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"Can we, as a country, all agree
xmag.com : March 2002:My Mons Venus Flytrap

I have always wanted a sugar daddy. As a young girl, raised on scandalous Jackie Collins miniseries, I would often pretend that big fat Mr. Potato Head gave Barbie all of her designer fashions, paid the rent on her dream house, and took care of the gas card for her silver Corvette. So when I came of age, I decided to try my own hand at being a kept woman. How hard could it be? I was, after all, a hot, virginal, jail-bait-esque piece of ass. I thought for sure I'd score big with some perverted, Barely Legal-reading businessman.
Unfortunately, I was raised by a proud, hardworking single mother, so I had no example to go by in my quest. But it seemed to me the best place to start would be that breeding-ground of perversion, the Internet, so I placed a personal ad stating my intentions and thus embarked on my exciting, though at first unsuccessful, career.

The biggest problem facing me was my new beaus' confusion over the definition of the word "spoil." I hadn't wanted to be crass, so in my ad I had said I was looking for a "mature gentleman" who would "spoil me." To me, it was obvious that I was looking for an "OLD MAN" who would "BUY ME FURS, DIAMONDS, AND A CAR." Why else would I go to all the trouble of placing an ad? But the cheap asshole jagoffs whom I dated had an entirely different understanding of my desire to be "spoiled." For some dumb reason, they thought I meant that I wanted hours and hours of hot, stimulating cunnilingus!!

"The Bible says that the body is a temple, but I preferred to think of mine as an exclusive country club. They don't charge you to go into a temple!!

Cunnilingus!! As if a hot young chick like me would have to advertise to get pleasure. That kind of thing might happen in a porno movie, but not in real life. But these ding-a-lings were in a fantasy world. Over the course of my career, I can't tell you how many disgusting, pathetic, Dockers-wearing idiots have slobbering all over my virgin puss! The typical date would go like this: drinks, dinner, more drinks, and then..."So you said in your ad you like to be spoiled." Boom! Before I knew it, my pathetically passive ass would be sprawled on the bed with the drooling tongue of some midlife-crisis-stricken fatty working away between my indignant thighs. And all of these dumb fuckers thought they were doing me a big service, because although their slimy incompetent fumbling didn't do a THING for me, I would get so fuckin' tired of looking at the bald spots and comb-overs worshipping at my temple that I would fake a big, loud, screaming orgasm just to get them the hell away from me!

It was very frustrating. Here I was, willing to sacrifice my precious hymen in exchange for lavish gifts, and despite my obvious hinting, all I was getting was drool and slobber and the occasional tacky trinket. Even when I moved to Las Vegas, the land of sex and money, the first old man I bagged bought me a bed--not so that I wouldn't have to sleep on the floor, but so that his hairy fat belly would be more comfortable while he feasted on "tongue chow!!" That old fucker would slobber down there for hours, all the while keeping a running commentary on my "adorable caboose" and "perfect box." Finally I tired of his pornographic platitudes and froze his blubbery ass out. But this time, I made sure I got tangible assets out of the deal, like a computer, scanner, and digital camera--yes, the 24-hour electrical current of sex and money in Vegas had finally penetrated my virginal frontal lobe, and I had figured out how to get fair market value for the pleasure of laboring in my salt mines.
The turning point came one night when my Vegas fatty said something that made me look at my box in a whole new light. I was lying back on his bed, listing all the US presidents in my head as I moaned and groaned loudly enough to block out the slurping of his tongue, when he stopped, sighed and observed, "I just love doing this to a nice, clean package like yours. I could never give tongue chow to a prostitute or a stripper--you never know where they've been. This is a real treat!"
Jackpot! The sevens lined up in my head, and I could almost see the coins spilling from my box. It had been there all along, but I had never appreciated it. Cleanliness was indeed next to Godliness, and if I would just learn to give my neat & tidy puss the value and respect it deserved, I would finally score big. No more throwing it away for free--from that day on, nothing was too good for the precious commodity in my pants. Silken panties, Evian douches, a golden razor to trim its luscious curls...I elevated my pampered portal to sainthood and charged accordingly for access to the Holy Land. The Bible says that the body is a temple, but I preferred to think of mine as an exclusive country club. They don't charge you to go into a temple!!
Today I celebrate the one-year anniversary of my cunnilingual epiphany, and as I count my stacks of money, I pat my puss with fond glee. My little goldmine! My little mons-Venus flytrap, dripping honey, enticing fat old men to lay gifts at its sacred entrance, where they are promptly gobbled up into my bank account! Clothes, perfume, electronics, furnishings, a $1,500 Gucci watch, trips to Nashville and San Francisco, and about $2,000 in cash and casino chips have all come my way since I learned to value and respect my box. And all I have to do is lie back, look at the ceiling, and ignore the slobber.

 

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