KISS, don’t Vacuum! (part 2)

French Kiss

French Kiss (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

If you too have been led to believe that the size of a man’s penis can be judged by any other factor in his build, such as his Adam’s apple, the length from his elbow to the tip of his middle finger, his height or his weight or the depth of the color of his skin, please—I beg you, PLEASE—don’t be a fool.  None of these things in itself is an absolute determinant.

Take it from me, who was appalled at the nearly non-existent penis in the pants of the guy who tried to get away with manslaughter. That is to say that he seemed to want to kill me with his kisses. Oh thank, heaven above that I never had to lay eyes on the thing that felt like nothing more substantial than the finger-sized Lik-a-Stiks we used to get at the movies when I was a little kid.

For once in my life I got smart and didn’t try to make up for a man’s lack of skill or prowess or stamina, or anything else, for that matter. I was NOT going to be his vacuuming experiment. If he couldn’t kiss worth a dime, then he wasn’t going to be allowed the opportunity to totally jack up my whole night. Good grief, even now I am still recovering from the trauma of those kisses!

And to be frank, they really should not be referred to as kisses at all.  And whatever it was should not even get an –s attached to it to make it plural. It was one long horrid SUCK! I have never, and I repeat NEVER, felt anything so painfully horrendous in my life.


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