~Seneca
Also known as An Ode to Cock, and those who swallow it.
I admit it. I am a victim of cock.
I am the valiant warrior, laid to waste by that mighty cunthunter. I am the damsel in distress, locked away from its nefarious deeds and evil need to steal my dowry and ravage my sex in the name of foreign lands and class war. The mere thought of it is like a thief in the night, stealing its way past my garrison and taking ragged, shallow, ominous breaths in my courtyard. Its smell creeps into my fortress, and, like a silent predator, ascends the steps to my tower. The very sight of it kicks in the door of my resolve, into the boudoir where my hungry lust sleeps.
Oh yeah. All my defense are belong to cock.
I know what you're thinking. You're thinking this will be a flowery and poetic tribute to the wonder that is cock. Well, you're wrong, because it won't be. It won't even be all that lucid, as is so often the way with the things that stir one's passion.
Cock stirs my passion. Hell, it's the shaker to my martini. Ejaculate, for the record, is extra olives, in tanqueray.
I want it in my mouth. That's right, i said it. I want cock to be my personal dental tool, irrigating my throat with its salty stream. I want it poking around my gums and teeth, examining every millimetre of my oral cavity. I want that husky tongue depresser to make the drool run over my lips and down my chin, as i stare wide eyed and wait for a jizz rinse, extra calcium.
I want it to roam over my face like a wandering jew. Oh, that my cheeks were its own personal canaan. 40 years of aimless pilgrimage, occassionally kicking at the dust, waiting for manna in the form of seminal rain.
Dick. It's the corkscrew for my merlot. The lighthouse to my shipwrecked sailors. The joystick to my gamecube. The power tool to my home renovation. The rod to my...er, "hot".
Cock is the Bald Marine, standing at attention and saluting my patriotism. The pole for my flag ("with glowing...heart, i see thee rise"...). The patriot missile to my swift and sure retribution for the desecration of my homeland. The "CRY FREEDOM" of my anti-apartheid movement.
Penis, glorious, splendiforous penis. The horned viking, pillaging my village. The wizard behind the curtain, with promises of Kansas. It's the fleshy evangelist, promising salvation and healing my faith. It's the Inredible Hulk, the swollen bulk, the brooding lover who sulks and skulks and tells me the prettiest of lies. Starsplitter, home-run hitter, tapioca-spitter - cock's the member in the only club I want to be part of.
Oh, King Phallus, you are the overlord of my underworld. You are the sheik in the harem of orgasms that is my sahara. Please, oh munificent muscle, may your upright height slide in tight, with all its might, to my fevered and oh-so-eager beaver (as is its right).
Fireman, lend me thine hose. Let me invoke Churchill as I drag on your meatcigar. I promise, I'll inhale, even when it makes me choke and retch - and I'll never complain about the smell or ask to move to the non-smoking section. Play that funky music, white boy, and I'll do the tube snake boogie, all night long. Diamonds might be a girl's best friend, but a pearl necklace is the friend that helps you hide the body.
Let me ride the Good Ship Lollipop with my drooling manhole, and I'll go to town cleaning the sugardrool off your stick like a fat kid with a Hershey bar.
Cock. It's what's for dinner! It's the ONLY fuckmeat. It's the breakfast of champions, it's the 2 hour lunch, it's a table for one, with a doggy bag (unless you eat it doggy style). It's the O-S-C-A-R M-A-Y-E-R that I love, love, love to eat every day. Why, you say? Because Oscar Mayer has a way with my v-a-g-i-n-a.
Cock is the silver dollar in my furpurse, the cold hands in my squishmitten, warming my heart. It's the whirling to my dervish, the battleground to my skirmish, and the unvarnished truth is i want to tarnish the varnish on that buffed and polished timber of lust.
Cock. I want it in me. I want it on me, and over me, and under me. I want it racing and chasing through me like Pamplona's bulls. I want to choke on a bloke's behemoth spoke, until i gag and sag in a satiated sopor. I want it out of reach, crooking its helmeted finger, only to dash away when i lean in for a whisper. I want it up close and personal, i want it to reach out and touch me, and I want it to smack me and scream "SNAP OUT OF IT!"
Oh, cock, you untamed brute, ravage me. Pimp my ride, furry dice and all. Whisper sweet nothings, while you empty my bank account, you venal vein of pleasure.
I want cock. Now would do.
*With special thanks to GT for inspiration and to the #forums pervs for euphemismical offerings*
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