Caution: This entry is about sex. If sex, the idea of sex, the idea of me having sex, the word vagina, innuendos, euphemisms, or anything remotely risqué offends you, stop reading right now, and make an appointment with a proctologist and have your head removed from your anus. Thanks.
Every now and again, as a (mostly) single woman, I like to engage in the age old practice of The Booty Call. I used to have a regular booty call, and it was good, but then he decided that (even though he constantly told me he wasn't looking for a relationship) that he wanted to settle down and get married. So I was left without a booty to call. T'was a sad, sad day.
Anywho, I was in the market for a new meat, when I stumbled across a tall drink of water we'll call Sven. Sven and I hung out a few times, and there was a mutual attraction. Finally, I decided we should do the sex.
...And we did... And Sven was terrible. Not just terrible, destructive. My ess was all effed up. I mean, there are no words to the pain I was in for the next few days. Finally, I called the doctor... and the doctor told me what I had suspected, but dreading:
To which I replied, "I don't think my health insurance is THAT good."
However, the gang and I pooled our resources, and they were able to fix my vagina. I prefer the term "Vaginator" now, though.
Will I see Sven again? Most likely not. Not naked, anyhow.
Until next time, Dear Reader, May The Fierce Be With You!
"Live! Live! Live! Life is a banquet and most poor suckers are starving to death!"