You see, I don't know how to do this unless you are hoping to fuck me one day. But. Sigh. It's in my best interests to nourish non-sexual relationships in addition to all these kinky, filthy fluids I'm exchanging on a regular basis, in irregular locations.
My shrink, who I respectfully refer to as Dr. Homeslice, hooked me up with some pharmaceutical magic -- magic thus far for the stability of my moods and for correcting what may have been becoming a drinking problem, but not of course without its costs. Among the side effects is not being able to "find the right word." Examples given of especially slippery ones have been "garage" or "refrigerator," but Fangs and I had a hearty belly laugh at one the other day:
Thanks for this morning, Baby.
No problem. I couldn't stand to see you in so much pain from that rock-hard erection, so it was my pleasure to, uh-- damn...
...What's the fucking word? Oh yeah: blow you.Dr. Homeslice doesn't bat an eye when I arrive looking like a purple and chewed piece of steak gristle anymore, bless 'im, so I haven't had to explain Fangs' fangs or defend my kinks or any of that time-wasting garbage. He did recommend that I occasionally make friends that I don't fervently bang, though, so here goes: see the sidebar to send me a tweet! Make my little day!