It never ceases to amaze me how conveniently selective my wife can be when it comes to choosing which objects she’s willing to put in or against her mouth. Last month, she pressed her lips against my late iguana’s face with disastrous results. A few days ago, she returned home from work and French kissed Prometheus for forty-six seconds.
Ten minutes prior to Sophia’s impromptu tongue action with our puppy, the critter had eaten a dead bug off our driveway. Five minutes before he flossed my wife’s back molars, Prometheus had utilized his tongue to mop debris from the floor under the kitchen counters. And commencing two minutes before he and Sophia swapped saliva, and continuing until the kitchen door opened, the furry lad had employed the same appendage to give his tallywacker and rectum an admirably thorough scrubbing.
In contrast, last night in bed when I whispered a certain suggestion in Sophia’s ear, the same woman who’s seemingly practicing for a debut in the specialized market of bestiality-kiddie-porn answered me with: “You want me to do what? Where? With my mouth? That’s disgusting!”
A couple of things most people wouldn’t want to put in their mouths