EMMA, HER VAGINA, AND ME

It's a day not unlike any other. It's a day like no other. It's a day in October.

Late afternoon. I'm seated across from my friend Emma who is seated across from me. At the same table. In the corner. Of Starbucks. She is describing in detail the contours and capabilities of her vagina.

Emma is a beautiful woman with short chestnut hair and a body that could stop wars. And start them. So she can stop them. It seems self-serving to start a war for the purpose of stopping it. It's also industrious. Emma is both. So is her vagina as I am learning.

It was prescient of me to choose the corner table and sit with my back to the rest of the cafe patrons. I'm saying a silent prayer to the god of bladders that I don't need to get up and walk all the way across the cafe to the bathroom. Starbucks policy on walking through the cafe with an erection isn't posted.

Now, I should be in ecstasy as I stare into Emma's deep brown eyes, down to her full slightly parted lips, back up to her deep brown eyes and imagine the geometry of it all.

Instead, my spine tingles with fright. Emma is married to Donald. And, you should know, Donald and Jealousy spoon.

Donald is volatile. A couple summers back at a swanky hotel bar in downtown Toronto, he beat on a guy who looked at Emma wrong and then turned around and beat on another guy who didn't look at Emma at all.

"Emma, does Donald know you're telling me about the contours and capabilities of your vagina?" I say.

"No," Emma says.

"How do you think he'd react if you told him?" I say.

"He'd be furious," she says.

"Okay." I say.

Sit back in my chair. Ponder. Ponder. Arousing images of Emma's vagina are replaced by the opposite of arousing images of Donald beating on me mercilessly.

"Emma, why are you talking about your vagina with me?" I say.

"You're super sensitive. You feel deep. The way you look at me when I talk, with attentiveness and care. I felt you in me, not in that way, but in a soulful way. It turns me on. Nobody else I know can do that." She shifts in her seat. "I'd like to make it a regular thing."

"You mean like once a week regular thing," I say.

"No, more like whenever I call regular thing," she says.

"Uh-huh. So, you want to have an affair without the tearing of the clothes, the rumpling of the bedsheets, the exchanging of the bodily fluids."

"It's not exactly an affair. We're friends. All we're doing is getting together for a coffee and talking," she says.

"So why not tell Donald?"

"He doesn't tell me every time he gets together with his buddies and what they talk about," she says.

"Hmmm."

"I'll pay you," she says.

"Pay me? Don't be crazy. How much?"

"What I pay my therapist. One twenty. And I'll throw in a performance bonus. If I cum you get double," she says.

I felt like I was buying a ShamWow off the TV.

"Oh. If you don't say yes I'll tell Donald you didn't say yes. Remember what happened in that hotel bar?" She says.

"No," I say. She nods with a grin. I take a sip of coffee except the cup misses my mouth and the coffee spills on my crotch. Yet I don't give a shit. Either I give in to Emma's vaginal longings and delay a pounding from her husband. Or I take the pounding now. And delay living. But the money looks good and that performance bonus is a real incentive. If I see her five times a week and say I get the performance bonus three times I can clear almost a thousand bucks.

"Well? 'Cause I have to get going," she says.

"Emma..."

She leans forward.

"I can't do it. Donald's a friend. And I would never do something behind his back. Like I'm sure he wouldn't do something behind mine," I say.

"It's a no-go," Emma speaks into one of her shirt buttons. Moments later, Donald appears. I get up a little dazed, half expecting the beating to commence. Instead Donald smacks me on the arm.

"You passed. Do this to all my buds. See what kind of friend you are. Solid up and down. Told ya Emms."

"I had my doubts. He was up against a powerful force." She looks down at her crotch. "You're telling me," Donald says. "Come on. Lets get lunch. You'll have to come over for dinner soon." Emma gives me a hug. "Ciao."

I'm left standing with a huge wet spot on my crotch. I know who won't be getting a Hannukah card this year.


1 comments:

LoxNix said...

Women Lie : Size DOES Matter

And if you've ever taken a girl home, gotten hot and heavy and then felt embarrassment and PANIC when you take off your pants and see the look of DISAPPOINTMENT on her face, you need to go check this out right now . . .

===> Don't Disapoint Her With Your Little Guy <=====

I'll tell you right now (and I've got proof), that anyone who tells you "size doesn't matter to women" is flat out lying to your face and trying to make you feel better . . .

Heck, just recently I asked a focus group of women via an anonymous online survey if size matters, and again and again they said "Oh my god, I HATE IT when it's SMALL."

For a long time I didn't know what to tell the guys who'd write in to me and ask how to get "bigger."

I'd say something lame like "Women actually like guys who are smaller . . . you just have to get good with your hands."

Then I found "THE BIBLE of Penis Enlargement" by this guy named John Collins . . .

===> They HATE It When It's Small <=====

What's crazy about this is that John has ACTUAL VIDEO PROOF that his stuff works . . .

He's got a literal mountain of testimonials from customers not just SAYING that they added 3 or even FOUR inches . . .

But actual VIDEOS that can't be faked.

I was 100% skeptical until I saw these vids, so even if you think it's "impossible" to get bigger (and there's no pills or suction devices or any of that crap) go check out the overwhelming proof on John's site.

===> Women Lie : Size DOES Matter <=====

Best,

[Ana]

P.S. There's absolutely nothing in the world that will make you smile as wide as pulling down your pants and seeing a look of AWE and ANTICIPATION on a woman's face. The first time you hear her say "It might be too big" in a soft, excited voice, you're going to feel a thrill through your spine like you just snorted 3 lines of cocaine.

If you aren't at least 7 inches you owe it to yourself (and to the women in your life) to check this out.

===> Proof Of REAL Growth <=====