Know what? Well, you know NO hangs around here a lot. He’s kind of a go-er, you know, a Don Juan. To put it bluntly, he’s real horny. I know him and BP are just kidding when they put there arm around me, or try to kiss me, or grab me or something. So I slap them on the back or arm and tell them to stop it. Like tonite I was rubbing NO’s back and neck and shoulders because he told me they hurt because he’d been working out.
Then I rubbed his chest and stomach. Then I rubbed his legs, I didn’t get near his dinky, but I wonder what woulda happened if I did get too near it. I mean, like, a lot of times it makes me mad if a guy can grab me then its funny to him. But if I touched a guy then I’m a scrunge. So I have to control me “needs.”
Like, I have this fantasy where I’m at a party and I have this really cute boyfriend. We end up making out in the back room. Sometimes we make love [this part censored do to the embarassment of the author].
Tonite BP kept grabbing my knee, so (kiddingly) I told NO that I couldn’t marry him (he told me we were getting married earlier after I had massaged him) because BP was in love with my knee. Then BP goes, “Yeah, we’re getting married.” And he starts chewing on my neck and shoulder. That kinda drives me nuts, too.
See, I can’t ever just let go. I have to keep it in. I like when guys where tite pants and you can see they’re dinkys. I know it sounds a little “aggressive,” but man, on TV they exploit the girls bodies totally. Low cut dresses, no bras, short shorts, tite pants, string bikinis, short nightgowns with teeny lace underwear. But when the guys wear tite pants they must do something with their dinky cause you hardly ever see a lump on the inside of one of their legs.
And guys without shirts is no big deal, the only good thing is whenever they (the guys) wear speedos, those bikini underweare for guys, and thats only the weight lifters on sports shows. And all they guys on comedy shows wear boxers, never bun-huggers. Cause if there pants fall off it’s always boxers.
KE said he liked me. He called me “waca waca,” then told me it meant cute. He asked me why I was so “waca waca.
My bird, Rufus, died today. I buried him by the wall in the backyard. I cried.
Bye Rufus. Sorry I kept calling you Sputnik. I loved you, and still do, even if you did bite me and wouldn’t stand on my finger hardly. I miss you. Good-bye.