The Wet Spot
Yo, party people! What Is Crackin’? I’m Angelina. I spew drivel over at my “new media think/write experience” otherwise known as the blog, High Class Jackass.
I wanted to DO SpiDip right…you know drop some heavy knowledge on his readership. Get people thinking. But then I came to my senses, and starting thinking about DOing it. You know, IT. And then I started thinking about SpiDip’s slim neck, and creamy skin and heaving bosom and then I couldn’t think about anything else except getting off, so I, you know, busted out the rabbit and took care of some business, and but quick.
See, I’m in the midst of those two miraculous, crawling - the - walls - in - a - feverish - pitch days of my cycle where I can think of nothing else except mating. Fucking. Scoring some baby batter for the little petulant and demanding ovum cold-lampin’ in my uterus.
Of course I’m not looking to get knocked up anytime soon, but biologically speaking, my body doesn’t care that I’m waiting for a “commitment” and “a ring” and “absolution from my student loans” before spawning my own devil child. All my loins want for these few days is to GET IT ON. Hot and nasty. For like, 36 hours straight.
I often think about calling in the reserves during this time—I guess you’d call them a booty call. I’m not trashy like that, so I prefer to call them “my former lovers with whom a relationship outside of a drunken, debaucherous midnight encounter is not feasible.” Surprisingly, they’re totally cool with that. I usually don’t, though. I have a roommate who’s more like a nosy older brother and always has more than a little something to say about the dick...I mean, the guys I bring round.
I’m suffering, people. Like a randy cat, wailing, and I can’t stop shifting in my seat trying to abate the urge. Sadly, it has the opposite effect, and if I do it too fast, well, that’s just trouble. I do have a few tricks up my sleeve, and might be phoning in a favor, and if only I could trick my roommate into taking a mini-break…wow. I’m guessing this is what it feels like to be a guy, like, all the time. How do they manage to get any work done? Eh, fuck ‘em. Or better yet, fuck me!