Can you hear my heaving grunts? Can you feel how slippery my body has become? Don’t worry baby, I’ve got more in the tank. Whether we’re in a log cabin, an apartment, or in your incoming nephew’s nursery, I can keep the love train rolling. But the truth is, this is more than sex to me. I just want to flop around on you for a while.

This feels like what we were meant to do. It’s like all the Lite Rock on 99.whatever FM. Just me, you, and maybe a little Richard Marx. I just swallowed a boner pill. Your bed is squeaky and I am so greasy. I’ve run out of places to wipe my back sweat, but I have not run out of ways to please you! And I’ll prove it with the Shocktopus, a sexual maneuver I know you haven’t heard of! It’ll feel like eight appendages at once, but it’s really just rapid spiraling of my right arm, pumping of my left leg, and an involuntary muscle spasm in my deltoids.

[Gyration ensues, shortly followed by canine-ish panting, 37 consecutive throat-clears, and a dry heave]

Girl calls mom from her bed on telephone
"I know, I know, you told me he’d just be another dud. Ok, bye Mom."

Although I look like a fish that’s just escaped a live well, I hope you’re about to cum soon. I know I have. I mean… I know I’m about to cum. Again. I mean… for the first time.

What’s your favorite guitar riff? I’m sure I could replicate it with the sound of my adipose tissue slapping against your softness—and it would all fall beneath the umbrella of the Shocktopus. Isn’t that amazing!?! Also… you’re amazing! And so very soft. And you smell like fabric softener. I think I love you.

My butt muscles are cramping up. This could be devastating. You may have to abort your orgasm. I can feel you quivering beneath me. Or maybe I’m just tremendously hypoglycemic. I’ve lost a lot of fluid already. You soak me up like a sponge. I don’t even care that The Walking Dead is on, I just wanna be cocooned with you, smelling like dying, wet cats together.

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…sort of like The Walking Dead, I guess…

But I digress. Because either I’ve found one of your alphabetized erogenous zones, or you really are a marvelous actress. If you moved to LA, you wouldn’t have to wait tables for long. I’m thrilled to be pleasing you (I think), oscillating on your body like a beached sea lion. I hope I’m not suffocating you.

Should I crank up the intensity? I think my heart can take it. Let me get a little louder too.

I hope you enjoy the noises I make. They range from "lowland gorilla" to "shrill birthing scream" and I know, I know, I’m blessed with Mariah Carey’s octave range. But it won’t go to either head. And don’t worry about my oxygen debt, this is all for you, baby.

Yeah, my heart is pounding. Yeah, I’m all over the place. And yeah, I think your air conditioner is actually spewing more heat, but I see your "O" face on the horizon, and that keeps me going, willing to satisfy. Unless that’s your "oh my god your Drakkar Noir just dripped into my eyes and IT’S BURNING LIKE SULPHUR" face. Either way, I’d like to stay positive.

My butt muscles are cramping up. This could be devastating. You may have to abort your orgasm. I hope this isn’t what you and your girlfriends call a "deal breaker." At least I’m done farting. The ambient smell can only improve from here. Oh wait! I think the cramp is subsiding. Sorry for that break in the rhythm we had going. And sorry for the mid-thrust head butt, are you okay?

Okay, good. Sorry.

Alright. I should probably stop apologizing and just give it to you. Where’d you go? Damn, I slid all the way up to the headboard again! Just give me a moment to find your pelvis again… there we go!

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Aren’t you glad you finally found someone who knows how to please a woman? And you are quite the woman. Your body is a wonderland. And I’m glad I’ve been tall enough for every ride (if you know what I mean). Honestly, I’m just supremely grateful that you think 5 inches (actually 4 and 2/3) is HUGE! And not to brag, but I’ve had the same penis since grade school.

I hope my aforementioned manhood isn’t wrecking your walls. I also hope you don’t get stretch marks 9 months from now because of this. I learned everything I know about sex from a nun. So it’s safe to say I’ve got this covered. Well, not my penis. And no… I have no idea why it’s bumpy. But I’ve been rubbing aloe leaves on it from a plant I found in your lobby. God! WHY AM I CRAVING CORN DOGS RIGHT NOW?

I know I don’t really have an "ideal body," or "good technique," or "money," but somehow you’ve stuck with me. Probably on the hope that I was good in bed. And after this is over, and after I leave, we may never talk again. But I will talk to you. I will call you, text you, and find you on Tinder. Because I can handle rejection like a man. I’ll soon get drunk and cry. Then I’ll get over that hangover, get drunk, and cry again. I’ll tell my buddies you were "the one," and have absolutely no idea what "unrequited" means.

But I’m glad to be with you right here and right now. You’re warmer than my grandma’s living room. And there’s nothing Shakespeare has ever said about love that can top that.

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