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9:46 a.m. - 2006-07-03
Ass cake and asses in general.
The ass cake was an overwhelming success, although nobody could bring themselves to eat a piece of my ass.

Get it?

Ha, ha.


I have pictures and will post one of the now infamous Betty Crocker creation soon.

It was a hell of a party. The first few hours I was feeling sinus infection crappy, and sort of moped around soaking in a bit of late afternoon sun prayig for death to take me quickly. But all my friends were there, and everyone was having so much fun -- that I had to do it. I grabbed the bottle of Goldschlager and chased the bad boy with a good bit of vodka. That made me feel a lot better.

I had a couple of interesting experiences. One, H came up to me and told me that Val's tasty friend from last weekend was coming back this weekend. And he thought that I'd want to know. Which means I've been the subject of much boy gossip this week. And probably means that said Val friend must be fairly interested. We shall see. He is, after all, a ball. But a hot wee ball he is.

Then, in a strange turn of events, H started talking booty call, and giving my an intinerary of all the wonderful things he might do if we were to hook up. He got all touchy feely and sweet and Good H. But I, being all wise and everything, knew that when Good H comes out, Bad H is not far behind, and instead of falling for it, lit into him about his deeply rooted fear of boobs. I confronted him about his boobaphobia. Because what is the point of me sleeping with a man who is afraid of one of my greatest assets? I have an unimpressive ass, a boodha belly, and ok legs, but boobs I've got in spades.

So I yelled rather loudly that since he's afraid of boobs, he needed to find a girl with a flat chest to fuck, and I needed to find myself a boob man who would appreciate my girls like they deserve to be appreciated. Or at least he would be so obsessed about the boobs that he'd overlook the other chubby parts. At which he yelled back that I had nice tits and he wasn't scared of them, because they were real (a bold faced lie). It was the fake ones be has a problem with. Then he splashed me in the face (because we were all in the pool being drunk idiots by this time), and I jumped on his hairy back in an ill fated attemp to drown his sorry, ballistic ass.

So, we're friends again and all is well in Assholia. Because that's the way we do things.

But I was a very good girl, stuck to my guns and went home with Six. Whoremones be damned. I am not sleeping with that sorry ass ape again. Even if he is one of my bestest friends.


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