her feet. Redhead was relived in Taylor Fl. A saucy Cinderella type. Now, that was a challenge. I saw her tits once, upon request. The idea was stolen from Rachel, a few streets away. Anni, Taylor, maybe Brittney, and I sat in a circle and showed each other our boobs. As with Brunette, I was vaguely jealous that I had no tits of my own. Keep in mind, I didn't actually have tits until I was 19. Angst? Brunette seems to be relived via Sarah. Sarah is the new standard. What do I want? I want to love, and be attracted to someone. Seems simple.. but in actuality, it's fucking me up. Gill I was sort of attracted to. She was classy.. nouveau-posh. But, it was less a sexual deal, and more a chummy one. The only time my pants started humming was the time she kissed my neck from behind. I was too stunned to actually return the move. Had I been a little more swift-witted, I might have actually salvaged that relationship. That's the way it always is: I abstain from bedding the good ones because I'm shy, and I fly at it with the nasties because I know I can purge myself of them if I fail at my sexual performance. I'm weird. I'm so damn worried about me during sex. Will I have dingleberries? Will I have crusties in my undies that day? Will I lose energy at the wrong time? Will I be lackluster? What about her? Will she attempt to jockey the hole (regardless of said commandment, "GET OUT OF THE HOLE!!")? Will she try to poke the hershey highway? Will she have a nasty cooch/ Will she wake up the next day and turn out to be a nutball? Will she come back for seconds (when we all know that pisses me off)? Will she be touchy-feely all the time? Hopes that never have basis: - She will accept my insanity, and possibly find my quirks endearing In accordance, I will: - Try to be romantic, and attentive
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You Missed: *DISCLAIMER Backlog:
Badly type text - Wednesday, Jan. 01, 2020 Yet another other entry - Sunday, Dec. 29, 2019 Damn near died - Sunday, Dec. 29, 2019 Boom Shalacka Lacka? - Saturday, Dec. 28, 2019 Circa 2010 |
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