My pussy has a first name. It’s B-r-i-t-n-e-y. It’s okay, she can’t spell. My pussy does not have a last name, for obvious legal reasons. And today I found out that my pussy can write. To my great dismay, she wrote me this letter:
Hey Violet, hihihi!
Omigawd, how are you? I’m like, totally fine and stuff. Yesterday we went for a walk and that was rilly rilly fun because you wore that black denim Dickies skirt, y’know, the one that’s kinda tight but comfy and short even though you almost NEVER wash it, and I totally watched the ground go by which was kinda cool ’cause we walked through the Castro where all the gays are and I feel totally safe there, and plus the sidewalk is really clean ’cause they practically have rugs from Dax on the sidewalks. OMG — that would be SO COOL!!! I wish they would cover the sidewalks there with Flokati rugs, that would look so neato through your panties, cuz I totally peek out your thong all the time when you’re not looking. See, you’re not the boss of me… [read more]
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