Wednesday, May 09, 2007


I'm in my eighties and still have a craving for misbehaving ladies. When I reach my nines will I still have designs on female lines? Will I still kick up a storm at the sight of the feminine form? Will I still have an ache for a gal on the make who has what it takes to give what she's got whether she's got it or not? Can I abide her wrinkles and creases, the release of odors from her gastric disorders?

If she's sort of a chronic platonic but hooked on a tonic that fires desires, what is to worry or hurry to bed for fear that my miss in a burst of passion, for better or worse, will in her fashion. Risk her sacroiliac and jump in the sack the minute I say in my indirect way, "Let's go to bed."

And if she replies with a snicker and sighs and smiles, "Wait while I take all the pills for my ills. Then if you still want the prize between my fat thighs, put up or shut up with all those kitchykoos. So come on, get it on or it soon will be gone

"But don't do it fast. Make it last a minute or two, then I must go to my maker. So shake it, I'll take it. Then I'll head for my place in the sky and lay on a cloud and shout out loud, 'Hey angel boy, let's wiggle and jiggle and have us a fling. Let's fly to the moon and dance on the stars and take a slow boat to Venus or Mars. Pluck me and I'll pluck you. What more can we do at a hundred and two?"


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