TaTu

Normal service shall resume presently.

I’ve been rather busy over the last while, so I haven’t had time to perv over random internet pictures of loverly female types.  I’ve had to work instead and deal with “real” women.  Talking and interacting is all so over rated.  I’m increasingly thinking that even the best reality based porn isn’t based on reality at all.  Not once in the last couple of weeks did I walk in on a crying bride only to comfort her with my beef stick of sensitivity.  Not once.

So back to my fortress of spunky solitude it is.

Because I haven’t done a wank of the week in a fortnight, I feel like I have to make up and release all of this built up tension.

My keyboard is about to get sticky.

Remember these two little pieces of actual and real and in no way fake and made up for money schoolgirl lesbonians?

They’re hot and young and tight and pert and one of them is a red head and they both nibble on the nooch.  Cos they’re lesbians.

Aren’t they just fucking delicious in their undies and big black army boots?  I used to run myself a bubble bath, light some candles, throw on a KD Lang CD and fantasise about which one of them I’d rather be in an episode of hide the fist.  Depending on my mood it would be the red head so that the brunette could dominate and humiliate me with her strap on thicker and hairier than an elephant’s trunk.  Or it would be sensual where I was the brunette and the red head made sweet sweet sticky love to my stench trench while I mewed like a kitten.

One time I got carried away and shoved a bar of Imperial Leather up my arse.  I was farting bubbles for a month.

I remember I once booked a flight to Russia to try to find them and serenade them with my own version of their hit single “All the things she said” .  I can’t quite recall the lyrics I had rewritten to showcase my love for these to completely genuine fishitarians, but they were vivid and written in my unrequited love juice.  They probably wouldn’t have been able to read it any way, what with the tight security around them and the distinct lack of black lights in Russia.  True story.

Holy mother of sweet divine, but if I saw these two on a club or at a party I’d eye them up from across the room.  Then I’d probably just leer at them all night while wondering how I could slip my hand past the flimsy material and grope a nipple, or queue at the bar and sneak an upskirt shot on my phone.  Then I’d just go home and have a wank with a bar of soap because I’m no good with women in real life and I’m sad and crying on the inside.

Then I’d go back and lick all the bar stools in the hope that they had sat on one or more of them and I was vicariously licking their lobster pots.

Now I know that some of you will say that they were never real lesbians and I’m living in a dream world.  Pssh I say.  Pssh.

Here’s the proof:

Here, for all you non believers is an utterly spontaneous and unstaged loving lesbian lip wrestle.  It wasn’t orchestrated or rehearsed and they really wanted to do it.  Afterwards they’d celebrate their love for each other with champagne over candle light and not get pissed up on vodka and cry themselves to sleep like the tabloids would have you believe.

Still not convinced?

Here’s more proof:

See?  Hands on boobies.  Things lesbians do.  Groping of chesticles is definitely one.  I rest my case.

I have to say though, over time my love of the red head has grown a lot more than that of the brunette.  This might not come as much of a surprise as I am a fairly outspoken campaigner for the rights of the red head on my member, but if you needed any more reason, I give you…..

Exhibit A

My lovely red headed naked bean flicker.

Exhibit B

What the fuck has she gone and done to herself?

Blue underwear and red nail polish?

Honey, no.