So. Yesterday was a pretty good day. Most of it was spent with me basking in the glory of the memory of a really good sexing. A recent memory at that. SAC Ellen had made a pit stop here to Austin to grab herself a little poontang, and took advantage and filled my tank as well.
Sex is a weird ball of wax—one that I will never fully understand. Sexual desire is even waxier. OK, wait a minute, I can hear you now, what with all your, “Didn’t you mean that your ball of wax is weirder, and not that your weird ball is waxier?”
My answer to you is, “No, silly rabbits, my metaphoric analogy is an ear wax dealie.”
Have you ever taken the time to study the entire ear wax conundrum? I have. I mean first of all doctors fill our heads with silly shit about our ears. “Don’t stick anything smaller than a basketball inside you ear, Mooner.” That was old Doc Ashburn’s best medical advice after he removed the rubber eraser from the end of a Number 2 pencil from my left ear.
I’d had a little ear infection that was finally clearing up, and my ear itched like a sonnofabitch. I knew better than to scratch it, but I figured the blunt, rubber end of a thick pencil would be a safe instrument. What I hadn’t factored into my thinkings was that I was what my first grade teacher, Mrs. Browningwell’s sister Mabel Purdy, described as, “Mooner scrubs his eraser as if he is removing blood stains from his memory.”
I made many errors when putting pen to paper as all ADHD and ADD kids do, and scrubbing-off my inaccuracies with the eraser of a Number 2 pencil seemed a never-ending task. I’d rub so many holes in my full-page test papers that they looked like well-used shotgun targets. I’d get frustrated with all my answer changing and start bearing down on my pencil, like the harder I pressed the more accurate and complete my erasure would be. I’d rub these big, black smears and crenelated tears all over my nifty lined school paper.
I often worked the rubber eraser free from it’s metal pencil end clasp, and even broke pencils with my vigor. This one time I broke a pencil and half of it stabbed into that fleshy flap of my hand between thumb and pointer finger. You know, the little bat wing part of your hand.
OK, stop the presses. My ADHD is fritzing us into near oblivion. If I don’t derail this train it’s going completely off tracks. What I was trying to tell you is that I had an ear infection, it was healing and itching as it did so, I stuck my pencil in my ear to scratch the itch and the eraser popped off with the sucking back-pressure caused by the ball of wax in my ear canal.
Eraser was glued to two sides of my inner ear and was touching my ear drum. That’s the waxier analogy I was making about sex.
I guess you had to be there.
Like I was saying, I felt pretty good about myself yesterday because a woman had gone out of her way—and half across the country—to spend a little conjugal time with me. Should I have said, “… with myself.”? Was that one of those “myself” thingies?
I was feeling so good that I decided to take a spin over to a particular website to see if one of my favorites was back on the air. This favorite simply dropped off the map one day several months ago and left me high, and dry. It was like somebody unplugged my morphine drip.
I was clicking over there sometimes fifty times a day to see if she had posted anything new only to come home empty hearted. I have missed her more than I’ve missed one of my ex-wives. I’m not saying which ex that reference was referencing, and only one of them would fit the not-missed category. But I missed my little ebony skinned I-net mistress.
So, I was feeling good as I basked in the warmth that only poontang can give a man. And ladies, allow me to say this one thing about men and sex. If you think it’s a myth that men savor the musty scent of your sexual core after a sexing event—you are totally fucking delusional. Like I said, I was sitting in my desk chair having just written yesterday’s posting when I caught a light poontang scent wafting in the air.
I have a great sense of smell, which is why I’m a good cook (I think), and I closed my eyes to savor it. Then, I wondered where the origins of scent were located, and I sniffed it out. It didn’t take long to realize that I smelled like SAC Ellen from my wrist to as far up my arm as my nose can reach. I must have spaced things out and washed my hands.
That’s when I decided to go check to see if the T-cat was back in service. And she was! I alerted everyone that she had posted, and then the debate started. “Do I name her to my Bloggie Roller now and risk chasing her back into darkness, or do I wait to be sure this is a permanent repair?”
Short debate. This lady is so fucking funny and insightful that if she’s made her last post it’s worth a place of honor here to my home. So, ladies and gentlemen, I present to you the next of my favorite bloggers: http://www.thundercat832.blogspot.com/
Falen is the T-cat and she will rock your socks off. Some of my best belly laughs come from reading her shit. Every time I go over there I turn just a little black, and ghetto. Sometimes I morph into a gansta. Find myself pulling an M&M and start sounding like Huggy Bear from Starsky and Hutch. Her stuff is that contagious.
And let me tell you this. You have never met a woman more comfortable with her body and its many functions. All I’m saying.
So raise your Carta Blanca high and join me in a salute to Thundercat832, my sistah the T-cat. I love your black ass, baby.
Click over there -} and check her out. Manana, y’all.