Mommy-Calling
Truthfully speaking, in terms of attraction factor, I have learned to categorize men into three particular categories:
Hooters Man – one who prefers big breasts
Junk Man – one who prefers big buttocks
Tits & Ass Man – one who prefers a combination of both
As such , I have noted that most guys who end up liking me fall into the first category, the Hooters Man, because of, obviously, my unfortunately inappropriately-sized rack.
It is not, as most people would think, a blessing but rather, a curse.
I am not quite comfortable with these twin mountains infront of me. Having been brought up as a semi-tomboy during my childhood years, I wasn’t quite as happy that I got these so-called blessed gifts to all women. And at first, these weren’t really as annoying to me as they used to be. It wasn’t until I started medical school when I realized that I was actually more well-endowed than the rest of the girls I was hanging out with. For one, none of my ex-boyfriends mentioned it and even my boyfriend that time didn’t say it to my face. I noted this particular development after one of my younger classmates in medical school started calling me “Mommy [Mistress].”
I was scratching my head in obvious confusion one particular time and decided to ask FunnyBoy. “Why does Naruto keep calling me Mommy?”
He laughed. “You don’t know why?”
“No. Is that like some form of endearment to him?”
“I’m not even sure if I should tell you.”
“Oh, come on! I keep hearing him say it all the time. I feel like it’s some kind of joke that only the inner circle knows about and I’m not even in on.”
FunnyBoy laughed. “It’s the Mommy thing, [mistress]. It’s like Naruto wants you to take care of him, like a mother. And to do all the things that mommies do to their babies.”
“To babies?” Now I was more confused than ever. “Like what?”
“You really have no idea?”
“Oh, come on. Now I’m curious. I have a feeling I probably won’t like what I’m going to hear but tell me anyway.”
“You know, breastfeeding… Since you have, you know…” and he pouted his lips and pointed them to the direction of my chest.
Needless to say, I was mortified.
I couldn’t look at my Mommy-calling Naruto for some time. I asked Rockstar, who was my boyfriend that time, about the incident and he just grinned at me sheepishly.
“But [mistress], you do have big breasts. That’s why I feel so darn lucky having you,” he remarked patriotizingly.
I, of course, refused to accept that I had big breasts and proceeded to do the Meryl Streep thing in “Bridges of Madison Country” that night as I stripped off all my clothes and looked at my naked self infront of the mirror.
Shoot.
I did not want big breasts but it looks like I’m stuck with them, indefinitely.
I sighed. I can’t really understand why men are endlessly fascinated with breasts. It’s really just all ducts, lobules and fats. Lots and lots of fats. I find it strange how men do not grow out of their inborn fascination for breasts even after they have gotten over the breastfeeding phase during their infancy. I would have thought it would be incredibly a sexual turn–off if a man:
a) remembers that their own mothers and grandmothers have them
b) remembers that his father once provided sexual gratification to their mother by using them for foreplay
c) ergo, remembers that his father and mother had sex at one time or another
d) remembers that he used to be breastfeed through one of his mother’s own breasts
e) thinks that one day their woman’s breast will droop and sag
If you look at it that way, I would think that a man should be disgusted with breasts since it would be a reminder of a particular time in their life when they were still fragile, more vulnerable and less masculine.
So, guys, what do you think?
Faking the Big O
How come men do not realize it when a girl is faking it?
A few groans in between the kisses, a couple grunts here, a loud moan there, some oooohhhhs and aaaahhhhs and a long “Ohhhh, yesssss!” and they seriously believe their woman has actually achieved orgasm?
No wonder men are so dumb.
Speaking from my medical standpoint (which is basically short for, as far as I have read about in the past five years of faking my way through medical school, meaning, I miost likely am unsure about what I’m talking about but I’m making a intelligent guess), there is only one way that a woman can prove that she has genuinely achieved orgasm. And there is no way that this can even be faked.
That is if she squirts a significant amount of wet fluid that resemble the consistency (but is no way reminiscent of the smell) of pee.
If she remains dry as a bone after the big explosion, she probably faked it. If she didn’t require for at least a few seconds to recuperate from the so-called earth-shattering release, she most likely didn’t get it. If the post-coital fluid that comes out of her vajayjay is thick and viscous, that’s probably yours, you two-minute man.
The Rooster’s Cock
It had an extra ounce of flesh dangling from the base of the head, like a rooster’s crown, as if he had been circumcised the wrong way.
He said it brought added pleasure.
And so I was curious. As he inserted his average-sized penis into my body, I faked a shudder and moaned loudly. We moved together and I felt the initial stirrings of an impending orgasm as his cock brushed against the sensitive walls of my vagina. The pounding intensified, the vibrations escalated, until finally, he erupted, spewing a mass of warm seminal fluids into my birth canal.
He was all talk. I didn’t even feel the difference.
