What can YOU say in six sentences?
What I thought was a one-night stand on Friday turns into a 54-hour marathon before my front door's even shut.
More than just sex, it turns into a rules-free, clothes tearing, nibbling, biting, clutching, scratching, fumbling, giggling, tickling, tumbling, pleading, sucking, swearing, cooing, blowing, screaming, moaning, gymnastic, floor-to-bed, kitchen counter, over the couch back, refrigerator ravaging, double-bun grabbing, bedroom dismantling, rosy moon-cheeks' slappin', sweaty, aching, sailor cussin', breathless, wine swilling, lathered, shower-inventive, Jacuzzi tsunami-sending, steamy, grisly, Bacchanalian sexploration session that morphs the Tantric into the Kama Sutran, injected by all the other titles in the orgasmic how-to literature genre.
Yeah, like that and maybe understated.
So she awakens me with a twilight-sleepy kiss and pulls-over her pullover an hour or so ago and I'm on the patio awardin' myself a Marlboro for superhero studliness when I see a crumpled towel next to the cooperidge hot tub with the tub cover askew and all (big surprise, right?), and I'm readjusting it only to spot this hottie-neighbor's cat, 'Smoky,' in there in the water and deader and limper than my 'thrill drill.'
So I scoop up the towel, bag and dumpster 'Smoky,' grab the strewn bedding and other towels and enter the laundry room and son-of-a-BITCH find Smoky's hair in the dryer's lint trap and, catch this, nearly blow my groceries when I discover her tank top in the tumbler with more of Smoky's haIr.
She's back in eight or nine hours and I dunno whether to drop this pussycidal maniac with a phone call, a left hook or 'Feline Surprise Casserole,' but maybe an encore, cuz picture this, yeah, me bangin' away and humming "On Top of Ole Smoky" until she...naaaah, fageddaboudit!