CLICK IT FOR NOSTALGIA
I was out of town for about a week for some not-fun reasons and remained celebate. About four days into it, the back up started to get to me. My brother-in-law and I went to get some wings and beer at Hooters.
There's something fun about those tight shorts. That night I had a dirty dream and woke up on my side propped up like a bike by a kick stand.
I contacted a favorite fun girl and we made an appointment for today at that point.
Next night, another dirty dream. I was ready to be cast in a Woody Woodpecker cartoon but this one came with visions of short skirts with no panties dancing in my head.
I emailed my FunBuddy asking for special gear. I wanted a short skirt with no panties and a see-through blouse with no bra. I rarely make specific dress up requests but this one was burning a hole in my psyche. I needed to be up under that skirt as the only way I could possibly get rid of the horrible fever that was beginning to burn my neck and the back of my head. Puxxy, lots of it, was a better shot then a cold compress, aspirin and a good nights sleep.
No response from my buddy. Had she gotten my message? Was it too much to ask? Had the intensity and frankness of my message worried her any?
The night before, another email asking if we were on and off I went to bed since it was late.
I skipped down the steps towards my laptop this morning like I haven't since Santa was to bring my James Bond radio-gun and cowboy boots.
Online and...no response.
Was something really wrong? Was she safe? Were the detectives going to read my emails and think I was a suspect in a crime of puxxy passion?
I texted hoping that those long beautiful legs were going to be planted alongside each of my ears with a little red plaid catholic school dress tenting my eyes during a slurping sleepover of tongue twisting fun.
Hope can burn more brightly then fear.
Within moments, my phone dinged the familiar "You've got a text fool" ding and I instantly thought that her computer was down but her phone and my dick were up.
With certainty that the put off pain of quantities of swimmers was soon to be met with the touches of a beautiful companion, I opened my text to read:
"I need to reschedule. I got a barfer here and there are Cheerios spewing everywhere."
Instantly my mind was drawn back in time to Curt Gowdy saying that the wide world of sports brings with it "The thrill of victory and the agony of defeat."
My horny-ness hit that flag as my stomach dropped off the ramp tumbling end-over-end into a rapid downhill slide.
So as we hobbyists hit this holiday season, it 'tis the season of kids getting sick and moms reverting from purveyors of fantasies to frazzled women with vomit in their hair, sometimes as thick as icicles hanging off the boughs of a Christmas tree.
All in all, I'm reminded that it's is good to be male.
The Agony of Defeat (or 'Tis the Season)
