I can’t stop thinking about the perfect, ultimate sexual chemistry that Benedict Come-on-back-to-me and I have. I know I’m not supposed to write about he-who-shall-not-be-written about anymore, but, fuck.
We have the best sexual chemistry. The BEST. Uh. I can’t stop thinking about. At all.
We have this chemistry. We are both unattached. We are both consenting adults. We live in the same town. There’s not a reason I can see that we shouldn’t carry on having the best sex, ever, whenever we can. Or he can. I’d do it everyday. He’s pretty busy.
To not do this, seems plain insane. Like moving to Italy and starting a vegan, gluten-free diet and avoiding all nightshade vegetables as well. No. No one sane would do this.
I ain’t too proud to beg. Please. Please. Please, come back to me.
You’re like a gorgeous plate of sausage ravioli with marinara. Yum. I am not vegan. I am not gluten-free. I will devour it all and lick my plate clean. And ask for seconds.
Please sir, can I have some more?