8 comments/ 13034 views/ 7 favorites I Love Her By: chaosincubus I love her. I love everything about her. I love her. I love her eyes; they shine like diamonds reflecting the emerald of a shamrock field. I love her smile; angels have fallen from heaven for envy of that smile. I love her hair, coppery red that flows down her back like glittering lava giving accent to her already breathtaking form. Her every movement is poetry. Mortals walk, the goddess of my devotion glides like water across polished glass. I love everything about her. I love her. I love watching her eat at the coffee house as she sips her coffee and nibbles at her roll. She even eats gracefully! What flaw could she contain? What trait could mar such perfection? I watch enraptured as she slips amongst the tables to refill her cup. She seems to shine with an inner light. She slips back and resumes her seat. The ones about her bask in that light do so with absolute rapture. The ones who sit further away look upon wistfully, dreaming as I do of being within the radius of such illumination. As she leaves with a friend, I notice that she is laughing at something they have said. I wish I could be the one to make her laugh. I wish it were me she walked with. But sadly, no, I dare not approach her. I am not worthy of her time so I can only stare like a moonstruck fool. I love everything about her. I love her. I love watching her at the club. The music thumps and hums, driving itself into the soul like a tiger pouncing upon unwary prey. The dim lights hiding dark intent does nothing to diminish her inner beauty. Like a gleaming sun, she stands out among the undulating crowd. A platinum idol among pewter forms. She is dressed to kill and many fall to her deadly wiles. I watch my huntress rack up her victories from above, safe in the shadows from the pull of the crowd. The helpless lured close by her charms strive to win her favor only to be dismissed and ignored. The slink away having been found wanting. She is unrivaled, flowing to the pulse that is the heart of the crowd, more than a dance, beyond mere music. Black lights reflect on her flawless skin. Her smiles dazzle poor passersby like flashes from a camera on the unaware. Her hair swings around her face, a living thing of its own. My angel... My succubus... The Virgin Mary and promiscuous Lilith... My blood boils as she writhes to the cacophony of demons their choir crooning from the speakers of the nightclub. I MUST meet her. I must know the unimaginable bliss of her embrace. I must know the peace of surrender to her kiss. To be immolated in the flames that would be our passion. I must but I am afraid. To be spurned is to know entropy far more destructive than the decay of the grave. My boiling blood turned to ice. She smiles at me as I watch from above. Did she see me? I slip back further into the shadows. She is everything I could ask for. She is the only concept I dream of, her image has haunted my mind for weeks. I curse my cowards' heart as I seek the safety of my alcove. I must meet her. I WILL meet her. I will approach her and tell her my heart. She is my want, she is my desire, and she is my sin, the wishmaster to grant me the serenity of completeness. Almost trancelike I let my gaze follow her mercury dance through the club. I will meet her. I love everything about her. I love her. I sit in my car as the hours tick by. Every nerve in me is tense with trepidation. I have replayed the scene a thousand times in my head. It seems so damn easy. I just walk up and tell her of my love. So simple really and yet, here I sit. My hand doesn't open the door to let me out, it shakes with uncertainty in my lap. My feet do not carry me to her porch. Instead, they sit with quiet stillness of a deer caught in headlights. This is the night. I must do it now. I can do this now! Drawing a deep breath, I take firm hold on my courage. Releasing it slowly I steel my resolve. As I leave my car, I hear the song of the crickets. They urge me on, cheering my decision. I can do this. I move toward the house rehearsing what I will say. I love everything about her. I consume (no) ( please don't hurt me) (oh my god) ( I can't breathe) everything about her. I awake to sunlight streaming into my room the memory of last night fresh in my mind. I smile softly to myself. I can still smell her in my clothes. It was like a surreal dream, I can't even remember all of it. I was in the house and I talked to her. I noticed that she sleeps in a t-shirt and boxers. They were more alluring than anything she had ever worn to the Club. She must have felt a desire as strong and compelling as my own for as I held her tightly to me I heard her moan. "no" She spoke with a trembling voice. She moved with me to her bedroom. She softly repeated the word over and over as our clothes fell from us like autumn leaves from majestic tree. Her body melted against mine as I gently laid her back. My need must have been as obvious as her own. I was fire inside centered at a point that could only be quenched within her lovers grasp. "please don't hurt me" She whimpered to me as I lay atop her and pushed forward with my hips into her waiting sex. The universe lost its cohesion, as two became one. Time and time again I joined with her. Our separate identities merged in countless couplings, immersed in passion unmeasured. A haze of bliss settled upon me that I have not yet lost even awake in a new day. "oh my god" She shook softly as she whispered this. Tear, obviously of joy coursed down her pristine face. She couldn't stop shaking. I kissed her tears away whispering my undying love to her repeatedly like a mantra of my essence. Time blurred again and I felt the sting of my own tears as we joined in our lovers dance. Sweat clung to our bodies making them slick. I held her tightly to me never wanting to let go. "i can't breathe" Her voice could barely be heard as she spoke into my chest. As I neared my climax, I felt her buck and thrust against me. My own passion overwhelmed me and I matched her motions, as they grew more frantic. Suddenly she went rigid against me and I exploded. A supernova exploded behind my eyes as I burst inside her once more. As I finished she went limp, spent. Galaxies were born and empires feel in that timeless forever moment I held her tightly against my chest. I kissed her forehead in a tender expression of the love we just made. She lay there still, as one deeply asleep. The dream master had taken her into his domain. I don't remember leaving or returning home. I sit here now at the coffee house a week later. Tyler by the Toadies plays in the background. I have not seen her for since. I worry that she is okay. Every time I think to go see her or call her I find that I cannot. Something holds my hand or diverts my course. If I think on it too much my head starts to hurt so I push my worry aside and wait. Why has she not returned? After such a magical night one would think she would have wanted to see me again even if only to simply repeat the experience again. An experience that was rivaled by nothing conceived of by man or god. More days pass without my goddess showing. Where is she? It is starting to hurt simply to think of her. I begin to worry again, but in a different direction. Did I make it up? Did it even happen? I can't seem to remember clearly. I try to conjure up her face. I grow dizzy with the surge of pain and my head being to throb. I can't see her face. What? I can't see who's face? Who? Why? The headache begins to fade. I sip my coffee feeling perplexed. Who was I thinking of, and why? I can't seem to remember. Oh well, if it were important I am sure I would remember. OH WOW Who is that? She is so beautiful! Pale skin and slim profile, black hair wreathing thick frames of glasses that only accent the bleached marble skin of her face. Marble that would make a sculptor weep seeing his craft a poor second to the perfection before him. She is reading Alice in Wonderland, such an amazing book! Her appearance has put me in a dream world of my own. I think I am falling. No, I KNOW I am falling. I love her. I love everything about her. Fin I Love Her Motorcycle It's a custom rigid 1970's Harley Davidson. She found it out in the Midwest somewhere, in the middle of a corn field. Literally. It was love at first sight! Oh no, not for me. I've seen the pictures and trust me, it was a rusted heap of junk. The engine was froze, tires cracked and dry-rotted, and I think a family of field mice had made a rather nice home in the air intake. I have no friggin' idea how she even knew of it. Probably some damn online auction or underground swap magazine. Hell, she had to drive clear out west just to see it: and STILL brought it back home! Over the next several years, she spent all her spare time (and money) customizing this pile of scrap into one mighty sweet machine. Of course, it helps that she runs her own garage. Every spare moment possible, she rolled that bad boy in, raking it, welding on a hard tail, adding a springier front end, custom exhaust, lights, seat: you name it, she did it. Fair to say she had no girlfriend at that time- none would've put up with it, for sure! Who, me? Oh, no way in hell! All this, she had done way before I met her. She used to spend hours during our first dates showing me all the work she put into it. If we had been together when she got it, I tell you I would've been outta there. No way I'd been able to deal with taking a back seat to that heap! The night we first met, I was out with my best girlfriends. And yes, I mean friends. We were hanging outside our favorite club, having a smoke before venturing in. That's when fate struck. I could hear her coming from several blocks away. As luck would have it, the traffic light at the intersection in front of the club turned, and she was forced to stop. The rumble of that bike caused a purely visceral reaction in me. I struggled to take it all in before the light released her. Head to toe in black leather. The matching helmet and tank glistened in the street light. Burnt Orange. There was no chrome on her bike. The engine was flat black. Even the exhaust had tape instead of chrome. Retro styled goggles covered her eyes. I must've gasped. Did she hear? How could she? She turned and looked right at me. Peered right into my soul. I couldn't tear my eyes away. The light turned green. With the slightest head nod, she put her bike in gear and rumbled forward. As I watched, a hole began to open inside me. This mysterious person had touched me like no other. How could that be? How would I be able to find this person again? Then, my heart stopped. I watched her take a turn, doubling back to the parking lot where I stood. I almost squealed and jumped up and down. Well, maybe I did. My girlfriends were oblivious. They stubbed out their cigarettes, ready to enter the club. Mine had been left alone to burn down to the filter, long forgotten. I couldn't move. My friends pulled on my arms to no avail. I was frozen, as this dark knight paused directly in front of me. No smile. Just two throaty rumbles from the bike, and a quick tilt of her head. I didn't even think. I walked as quickly as my stilettos would allow and climbed aboard. Two more revs of the engine, and we were off. Just like that, I had ditched my best friends for this dark unknown stranger. Without so much as a word between us, we took off into the night! I guess I've always had a weakness for the "bad boy" type. There is just something about the smell of all that leather; the way it creaks and rubs. I love wrapping my arms around her leather-clad torso and pushing my breasts into her back. The bike rumbling between my legs is the best foreplay I've ever had. When we hit the open road, she stretches her legs out on the highway pegs, and I lay my legs across her thighs. She loves that. A few miles of this, and we usually have to stop. The first night? Holy shit, did we stop! She drove out of the city straight away. I couldn't help myself, I snuck my hands under her jacket, down her pants... everywhere! It was pretty late (or early, depending on your preference) by the time she pulled into a scenic roadside park. Just us and a view of the valley. She laid me out on a picnic table and fucked me. No introduction needed. Just pushed me down, ripped off my panties and right to it! We've been together ever since. Now that winter is here, our rides are confined to the indoors. Oh, yes, still on the bike. She wheels it right in and parks it in her efficiency apartment. At first, I was a bit put out that it was there. Perhaps even jealous, that bike gets to stay and I haven't been asked to move in. But I got over it in a hurry. The first time I'd seen it in her apartment, I was absolutely stunned. Unfortunately, I am rarely speechless. The words were out of my damn mouth before I could stop myself. "Sometimes I think you love that Goddamn thing more than me." I regarded her motorcycle with green eyes. Always spit-shined and tuned to perfection. Sitting right across from the couch. I suspect that was so she could admire it from her favorite resting spot. "Truth hurts." Her reply, so concise and accurate. Never a wasted word with her. She plopped back down on the couch with a fresh beer. That was Christmas Eve. I had come over for dinner and a romantic evening with her. Of course, I had to bring dinner over with me. I could've had her over to my place, but I have roommates who, quite frankly, just don't understand what I see in her, and they are quite vocal in their opinions about her. It is much easier to prepare a meal and reheat it there. Plus, I had an extra special gift for her that night. After dinner, I shut off the lights and lit some candles. There was no tree, so we put our gifts in front of her TV. After getting some soft music playing, I retrieved her gift and settled next to her on the couch, tucking my legs under me. I was on my second glass of wine. Red. She had nearly finished her six-pack. She opened the box and held out a skimpy teddy. Leather. Naturally, it was for me to wear. Slowly, I rose and gave her my best candle lit dance. Off came my skirt, blouse, bra and hose. No, I didn't wear panties that night. Truth be told, I had learned to leave them at home when I came over to visit! My heels got to stay. Those, she liked on. The lingerie was not much more than a "v" shaped piece of leather with snaps in the necessary places. Very sexy. She said nothing, just took a slug of her beer. That was my indication to continue. I sauntered over to her on the couch and raked my body down hers, then came back up for a kiss. Her fierce passion betrayed that cool exterior. She shoved her tongue in my mouth. I sucked it. Her fingers snarled in my hair, pulling me into her. I unzipped her fly and released her dick. It sprung out from her underwear. Always ready for me. She made a guttural moan and hastily pushed my head down. My, my, baby was in a hurry now! I worked her cock with my tongue and lips. Swirling and sucking. Before long, I could take it's entire length down my throat. She loves that. Low moans escaped her throat as she watched me engulf her. I lightly stroked the insides of her thighs and crotch through her jeans as my mouth continued it's onslaught. Then I pushed my hand between her and the couch. I cupped the middle of her ass, as much as I could palm, and squeezed her, quite literally. My thumb pressed through her jeans against her perineum. This never failed to send her over the edge. Her hips were bucking off the couch, slamming her dick into my face while she came. She can be so easy to please! After kissing, her I stood. I moved back to the motorcycle slowly. It stood lengthwise, out from the wall about a foot. Suggestively leaning against the seat, I positioned my left leg up on the driver footpeg. Now we shall see whom she likes best! I sucked my right index finger into my mouth, then slowly brought it to my crotch. Two snaps, and I was exposed. She had gotten out some lube and started working it up and down her shaft as she watched from the couch. My engorged clit protruded from my thick red labia. I circled and flicked it. I plunged a finger into my dripping pussy. She came up off the couch before I could breathe. Kissing me, feeling me with animal lust. She dropped to her knees before me and worshiped my clit with her tongue. I swung my leg over her shoulder, imprisoning her to the task of my pleasure. My heal dug into the flesh of her back while she pounded four fingers into my pussy. It didn't take long before my climax thundered through me. It never did. She got up. A gentle push guided me away. She swung her leg over her motorcycle. Kickstand up. Key turned. Clutch in. A look in my direction finally. The devil was in her eyes. She stood on the kicker, and the engine roared to life. After a couple of twists on the throttle, she wheeled it to the middle of the room. The sound was deafening. Her hand was out, and beckoned me aboard. I slipped on. Not in my usual spot, but in front, practically on the gas tank. Her dildo squeezed between us and bounced against my belly. We kissed. She revved the engine again, then turned it off. We were slower, more sensual in our lovemaking, without the urgency of before. I am pushed back onto the tank, while her hands explored her new gift. She pulled my breasts from their cover so that she could enjoy them, push them together in an attempt to devour them at once. She sucked my nipples into her mouth and flicked my piercings with her tongue. She entered me and our hips met together in a slow, easy pace. Her hands grabbed my knees and pushed them to my chest. As her pace increased, she began to sweat and grunt with renewed hunger. God, it was so good, but it was getting hard to balance. Pushing her off me, I got up from the bike. I was ready for more, to feel her thrusting deep inside of me. I remounted the bike, again in front, but facing forward over the tank. I griped the handlebars, placed my feet on the pegs, and offered myself to her. She was ready. She entered me, hands on my hips. Her thrusts were powerful. My pussy, beyond wet, was greedily slurping in every inch of her. I could hear the juicy slapping of her belly as it hit my ass. The motorcycle was rocking wildly. She was pummeling my G-spot with her dick and it didn't take long for me to cum again. My pussy squirted viscous juice out around her shaft while she continued pumping. With a final growl, she slammed into me, knocking me off balance and pinning my body against the tank. She pushed her dick unmercifully deeper while her strong arms held me down, as if splitting me apart. When she had caught her breathe, she sat back, letting her cock pop out of my used pussy. The lap of her jeans was soaked, along with the bike's seat and tank. I think some globs of my cum were running down the side of the engine. I wondered how well my baby liked me now! I realize it's beauty now. It's potential. Oh, no, I am not jealous of that motorcycle anymore. That bike gets parked smack dab in the middle of her apartment all winter long (and a few nights in the summer too)! That bike and I have a special bond now. I love to sit on the couch and watch as my baby toils over it for hours, polishing and buffing. It makes me smile to myself. I know that soon, I will be getting that motorcycle messed-up again! I Love Her So Much...God, it Aches! I studied her legs. We were desperately in love, and I strove to learn every inch of her body, so that I could make love to it; so that I could know her. On our very first date, I had told her I would caress her entire body, inside and out forever. After only five minutes, after entering her home I looked Rachel straight in the eyes and said, "up until now I explored the earth, because I wanted to know me. Now I will explore you, because I want to know truth." Rachel was an angel. She was not for this earth... I cried when I thought of her. She was too good. I wanted her to swing out at me; take things from me; I wanted her to tell me I was selfish and a no-goodnick. But she never did. She would say, "To understand all, is too know all." She was like the person so few ever meet -- the one's who exhibit great amount of love, elegance and compassion for our world and for others. And the kicker is that we believe them. They are truly good. They speak gently and their touch is soft as soft could be. Their way, their walk, their mode of disagreeing - it's angelic; they are more soul than body. You've met them. We crave to be like them, or at least be with them. I do. Why was she with me? We lay in bed, and I looked out from my bifocals like Ted Kennedy. I ran my hand up her left leg and let my fingers tippy toe over her thigh. Every inch I covered, I would say aloud, "I love you. I love you forever," and Rachel would smile at me like there was no other choice but to love one another. As I shifted my fingers from thigh to thigh, I asked her how it felt to have a man inside of her? I was constantly wondering about this and what it was like to be a woman. I hoped that if there is a God, and reincarnation was real, I wanted to return this earth as a reubenesque, dancing girl from the 20's. I laughed, and so did Rachel, when I said, I will never leave my house, so that I can play with my pussy all day. She felt the same about having a cock. (and exhibited childlike silliness when she would strap on her dildo. Rachel loved having a cock). "To have a man inside of me is ethereal. Nothing is like it. When you fill me with your cock..when you enter me and I am exposed to you..with my legs opened for the entire earth to see...I am naked in everyway and my body ticks. "I let go of any inhibition, every wall...so that nothing will stand in the way of my joy for you and our oneness. And when you first touch my lips, a clock rings in my head, my body awakens, the tingling happens and I want to hold you with an unclaspable grasp." "When you enter me, inch by inch, I am a tiny baby suckling on my mother's breast, and I am the Emperor of Rome commanding an entire legion of soldiers. Nothing would take me away from the explosion of lust inside of me - not a lottery winning, a boat launching or a bomb dropping on my head." "And finally when you are deep inside of me, life is no longer as it was. I am not alive and I am not dead. It's like a sneeze lasting for hours, the mundane is gone, and cheese means nothing to the pallet; and hunger and thirst mean nothing to the stomach." "We are souls at that point, void of other thoughts and feelings. I could live with you like that forever. If I never moved, I would be fine. I could live and die with your cock deep inside of me and I would be happy. Your cock in me? I am at peace and I am home. I know that because of what I feel when your cock leaves me. Sad and adrift." Then I asked, what is it like when I cum inside of you. "You my dear, are me. Your cum is mine and when it explodes inside of me, you are only giving it back to me what is righfully mine. I am the owner of your semen and you are the owner of my juices. God chose us for each other and now we are simply trading cups of sugar, giving back what is ours." "When you explode inside of me, I feel like I am sliding down a vine in a rainforest, into the cool deep waters at the end of a falls; our existence is red and purple and green and yellow and white and black." "WE are nature and all is at peace. Oh god, when you cum inside of me my toes wriggle and my breasts sway and my nipples become hard, oh so hard. My pussy drips and it sings and it is incredibly hot and frantic with hiccups." "When you cum inside of me, I could yell so loud that everyone would hear my love for you. I love you so badly; I could never live without your cock inside of me. When you leave my earth, I will follow you. Your cock is beautiful and my pussy is beautiful to you." I stared at her and a tear came to my eye. It was Sunday, and there she lay, so lovely with me between her legs. I was learning and studying her skin and her ways. I bent down and kissed her thigh and asked it to love me. I moved my tongue forward so that it tasted the well-water of her pussy and I lapped at her thanking fate for bringing me to her. I loved her so much that eating Rachel's pussy was a thorough pleasure. "Why would anyone not want to eat their lover," I asked. "Why? I will stay between Rachel's legs forever. Even if my tongue leaves me I will taster her with my eyes." I extended my tongue deep inside of her and her legs crossed above my head. I could feel her long, sexy fingers messaging my hair and she cooed and yelled out softly, poetry of love. "Taste mine cunt you lover you friend, Eat me and lust for me, until I writhe and bend, Inside your mouth, my clit is about to sing, My cum pours on you, annointing you like a king. My finger reached for Rachel's clit, which was shining outwardly, grown to an inch. I rubbed it. I licked my finger and I caressed it. It was most curious, a tiny cock. It was so lucky to always be between Rachel's legs. I dreamed I would one day be her clit. Rachel was writhing with desperation. Her movement seduced me like no other woman and I could have cum until there was not a drop left inside of me; until our lunchhour tea. Rachel's green eyes rolled back and then caught me. Her puffy lips were full of sexuality and her breasts were like a young girl's, perky, perfect and superlative. If she would have been born a native, Rachel would have been on the cover of Reader's Di-chest. My tongue was deep inside of her and fucking her faster and faster. My fingers made their rounds on her clit and she was approaching the moment I craved to see. "Faster, faster,” Rachel yelled. "Harder, deeper", please make me cum. I did as she asked and searched for her G-spot. I found the soft fleshiness of it and set about satisfying her. "Oh Yes, OH yes, Oh yes.... fuck, Christ," She said. She spoke words that would only come out of her mouth while we made love. I masturbated Rachel faster and harder and deeper and harder. My tongue licked her clit. My fingers made love to her G-spot. I looked up at her, increased my speed, and in an audible whisper yelled, "Rachel I love you." Oh Goddddddddddddddddddddd. I'm cummingggggggggggggggggggggggggggg. Goddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddd. Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh! (She could see lights and stars and lightning against a black sky, in her head). I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you", she yelled. I was wet with her ejaculation. She sprayed my face with her juices. her cum tasted like a sweet guava and I tasted her as she shpritzed over and over into my eyes, my hair, my nose, my lips, onto my tongues. As quickly as it came, it ended. I moved up to her and kissed her on her face. She was crying. She did that after deep, deep cumming and i thought of my mother. I began to tear once again. It was the happiness of being with her, combined with the pain of knowing eternity could be different than this; combined with the yearning to be inside of one another always. We wanted to be connected somehow, our bodies and soul. "Rachel fell asleep and I watched her all night. At 6 in the morning she stirred and looked up at me. You know I have to go to work, as much as I don't want to," Rachel whispered. "I know baby," I said. But before you do, could I learn more about you. I wanted to get my Ph.d in your ass. Assologoy! Roll over. I want to know your anus inch by inch." Rachel conceded to this request and rolled over. I watched her shapely, heart shaped ass as it settled into my view. Before I could touch it, I simply studied it. I closed my eyes and smiled inwardly knowing that soon, I would take back what was mine. The comfort of being inside my lover’s ass. God I love her. We will die on the same day. This I assure you. This I know. I Love How My Man Looks I love how my man looks, kind of, not really, well...not at all. A woman compares her man to hot celebrities. My man compared to other men is no 10. Maybe, on a good day and in low lighting, when he shaves, showers, and dresses in something other than a tee shirt and sweat pants, he is a 3 or a 4, and from a distance...of about ¼ mile, he is a 5 but he is an 11 to me. Pardon me for a moment. "Honey, please stop farting like that, you are going to burn another hole in those pants. And please stop the burping; too, you are scaring the dog, again. That last burp set off your car alarm. Okay, Buster, it's okay, it's only Bob. C'mon, Buster, get out from under the bed and I'll give you a cookie." My man is no manly man, macho man, man's man, boy toy, hunk, stud, hottie, model, dream man, romantic vision, one-in-a-million or one-of-a-kind but, to me, he is someone special. And after a day of binge drinking, smoking weed, popping a Valium, and doubling up on my anti-depressant drugs, when I close my eyes, rub them, open them just a crack while continually blinking, and view him through blood shot, blurred vision, he is a handsome man, almost, kind of, not really, well, not at all, but I love him, kind of, a little bit. Fuck, we have three kids together and he has a good job. I'm stuck with him. My man does not have shiny, straight, black hair like Elvis, thick, lush hair like Colin Farrell, or long blonde hair like Brad Pitt. Yet, to me, his mousey brown, dirty, straggling, thinning hair and receding hairline makes him stunningly gorgeous in an alien, Star Trekkie sort of way. Sorry, excuse me for a second. "Honey, what happened to your hair? Are you having a bad hair day? Did you sleep on it? Your hair looks like a comb-over that does not want to be combed over and is rebelling. You should try brushing it because the other side is sticking to your head as if there is maple syrup in it. Here's some money. Make an appointment at the hair stylist. Oh, you just came from Butch the Barber and Taxidermist. No, uhm, it looks good, if you like the owl with one wing extended look. Maybe, you should wear your baseball cap, today. Yeah, the one that makes you look like Joe ice-cold, er I mean Joe cool." Note to self, go down to Butch's barbershop tomorrow, demand a refund, and have him show me his license to cut hair. After that accident with the BB gun, my man does not have big, brown bedroom eyes like George Clooney or Mel Gibson, but with his one beady little eye and coke bottle monocle, he is still my one-eyed and glass-eyed man. "Sweetie, instead of wearing that outdated monocle, maybe you should wear a contact lens. I know; you cannot touch your one eye. Okay, never mind." Note to self, get information on laser eye vision surgery. It will be only half the price to do the one eye. Where was I? Oh, yeah... My man has a perfectly respectable penis the size of a typical Asian penis; only he is Caucasian and not Asian. Unfortunately, he is not hung like Troy Aikman, the retired quarterback of the Dallas Cowboys or Jim Thome of the Chicago White Sox or John Rocker of the Tampa Bay Devil Rays. So, what if he does not have a big cock? It is the quality of the sexual encounter and not the size of the sex organ that matters. Right? Isn't it? Please, tell me that it is. Besides, I have a huge, black dildo that I use to satisfy myself, once he rolls off of me and falls asleep. Sure, he could never pose for Playgirl but that is okay with me. I do not want women ogling my man's small penis. It would be embarrassing to receive comments from viewers, "Where's the beef?" Sorry, again. "Hey, Baby, maybe you should slip a pair of tube socks down the front of your pants or wear a jockstrap under your jeans to give you more of a manly form. Having a bulge in front, other than your mountain of a stomach, is not a bad thing, you know. Oh, you already have your wallet, car keys, and cell phone squashed down the front of your underwear? Yeah, I see it now. It looks, uhm, good in a lumpy, tumor sort of way, especially with the car key sticking straight out like that. It makes your cock look huge, really, in a pointy, thin, spiny sort of way." Not to self, fuck the seriously bad side effects, order penis enhancement pills on the Internet from Dr. Woo in China. My man has a flat ass but I love grabbing his ass, that is, once I find it. He does not have a proud, round, firm ass like Lance Armstrong, the six time winner of the Tour de France or an outrageously great ass like Tiki Barber of the New York Giants. Still, to me, asses are asses, everyone has one or is one, and I love his ass just the same. I'll be right back. "Sweetie, instead of wearing those overalls, you should buy a pair of Calvin Klein or Ralph Lauren jeans. I am sure that they make them in a size 50 waist. Those farmer clothes make your ass look; well...do you remember what all the deflated balloons looked like at your 40th birthday party? Yeah, like that." Note to self, contact a plastic surgeon and price ass implants. My man has a big, round beer belly. He does not have a well defined six pack. Actually, with all the beer that he consumes, he should have a permanent 24 pack. Instead, he has a double keg of a stomach. To reach his lips to kiss him, I have to stand on my tippy-toes on a stepstool so that I can lean forward past his big, fat stomach bracing myself with my hands on his huge man boobs and with him holding me so that I do not fall. Unfortunately, because his penis is, well, petite, and because his stomach is, well, super-sized, we have a difficult time having sex. Sorry, yet, again. "Honey, spread your legs as far as you can and put one leg over my shoulder, wait, you're hurting me. Geez, how much does one of your legs weigh?" My man is not a movie star, singer, dancer, or television personality, he is a blue-collar worker, but I am as proud of him if he was a celebrity, one who is in the limelight walking down the red carpet with cameras flashing and people cheering. Yeah, I would take my dull, blue-collar worker husband over that kind of hypnotically gorgeous hunk of a man and fast and exciting lifestyle any day...I think. Okay, probably not, but I have to live in my world and this and he is all that I have, right now. "Honey? Is my nose getting longer? Why do I suddenly feel like Pinocchio?" My man is not rich. He does not have money to burn like Donald Trump or Bill Gates, nor does he have an inheritance like Prince Harry or a trust fund like Little Lord Faunteroy. He is middle class working poor like me and money is not important to us. "Sweetie, Home Depot is having a big sale and afterwards we can stop at Mickey D's for burgers and fries. No, Hon, Mickey D's doesn't sell beer." My man is not talented, a brain, a genius, a protégé or wicked smart, but he is as smart as he needs be to make me happy. "What's that, Hon? No, Texas is not a country. It is a state. And George Bush is not a stand up comedian, he really is the President." My man is no handyman like Bob Villa or Tool Time Tim Taylor's partner, Al Borland of Binford Tools, but he has a complete tool chest of tools that any handyman would envy. "Sweetie, you hold the hammer by the other end. What's that, Hon? No, the screw is not broken. You just need a Phillips head to remove it." My man is no Doctor Phil or Phil Donohue, but I can go to him with any problem and get straight from the heart, good, sound advice. "So, tell me again why you think I should trade my Mini Cooper S for a Ford F150 pickup truck?" My man is no Doctor Kildare or Doctor House, but he takes good care of me when I am sick. "My Love, Iodine is poisonous. You are not supposed to swallow it to heal your cut. It is only for topical use." My man is not a stand up comic like President Bush, Jerry Seinfeld, Jay Leno or David Letterman but to me, he is hilarious. "Pudding Pie, Girl Scout cookies are not tax deductible. Now, what are we going to do with 12 cases of chocolate chip cookies? Eat them? Yeah, that's great." My man is not Mr. Brady of the Brady Bunch, Mr. Cleaver of Leave It To Beaver, Robert Young of Father Knows Best, Danny Thomas on Make Room for Daddy or Ozzie Nelson of Ozzie and Harriet, but he is a good father to our children. "Sweetie, you left the kids alone in the mall to run across the street to buy beer? Are you crazy? They are only 3, 5, and 7-years old." My man is not someone the entire country looks to for answers like Ex-Presidents Bill Clinton and George Bush, Sr. or Barack Obama, but he is someone who I look to for answers when I have questions. "So, tell me again why you think I should trade my Mini Cooper S for a Ford F150 pickup truck?" My man cannot mesmerize an audience like Tom Jones, Michael Jackson or Tim McGraw, but he mesmerizes me. "Sweetie, you're flat ass is blocking the television, again; I can't see the commercials. Can you move over just a wee bit?" My man is not fickle like Larry King, Hugh Heffner or Donald Trump, but he is faithful in our marriage and loyal to me. "So, where were you last night? Ski lessons? At night? But it's July." My man is not fancy like Julio Englais, Usher or Michael Jordan, but he is fancy to me. "I'm sorry Sweetie but you look like a Ring Ding in that silver studded motorcycle jacket. Besides, you don't even have a hog. You are the hog." Yes, I am very much in love with my new husband now that I am remarried to Biff, my muscular, beefcake, man-candy with his 21" biceps, 52" chest, 34" waist, wavy blonde hair, big blue eyes (two of them), and who just graduated Magna-Cum-Laude, earning his doctorate in Earth Science and is a celebrity of sorts after publishing his new book, Earth Day is Every Day, and with the movie coming out next month...life is good. I Love How My Woman Looks I love how my woman looks, kind of, not really, well...not at all. My woman to others is no 10. Maybe, on a good day, in low lighting, she is a 3 or a 4, and from a distance...of about ¼ mile, she is a 5 but she is an 11 to me. Pardon me for a moment. "Honey, please put on some makeup, you are scaring the dog, again. Okay, Buster, okay, it's only Julie. C'mon, Buster, get out from under the bed and I'll give you a cookie." My woman is no babe, siren, hottie, Hooter girl, Playboy Bunny, runway model, dream girl, romantic vision, one-in-a-million or one-of-a-kind but, to me, she is someone special. And after a day of binge drinking, when I close my eyes, rub them, open them just a crack while continually blinking, and view her through blood shot, blurred vision, she is a radiant beauty, almost, kind of, not really, but I love her. My woman does not have perfect skin, shiny, straight black hair like Cher, short red hair like Kirsten Dunst or long, curly, blonde hair like Christina Aguilera's new look. Yet, to me, with her mousey brown, straggling, thin hair, she is stunningly gorgeous. Sorry, excuse me for a second. "Honey, what happened to your hair? Are you having a bad hair day? Did you sleep on it? You should try brushing it. It's sticking to your head as if there is maple syrup in it. Here's some money. Make an appointment at the hairdresser. Oh, you just came from the beauty parlor. No, uhm, it looks good. Note to self, go down to beauty parlor tomorrow and request a refund. My woman does not have big, beautiful eyes like Natalie Portman or Twiggy, but with her beady little eyes she is still my brown-eyed girl. "Doll, instead of wearing those outdated, coke-bottle glasses, maybe you should try contacts. I know; you cannot touch your eyes. Okay, never mind." Note to self, get information on laser vision surgery. Where was I? Oh, yeah... My woman has perfect, perky, little A cup breasts with tiny nipples. She does not have shapely B cup breasts like Jennifer Aniston or Carmen Diaz, full round C cup tits like Halle Berry or Angelina Jolie or D or double D cup breasts with eraser type nipples that make a noise when they pop out of your mouth like Pamela Anderson and Dolly Parton. Still, so what if she does not have the kind of tits that men lust over in Playboy and Penthouse magazines, to me, tits are tits and I love her tits just the same. Sorry, again. "Hey, Baby, you should try wearing a Wonder bra. I heard they do wonders for your breasts by squishing them together, lifting them up, and giving you a bit of cleavage. Oh, you are wearing a Wonder bra already. Yeah, of course, I thought you were wearing one. Your tits look huge, almost, not really." Not to self, price out silicone implants. My woman has a flat ass but I love grabbing her ass. She does not have a proud, round, firm ass like Jennifer Lopez or an outrageous bubble ass like Mary J. Blige. Still, to me, asses are asses, everyone has one or is one, and I love her ass just the same. I'll be right back. "Sweetie, maybe you should buy your pants in the men's section. Those women's pants make your ass look...do you remember what all the deflated balloons looked like at your 30th birthday party? Yeah, like that." Note to self, price ass implants along with the breast implants. My woman has short, stubby, chubby legs that are...well, short, stubby, and chubby. She does not have long, shapely, smooth legs, the kind of legs that makes you want to take your time caressing, kissing, and licking while working your way up to her sweet honey pot, but I lust over her legs just the same. Sorry, yet, again. "Doll, that black, below the knee skirt really does not look good with those white Bobby socks. They make your legs look so...white. Maybe, you should wear pants...my pants." My woman is not a movie star, singer, dancer, or television personality, she is a homemaker, but I am as proud of her if she was a celebrity, one who is in the lime light walking down the red carpet with cameras flashing and people cheering. Yeah, I would take my dull homemaking wife to that kind of intoxicatingly beautiful woman and fast and exciting lifestyle any day...I think. "Honey? Is my nose getting longer? Why do I suddenly feel like Pinocchio?" My woman is not rich. She does not have money to burn like Oprah Winfrey, nor does she have an inheritance like Paris Hilton or a trust fund like Nicole Richie. She is middle class working poor like me and money is not important to me. "Cupcake, Wal-Mart is having a big sale and afterwards we can stop at Mickey D's for burgers and fries." My woman is not talented, a brain, a genius, a protégé or wicked smart, but she is as smart as she needs be to make me happy. "What's that, Hon? No, chicken of the sea is not chicken but tuna fish." My woman is no Suzy Homemaker, Betty Crocker, Julia Child, Rachael Ray, Mrs. Fields, or Martha Stewart, but she makes a mean microwave meal. "Sweetie, I told you that you cannot put tin foil in the microwave. Still, the meatloaf looks okay. Oh, it's chicken? Then, I'd throw this out. It doesn't look too good. And no Sweetie, you cannot dry Buster in the microwave after his bath." My woman is no Dear Abby, Mrs. Manners, or Emily Post, but I can go to her with any problem and get straight from the heart good advice. "So, tell me again why you think I should trade my F150 for a Mini Cooper?" My woman is no Florence Nightingale, Mother Theresa, or Hot lips Houlahan, but she takes good care of me when I am sick. "My Love, are you sure it is feed a fever and starve a cold and not the other way around? 'Cause I only have a cold and I am really hungry." My woman is not a stand up comic like Rosanne Barr, Ellen DeGeneris or Joan Rivers, but she sure makes me laugh. "Pudding Pie, what is this $1,000 donation charged on my credit card to Brother Joseph and his Church-At-Home? No, that is not funny, Honey, that his name is the same as your brother Joseph's name and which is why you donated the money." My woman is not Mrs. Brady of the Brady Bunch, Mrs. Cleaver of Leave It To Beaver or Harriett Nelson of Ozzie and Nelson, but she is a good mother to our children. "Sweetie, we cannot leave the kids home alone. Yes, I know we are only going away for the weekend but they are only 3, 5, and 7-years old." My woman is not someone the entire country looks to for answers like Oprah Winfrey, Katie Coric or Hillary Clinton, but she is someone who I look to for answers when I have questions. "So, tell me again why I should trade my F150 for a Mini Cooper?" My woman cannot mesmerize an audience like Celine Dion, Janet Jackson or Faith Hill, but she mesmerizes me. "Sweetie, you're flat ass is blocking the television, again; I can't see the commercials. Can you move over just a wee bit?" My woman is not fickle like Zsa Zsa Gabor, Elizabeth Taylor or Debbie Reynolds but she is faithful in our marriage and loyal to me. "So, where were you last night? Renaldo was giving you golf lessons at midnight? But it's February." My woman is not fancy like Mariah Carey, JLo or Carmen Elektra, but she is fancy to me. "I'm sorry Sweetie but you look like a Ring Ding in that silver sequined dress." Yes, I was very much in love with my wife but now that I am with Tiffany, my long, legged, porn-star stripper with her double D cup tits, long blonde, curly hair, big blue eyes, and who just graduated Magna-Cum-Laude, earning her doctorate in Astro-Physics and is a celebrity of sorts after publishing her new book, Are We Alone In The Universe?, and with the movie coming out next month, life is good.