It’s interesting the conversations one has while a charmingly sluttish lady is slipping one or two lubed fingers into your posterior.
You become Hemingway to a certain extent. Your words get chiseled down to hard-boiled (or is that hard-fucked?) essentials. Okay, if Papa was on his back, knees progressively falling apart while you pant like a dog being boinked, the verbal pearls kind of emerge between animalistic groans…
Perhaps it’s the budding cuckold in me but it turns me the poop on if the lady in question will tell me about other men she’s been with. My thrashing about factor increases exponentially based on the explicitness of said lady’s “other men” scenarios.
Okay back to lubed fingers heading up my ass, I asked how many men she’d fucked in the particular bed we were in. Got that number. Then, asked how many men enjoyed ass play. She said none as they always considered that “too gay.”
I sighed. Boys, boys, boys….if you only knew. My Hemingway factor from that point slowly de-evolved to dialogue from “Quest for Fire” but it was way cool and so nasty.
And yes my recovery has been set back. Day one began all over again the next day.
