Frustration. It seems to be a consistent thing in my world. Everything has to wait for something else to happen.
Right now it’s a very particular kind of frustration – one that leaves a feeling like molten lead has been poured into your gonads. Not on them, but in them. A burning ache, deep within that can only be cured by hours of unbridled, wanton, tear down the walls, knock furniture over, messy, sweaty, tenderly violent sex fucking. We ain’t talkin’ bout roses and wine here. Blackberry brambles and whiskey is a more apt metaphor, I think.
I have been left alone for the rest of the afternoon after a morning filled with stolen kisses, innuendoes, dirty thoughts, innocent poses that become delightfully perverted imaginings, quickly executed, but deeply felt mutual groping, and smoldering looks that can only mean one thing – I want you, and I want you NOW!
Mixed thoroughly with “dada, want sometin!” and “Mama, look at this!” from the dedicated duo of Destruction.
Naturally, with the perverse nature of Life, Psycho-Momia has a doctors appointment this afternoon, and has to work at the crack of dawn tomorrow. I have to work tonight until late (midnight-ish). And I’m working most of the day tomorrow. Sigh. What’s a horny Tattooed Dad to do?
I think the word for today is Fleshlight!
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