Dear Penthouse Forum,
My first girl on girl exploit went into full swing on a gorgeous, sunny day at a Pride parade. Sounds tacky that it happened during Pride, but I swear to the Chocolate Cha Cha Gods it's true. My man had been away for several weeks and I was left to the masses – masses of liquor and masses of tourists insatiably looking to lay down some new rug.
As it was a sizzling afternoon, my mates and I decided that consuming some frosty spirits before noon was not only reasonable, but compulsory. Amid a sea of rainbows, came deafening roars of hogs, being ridden by the leaders of this procession – The Dykes on Bikes. Some were unabashedly in the raw; with tits like triangular, soggy flapjacks flailing in the wind likes flags at half-mast. Most were adorned in so much leather and rubber garb, it was apparent that this ceremonial dress bore much more magnitude than the fact that it was 30^C. To each her own, but while we're being frank – that would be some rancid crotch by dusk (ahem…an excellent occasion to use the contraction "swunt"*).
We bellowed out to the proud merrymakers and loved watching them sail by on their vibrant floats. The costumes were outstanding; silver painted testicles, foot-long lashes, and trannies on Rollerblades with wigs bigger than Rita McNeil's ass. This went on for hours – the parade was slightly disordered, so it went on for too many hours. Consequently, by the closing stages, we'd sucked back so much sauce that we were blinder than moles and rowdier than a thousand frat boys on a road trip to Porntown.
On weekend afternoons, most night clubs would still be in a slumber. However, in the Gay Village during this coveted celebration, all watering holes (no pun intended) are open and standing by to quench the thirst of all of us keeners. God bless their haute couture socks! And so, we shook it down and lapped up the cocktails like minors at the Neverland Ranch. Yes, yes, we have digressed from the lesbian part…put your hands back where we can see them…sheesh.
Whilst shamelessly boogying on the speakers like a dizzy, Ste-Anne-de-Bellevue Pub tart, I separately met two great gay men. You know, the type of fleeting friends one is enchanted with only when inebriated or savagely high on disco biscuits. They were both so cute that I proceeded to set them up and off onto their own speaker they went to polish their poles. I wouldn't be deserted for long. Like magic (not the type of magic that my little sister thought she made the first time she farted in the bathtub, but like magic with sparkles sent from the supernatural), came a cowgirl before me. She was sporting a cowboy hat, replica chaps over her jeans and a holster with a plastic pistol. However, as one might anticipate, there was no sheriff's badge. Why? Because there was NOTHING covering her upper torso to hold a badge of any description. She was a topless cowgirl and she was all over me like Miss U.S.A. on a six-pack.
Did I mention how smashed I was? So, I'm not certain how it unfolded exactly, but I do know her tongue swiftly made its way down my throat. At first thrust, I thought I was getting pleasure from it. Conversely, after a few seconds, the bliss of the novelty had passed. Her kisses were sloppier and deeper than a La Cachette divorcée's va-jay-jay. I twisted in another direction, pretending to want to dance more in order to break away from her sodden pie-hole. Well, come what may, Topless Cowgirl managed to lasso onto my tonsils again. You'll be pleased to know I let her give it another go. Then, like a starry-eyed virgin, I thought, "This isn't how I imagined it. I hoped my first would have a much better rack than this feeble excuse for A-cups." So, I told her that I'm straight and again, like a flash of witchcraft, she was nowhere to be seen.
Friends, not unlike the thumping blue-balls you have from where you thought this story was going, my fantasy still remains unfulfilled. Should I let my ideals of the perfect maiden for muff immersion die or should I remain persistent with my dream of eating rainbow?
My first girl on girl exploit went into full swing on a gorgeous, sunny day at a Pride parade. Sounds tacky that it happened during Pride, but I swear to the Chocolate Cha Cha Gods it's true. My man had been away for several weeks and I was left to the masses – masses of liquor and masses of tourists insatiably looking to lay down some new rug.
As it was a sizzling afternoon, my mates and I decided that consuming some frosty spirits before noon was not only reasonable, but compulsory. Amid a sea of rainbows, came deafening roars of hogs, being ridden by the leaders of this procession – The Dykes on Bikes. Some were unabashedly in the raw; with tits like triangular, soggy flapjacks flailing in the wind likes flags at half-mast. Most were adorned in so much leather and rubber garb, it was apparent that this ceremonial dress bore much more magnitude than the fact that it was 30^C. To each her own, but while we're being frank – that would be some rancid crotch by dusk (ahem…an excellent occasion to use the contraction "swunt"*).
We bellowed out to the proud merrymakers and loved watching them sail by on their vibrant floats. The costumes were outstanding; silver painted testicles, foot-long lashes, and trannies on Rollerblades with wigs bigger than Rita McNeil's ass. This went on for hours – the parade was slightly disordered, so it went on for too many hours. Consequently, by the closing stages, we'd sucked back so much sauce that we were blinder than moles and rowdier than a thousand frat boys on a road trip to Porntown.
On weekend afternoons, most night clubs would still be in a slumber. However, in the Gay Village during this coveted celebration, all watering holes (no pun intended) are open and standing by to quench the thirst of all of us keeners. God bless their haute couture socks! And so, we shook it down and lapped up the cocktails like minors at the Neverland Ranch. Yes, yes, we have digressed from the lesbian part…put your hands back where we can see them…sheesh.
Whilst shamelessly boogying on the speakers like a dizzy, Ste-Anne-de-Bellevue Pub tart, I separately met two great gay men. You know, the type of fleeting friends one is enchanted with only when inebriated or savagely high on disco biscuits. They were both so cute that I proceeded to set them up and off onto their own speaker they went to polish their poles. I wouldn't be deserted for long. Like magic (not the type of magic that my little sister thought she made the first time she farted in the bathtub, but like magic with sparkles sent from the supernatural), came a cowgirl before me. She was sporting a cowboy hat, replica chaps over her jeans and a holster with a plastic pistol. However, as one might anticipate, there was no sheriff's badge. Why? Because there was NOTHING covering her upper torso to hold a badge of any description. She was a topless cowgirl and she was all over me like Miss U.S.A. on a six-pack.
Did I mention how smashed I was? So, I'm not certain how it unfolded exactly, but I do know her tongue swiftly made its way down my throat. At first thrust, I thought I was getting pleasure from it. Conversely, after a few seconds, the bliss of the novelty had passed. Her kisses were sloppier and deeper than a La Cachette divorcée's va-jay-jay. I twisted in another direction, pretending to want to dance more in order to break away from her sodden pie-hole. Well, come what may, Topless Cowgirl managed to lasso onto my tonsils again. You'll be pleased to know I let her give it another go. Then, like a starry-eyed virgin, I thought, "This isn't how I imagined it. I hoped my first would have a much better rack than this feeble excuse for A-cups." So, I told her that I'm straight and again, like a flash of witchcraft, she was nowhere to be seen.
Friends, not unlike the thumping blue-balls you have from where you thought this story was going, my fantasy still remains unfulfilled. Should I let my ideals of the perfect maiden for muff immersion die or should I remain persistent with my dream of eating rainbow?
Signed,
Vertically Smiling
*Swunt: A brilliant hybrid of "sweaty cunt".
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