Friday, March 21, 2008


She was a stout, little dumpling, and regardless of how much he loved holding her huge, bouncy boobs in his hands and no matter how many times he deep-dicked her and she cried out her name, he could never get over the fact that she looked like death warmed over.

“Maybe we‘re meant to be,” he’d think.  “Maybe this Danny Devito-titted dwarf is who I’m supposed to be with.  Why would I mess with this?  The square peg fits in the hole, so who am I to argue?”

Still, he spent years being uncomfortable while she went along thinking everything was fine.  And why should she think any different?

He thought he’d given the signs that she would understand; calling her “Dookie Jr.,” pinching her fat, shoving his hand onto her head while she blew him on long drives.  But she kept coming back.

He wasn’t sure what was more sad.  Was it worse for him to secretly hate this sexpot and continue on with this thing or have her believe that she could do no better?  Or was this all equal?

Regardless, he’d never met a woman with such a fantastic-tasting labia.




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