Christina Ricci

Typing with one hand isn’t always easy, but sometimes it just has to be done.  So instead of my fairly respectable 30 words a minute while looking at the keyboard and 20 while not looking, I shall probably be finished this post about 6 hours later than planned.

And as for the unscheduled wank breaks, forget about it.

Ladies and Gentlemen get ready to hee-haw with the wrinkled mee-maw and butter the corn this week to the next sperm receptacle on my wish list:

Christina Ricci.

I’m gonna say a few things about the spunktastic Ms Ricci that you may think a little out of line, even for me.  But I can say these things because I am older than her by only a few weeks.  I grew up watching her grow up.  She’s my girl next door and we’ve never even been in the same country at the same time.  So let’s get these things out of the way.

She was hot in Casper.

She was smokin’ in The Addams Family.

And by the time she got to Black Snake Moan, she was letting men do things to her that were right out of my wet dreams.

Right, that’s that out of the way.

I don’t know what I wouldn’t do to this chick.  If you were to walk into the room I’d had her in and shine a black light it’d look like a sex pest had been finger painting with man emulsion.

I wouldn’t care if she pulled out a cock.  Well I would, but only if it was bigger than mine.  She could do what ever she wanted to me.  I’d hand her a fucking menu for her to tick off her preferences:

1.  Churn my ass until you get butter milk (reach around optional)

2.  Give me a Lucozade enema

3.  Hook my nipples up to a car battery and my scrotum to an iPod that has James Blunt on repeat

4.  Violate me with your toes while making me violate Twink with mine

5.  Make me listen to the Ray Foley show and tazer my bell end when I fail to point out anything vaguely humorous or entertaining

I’d lap her up until I was flicking her fillings with my tongue of pleasurability.  From that moment on it would be known as The Squealmaker®.  So renowned would it become that workshops and books would be produced the world over making me rich beyond the dreams of a Health Minister.

She’d be sad when our marathon session ended, but that would just be due to temporary dehydration.  For all you slow people down the back, that would be because she’d have used up her bodily fluids on the pesky sexual delights I was dishing out.  For the really slow people down the far back, it means I left her slipping around in the puddles of memories she’ll forever wish she could recapture.

Fuck it, she gushed so much the downstairs neighbours ceiling started to drip.

Well now I’ve got friction burn on my cock and the start of some pretty serious looking palm blisters, so before they pop and bring me back to the reality of me sitting here with my pants around my ankles, I better leave this internet café before the feds show up.

One more time, Ms Christina Ricci.

Fuck the po-leece.  I can go another round….