There’s an old saying, "Two tops don’t make a bottom", which I have come to interpret as "personal boundaries are essential". Know thyself, yes? And I know thyself- I am a raging, cock-gobling, hole-spreading bottom. My boy-pussy has its own gravitational pull dammit. Like a black hole, nothing escapes, not even light.
There’s nothing I like better than dancing on the ceiling, ankles behind my ears, while a big nasty man plows my puckerbud
till it’s red and sloppy.
I thought I’d found the perfect top man right here in NYC. Big burly hunk of Puerto Rican hotness, his name was Hector, he worked at one of the last meat markets down by 14th street. I met him one night as I stumbled around
drunk looking for a cab. Something ‘bout a hot Latino in a bloody apron…magic!
Hector fucked me crossed eyed for the next 2 weeks and it was bliss. On my knees in his mamacita’s kitchen, standing up in a hallway at The West Side Club, sitting on his uncut hog at my kitchen table. That boy fucked me so
good I happily thought my kidney would burst.
One night after a particularly violent and delicious ass-slamming, I lay in bed catching my breath while Hector hit the john for his post-fucking piss session. Still feeling frisky, I got up to watch…and caught my Casanova with his fingers in my Estee Lauder Revitalzing Moisture Cream, and 50 bucks worth of the shit smeared on
his face! “What are you doing?” I shreiked. “Sweetie’ he replied in a suddenly snatchy tone of voice, “you want me to keep this face pretty don’t you?", rolling his eyes and dabbing at the glistening glob on his cheek.
Uh no, no I don’t. I threw his ass out quicker than a cha cha queen cashes her WIC check. Not gonna work. I know the tragedy that can happen when two cunts collide.
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