Coincidentally enough neal, that subject is the reason why our relationship hit the wall harder than a Lamb of God fan on red bull. It was a fateful evening one brisk summer. I was on Cara's front porch admiring the horizon, the reflected beams of light adding a twinkle to my periwinkle eyes. I stood there mulling, bare upper torso exposed, with my libido at full tilt. Would the love of my life, whose whisper was the only one my 22 time pierced ear knew, take the big lebowski in her San Angeles rain forest?!?! Was this the picasso painting that I, I, I was meant to pen!?!? Upon the conclusion of her Cara DeAngelis original, I made my move. I began spider crawling my DuPont ladened fingers up her vintage sweater until I came to a bra strap. God knows she wasn't blessed with the ripest plums, but today in the heat of August, her areolas were like two cherries in a shot glass. I passionfully spun around her, lifted up her sock hop skirt and slipped the macaw in the jaws of her pubescent patio of adulation. One thrust, two, a tri-fecta of affection. She was bleating like a ewe in an Appalachian back road, when I made my move. 9 ounces of Sean-essence squirmed through a vanilla vent in to the chocolate gulch waiting above. A sanguine stream of solitary shame spackled the porch-side as her cheeks became symmetrically rosy on both spheres. In and Out animal style, I continued, as dusk draped our lustful inhibitions like a murderous calling to the innocent devotion we once held.
All was lost...
