Originally Posted: 2008-10-17 7:26am
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Here's what I think of your Bang List:

Butter – You were my first lube. You were always there for me; you never asked for anything, you just gave and gave and gave. Sure, I experimented a little, who doesn't? Corn oil, mayonnaise, suntan lotion, Vaseline, hair gel, jam, ManGlide... but you were the first. Yeah, it really brings back the ol' memories. You'll always have a special place in my heart. Hell, I can't even eat popcorn these days without getting a woody.

Underwear – You were hawwt. I remember the first time I checked out my Mom's underwear in the dirty clothes hamper; you were flirting with me. Teasing me to try you on. Did you ever tell her that I sometimes wore you while I spanked my monkey? You dawg! She must have weighed 280 pounds, and you were like a circus tent. And her bra? OMG! That was Tasty Hot! She'd come home from a long day at work, all hot and sweaty, and eat her fried-chicken TV dinner while leaning forward on her chair so I could pick the zits on her back. Her bra was just so . . There. I'd sneak a peek every once in a while. You know what I'm saying? Fuckin' A, baby!

Lady on page 26 of the Victoria's Secret catalog – You were one Hot Babe. You rocked my world. That look in your eyes as I wanked into some Kleenex promised some of the steamiest sex I could ever imagine. If you ever want to hook up again, just be delivered in the mail as usual. Maybe your friend with the juicy-caboosie (page 14) would like to get together for some Spicy-Hot 3-way action? Think about it.

Linda, or maybe Lynn, or Lindsay, I'm not really sure – I was cruising the New Year's Eve parties, looking for what I like to call “Hot Babe Action”. Just driving around in my Dodge Aries on a Babe Hunt. I heard your friends in front of the nightclub call to you, “You gonna be okay, Lin(something)?” You screamed back, “(something garbled)!!” and then stumbled and flipped them the bird. You were all pretty drunk.

I followed you for a few blocks until you went into the park (I wasn't stalking you). I found you there, under a tree, on your hands and knees like a dawg, you Hot Nasty Bitch. You blew a steady torrent of vomit on the grass in front of you, and then planted your face in it with your ass up in the air. I'm pretty sure you said “Yes”; at least that's what I heard. Damn, I must have pounded your Love Canal 3, maybe even 4 seconds before I exploded. And I could tell from the side of your face that wasn't caked with vomit that, underneath the smeared make-up, you were Hot!
Can you believe it? After all these years I still have your underwear (hanging from the rearview mirror of the Dodge Lovemobile) and the genital warts you gave me, and the herpes. You're still the only (human) female who I've slipped the baloney-pony: I'll love you forever. Good times, eh? There was something I've wondered about for a long time: you were sort of unresponsive at the time, and I wanted to get away before any cops came by, so I never got to ask; Was it good for you?

Sheep (I don't think you had a name) – You were my first ungulate. This was at my Uncle Gunter's farm in Iowa. Damn, you were such an animal. After that whole Lin(whatserface) experience, I started to feel some manly pain in my heart. My life felt so empty with her gone. A lot of people don't realize it, but a man has feelings too. A man has needs. And I felt that I needed some poon-tang. A Hot Swingin' Babe, just getting down and dirty. But we were in the middle of Bum-Fuck, Iowa, so I went for ewe. You really helped me through a rough patch; helped me climb back on the Love Train again, get my confidence going so I could go cruising for Hot Babes. I was pretty nervous about playing hide-the-pickle with a farm animal, but you were calm and patient, just chewing your cud while I worked up my nerve. I gave you a handful of clover afterwards so in case you started following me around I could say, “Yeah, I gave her some clover earlier.”

Horrified woman in the bathroom stall next to me – I swear that all I was doing was making a simple video of toilets in American public bathrooms. A historical documentation of how we live in America. You'd think that would have some social value, right? Performance art. Right? I had No Friggen Idea that you were in the stall next to me! I couldn't even see the viewfinder for the camera! Hell, I didn't even know this was a woman's bathroom. I'm sorry I didn't look more carefully at the tiny little sign. And anyway, I think it was in Spanish, at least part of it was, and I got confused. I was crowning; I had to go. And I was rubbing one out. . . like it's a big deal. Lots of guys pound the pud while sitting on the can. If the judge had been a guy instead of frigid, bitter, dried-up, man-hating dyke, he would have known that, and I would have walked. Jeez Laweez! Talk about a frame-up!

Ike – You were my best friend in prison, man. Hombre! We'd kick back, just passing the time out in the yard, talking about Hot-Assed Bitches. Right on, brother! Talking about bras, talking about Lin(whatever), talking about cruising for Hot Smokin' Babes in the Lovemobile. Those were some good times, talking about what we'd do when we got out of the Big House and hooked up with some Sweet-n- Nasty Be-atches. Brother, when you get out in 10-to-15, I'll be waiting for you with the Dodge and we can cruise for some Booty-licious Hot Tamales, or we can go back to my place and watch each other jerk off just like in the Store Room of the Metal Shop at the Big House. Old times, amigo. I'll have a big stack of Victoria's Secret catalogs waiting for you, my man, just full of Hot, Ripe Babes.

TastyTime – That's my favorite brand of ice cream to eat while I'm hooking up with Hot Bitches on the Internet. T.T. TastyTime ButterNut Double-Fudge. Fuckin' A! That's also one of my screen names, “TT”. I understand Hot Babes so well now that I'm like a psychologist or some shit. They just have to ask what “TT” stands for. “Tree Top Lover, Baby” That's what I usually tell them. “But my ladies just call me Tree Top. T.T. Dig?” Then we get into all kinds of nasty talk about Trees and being on Top and shit. I tell ya, I know Bitches like the back of my hand.

I cruise CraigsList and all the chat rooms getting Hot Babe Action. I'm dialed-in to some really exclusive Eastern European porn (Prestige-level Member), straight to my In Box on the computer where I work graveyard as a security guard at the warehouse. Some Hot Russian Bitch has been writing to me lately; shit, I've got Hot Babes texting me every day. (The word is out, man; the word is fucking out that I'm a major Player, and the bees are buzzing looking for a little honey.) I got some Russian Bitch hitting me up, a Japanese Bitch, all talking about increasing the size of my trouser snake, “make her moan with pleasure”, that kind of shit. I'm like a Bitch-Magnet, baby. I've gone viral. It seems like every Hot Nasty Babe on the planet is focused on the size of my johnson. All wanting to ride the Stallion. That's another screen name of mine: “1337 Stallion”.

And that's the List . . . so far. . . . So, which one of you Hot Smokin' Babes is ready to “assume the position” on TT's Bang List? I've been taking the pills that I bought over the Internet from the Japanese Bitch and I've been using the vacuum pump; the Pecker has become a Porker. It's a fucking anaconda. It's got to be at least 5 solid God-Bless-American inches of white-meat tube-steak. I am really packing some hammer. I should be issued a warning label.

Don't worry about Lin(whozit). I waited for her for 20 years: she had her chance, and the bitch blew it. I'm over her. I'm 41 years old, and it's time for me to move on to new pastures. I've got a job (paid to spank, best job in the world) and my own car (Lovemobile). I'm ready to party (but we can't party at my place because my Mom's retired now and is home all the time). The Lovemobile's got a kick-ass sound system; drop in the 8-track, booty-moving tunes start blasting, and we Par-tay!

Any of you Hot Babes think you can handle a real Player? Let's hook up, Bay-Bay. Let's see what you've got. Tell me about our lovely lady lumps. Tell me about how you want to shake your money-maker out on the dance floor with TT. Tell me, Who's your pimpdaddy? Send me something to prime my pump (my love pump, unh!). I won't bite, but I might nibble. Don't be a hater.

We can meet. You name the place and time. I'll be the guy in the tan Dodge Aries with the comb-over, Member's Only jacket and Sans-a-Belt slacks. And it's not a beer-belly; think of it as a fuel tank for a sex machine.


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