The Meat speaks: Guest Blog

Brother Chuck,

I'm blogging at ya for the first time. You better not cut anything good or I'll stuff your skinny chicken legs up your ass and leave you like a paraplegic. LMAO...

Well, why not start with some juice? I got the brass polished on Friday night. I went to the bowling alley for a few drinks and got talking up this nurse who works at the prison farm.

I said, I'll bet you've seen some crazy shit on the inside. She said that Warkworth is a minimum security prison, so it's mostly common stuff, like the flu. I asked her is she ever had to extract contraband from a colon, but she told me the worst she's seen was an infected anal cyst.

I could have tossed my carry on, right there at the bar. Stay sexy in my mind, please, stay sexy in my mind.

She wore new jeans and a tight top. Her impressive mammaries stretched the letters on her shirt so convex it was hard to read the logo: H-O-L-L-Y-W-O-O-D D-R-E-A-M.

Sexy.

Her name is Wanda. She got a sitter for her 5 year old twins so I knew this wasn't just a social drink. I can tell a troller from a roller. And she was a troller. Let me hear you purr, Mama bear. I'm in season all year long.

I'll bet the funky fish inside the prison walls have a good grope after she takes their temperature. She's a little chunky and has a gap in her front teeth, but right now, she's a hot mirage in a dry, cold desert. Oh yea, and she's missing her left ear lobe. I didn't ask. I'm not hung up on ears anyway.

So, we closed the bar and she picked up the tab. She's a real piece of class.

It took about 25 minutes to drive her mini-van back to Norham. I stashed a six pack behind the bar and finished those on the drive to her house. Shit bro, you didn't think I was driving, did ya?

She lives in an old school house, with a shit ugly addition built on the front. The sitter met us at the door. She looked about 14 and weird, like Rickets weird. Wanda paid her and she drove her bike off into the darkness.

Wanda checked on her kids, then poured herself a tall glass of Irish cream. I can't drink it. To me, the stuff tastes like Leprechaun cum, so I opened a bottle of rye I found under the sink. I can drink rye if I run out of beer.

I asked Wanda what music she liked. She told me 80's stuff. Her house looked way too IKEA for me. A little too neat and clean. I told her I was in a Meatloaf Cover band. She doesn't know who Meatloaf is. What. Seriously? But, doesn't matter. We're here for a ride on the skin carousel. Any music works with that. Right? But where the hell has she been since 1977?

She downed her next drink and I knew within the hour I'd be tongulating her to the stratosphere.

She refilled her glass then put on some music. WHAM! Hell no. Do not WHAM me right now. Please. Shit, Wanda is making it difficult for me to think of her as a sexual object. I do respect George Micheal as an artist and songwriter, but the thought of him sucking anonymous pipe in a public john makes me want to toss my carry on. And I say sorry to George, but that's just the way it is with me. There's only one penis I'd ever put in my mouth. My own! LMFAO.

So, Wanda checked her kids and then we went to the bedroom. She had to remove some stuffed toys and knitting before we could get our beast on. She slammed back her drink and pulled off her shirt. And I stopped breathing.

Jesus!

I had underestimated the full naked volume of those magombos. An astounding sight, really. But I'm not that hung up on breasts anyway.

All the clothes came off and the skin came together and we kissed. I asked her what she wanted, and she asked me what I wanted. My smile was my answer. I know what this means...

I have found that Women love it when you seem possessed on making them burst, and I have been perfecting this craft since public school. Once I dipped down for a taste of Mrs. Walters in the grade six cloakroom, I've been hooked.

Here's how it goes down. Literally.

The body rub, the occasional pass over the lips without landing, the cursory stimulation, the sexually reassuring comments. Then, the deep dive.

Once you get there, it's all lip thunder and tongue plunder, and very intimate vibrations.

Since I started in the carnal art with Mrs. Walters, my manual technique has revolved around music. In Grade 6, we learned a song by R and R Sherman, called: Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious. It comes from the Mary Poppins soundtrack. The lips form the words and the tongue keeps the rhythm. Humming adds some vibrato. I have run this number so many times into the vulva that I declare myself a master of the instrument.

And with Wanda, I played like a virtuoso. She crawled up the walls like I expected.

Here's one thing you might not know. When you're rustling the reeds, it can be hard to stay in pitch because the vagina is changing constantly.

But, I have to stop now. I promised Mom I'd pick up her prescription before the Pharmacy closes.

So Bro, I'll continue this story next time. Believe me, it gets weird!

Want a tease? OK.

Wanda has a giant, demonic goat face tattoo right above the kitty. It's a crazy sight and gives the goat a cleft lip of labia minora.

Wally D. Reuben

OH YEA. POST SCRIPT:

We don't have a mail box anymore. The Postal Nazis installed a central box down by the beach. I know a place someone should shove the crown in crown corporation alright. But nobody here will lift a finger about it. If the government says you have to eat dog food to get a pension, people would eat dog food. What's smaller, the town or the people? I live in fucking Lilliput.