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Impossible Shit with a Head Cold

Listen. I'm a go-getter. Not in life. Not at all. But sex, definitely. I think positively. I think with determination. I think with practical creativity as instinct. I am considerate. I am tolerant-to an extent ornery juggalos, calm your tits down. Basically, I got you baby. If you would be so lucky, I got you.

But I cannot suck your dick with a head cold. Son, I do not have time for that. I don't need to try it to figure out what kind of stupid disgusting disaster it would be. Think about it.

Choking. Unintentional not-at-all-erotic choking. If skills even saved me, and they wouldn't, it would be at the cost of awful and indiscrete noises. Like a drunk clown trying to play a trumpet.

Don't like to yourself- you can't do it either. Your nose jizz doesn't count as legitimate lubrication. You've been mouth breathing for a week. That's basically water boarding with a cock.

You realize that shit is impossible. No apologies for safety.


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'Hope, you don't have to use it on your wedding night.'

She handed the pistol to Hope, right after the vows, right before the reception.

'I'm just kidding, darling. Don't worry. He's a good man. You did well sweetheart. He's a good man. You'll be fine.'

Hope's paper-thin smile tried to grow as she stared at her grandmother's reflection in the mirror. The mother-of-pearl grip sparkled in her grandmother's hand, bathed by the Chapel's cheap buzzing lights.

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Hope had left the gun on the table.

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