Sometimes I am naked doing a tri-pod before my husband walks in the room. I did this once about two weeks after I had Riot...Girth took a picture...we laughed for about two hours. Then two more hours after he zoomed in on it...which I don't ever recommend doing. Driving down the road I will pull a hooter out of the top of my shirt (when the clothing allows it), and just let it hang, nip and all. I will sit there patiently singing along with the radio until he notices. This gets me a punched, pretty hard. I can't possibly be the only girl somersaulting around the house naked, can I? Laying in bed at night, hopping onto all fours and lifting a leg over his face saying, "psssssssss", like a dog pissing on his head. Immediate charlie horse. It's a pretty territorial move, but I need to let that bitch know he's mine. Secretly though, I believe he likes these things, keeps him on his toes.
You could give the argument that I leave nothing to the imagination...but, really? What the french toast does he need to imagine? He doesn't need to imagine what my butthole looks like, or that I never poop, he doesn't need to imagine that I roll out of bed fresh to death and stunning. I wake up a hot mess, ripping ass like a grown ass man, naked with greasy hair. So, yeah. Imagine that. Leaving things to his imagination isn't interesting to me.
He plays that role though. Girth & I have been a hot item since 2008 and he still won't let me in the bathroom when he poops. Drives me insane. I hate that he leaves his pooping face to my imagination. He saw an entire person enter the world, via my vagina. It dosen't get more intimate than that, but I get locked out of a poop sesh? Something there is fishy. Shitty fishy. Like carp.
Now I'm fired up and done with this. Next time he is shitting, that door is getting beat down with a friggen hammer...privacy my balls.
You could give the argument that I leave nothing to the imagination...but, really? What the french toast does he need to imagine? He doesn't need to imagine what my butthole looks like, or that I never poop, he doesn't need to imagine that I roll out of bed fresh to death and stunning. I wake up a hot mess, ripping ass like a grown ass man, naked with greasy hair. So, yeah. Imagine that. Leaving things to his imagination isn't interesting to me.
He plays that role though. Girth & I have been a hot item since 2008 and he still won't let me in the bathroom when he poops. Drives me insane. I hate that he leaves his pooping face to my imagination. He saw an entire person enter the world, via my vagina. It dosen't get more intimate than that, but I get locked out of a poop sesh? Something there is fishy. Shitty fishy. Like carp.
Now I'm fired up and done with this. Next time he is shitting, that door is getting beat down with a friggen hammer...privacy my balls.
Girths going down...
