An Artist

Tuesday, December 4, 2012

Once upon a time, we were told that one does not need to teach how to make love. Today it looks like only a half baked story. Love making is an art. I am an artist.

An artist does not hurry up to ejaculate his yellowish hardened sperm until it is churned, nurtured and made ready to regain its original runny state and color. And it all helps when every part of other love maker's body is frisked, pinched, moulded, felt and plucked right from combing every strand of any hair to digging nails of toes and fingers.

Imagination is the key but diverting from that moment to another person is a sin. A ticket to heaven cannot be granted alone. Heaven is a bliss if both reach the destination together. Aftermath brings the smile on both the faces, hands around the necks, gasping, staring at the ceiling that it smiles you back. A water jug on the bedside pedestal cools down the souls but smoking cigratte is only a preconcieved idea of becoming 'cool' borrowed from movies that is very 'cheap' falling down to a level of pimp. After drinking water, go to relieve yourself and do it after you obeserve the status of your organ who took you to heaven a moment ago. If you don't appreciate the magic it can do, it is likely you will fall asleep straightaway and miss  attendance the next day. Otherwise, another sequel of going to heaven is guaranteed and hence the ceiling shall smile you back, once again.

Make love while heaven pours down for it gives you freedom to moan louder than usual. Hear your partner but keep check on your manliness for hard yellow bristles will spoil your bed too early. Haha, forget it. Got to go. :) It is for you Coco, thanks for reminding to update this blog.


Unknown said...

Enjoyed reading. where are you these days?

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