Anal Creampies

"I just don't think you ought to go home with Bobbi," she stressed.

"A: I don't understand what business it is of yours," I said, becoming grumpy, "and B: I don't see why not? I'm not sure I want to, anyhow."

"Just go with anal creampies," she told me. We two-stepped around the floor, and moved into a quick little polka, then a waltz.

"So you're leavin' soon?" she asked.

"I didn't say that," I laughed. Now I was more curious than anything else. "Why is it so dad-blamed important that I don't go to Bobbi's? Just tell me!"



She looked up at me, her eyes worried. "Let's just say that I haven't seen a guy walk without a limp after spending a night with Bobbi."

"What's that anal creampies mean?" I said, puzzled at the possible meanings. The thought that I might be physically maimed never entered my head.

The song was ending, and Lorlene broke away and headed off the floor. "Don't say I didn't warn you," was her parting words. Shrugging, I followed her and headed off the floor to get me another anal creampies. The puzzling conversation had left me thirsty.

Bobbi was at the bar, talking with a guy when I got there. Standing behind her, I ordered my drink, half hoping she would notice me there. The idea of being with her was interesting in the same way that we have a ghoulish fascination with car wrecks; our more cogent faculties tell us not to, but our prurient interests make us look. I felt queasy intellectually about going home with someone whose face closely resembles a baboons butt, but my maleness remembered that silky smooth anal creampies. I had all but forgotten the slimy aftermath inflicted on my tongue, twice now.