Consider this a warning shot….
All of the Koufax nominations are up and you really should go vote (and make sure you dip your finger in some kind of ink so that you can show your friends and co-workers that freedom only exists when the Koufax’s are awarded, all the rest of life is just jerking off).
Anyway, I previously mentioned that I won a Koufax last year and that I sure would like another which I will place on my spacious and impressive desk next to my Oscar, my People’s Choice Award, my Clio, and my Brooks Robinson autographed baseball (true story: had daughter Casey been born a boy her name was going to be Brooks Robinson tbogg. You can look it up.)
But getting back to my threat (and there is always imminent danger in each and every one of my posts like a scary Crackerjack box with a razorblade or a Josh Groban CD in it) I said that if I get shut out this year I’m turning this blog over to Jonah Goldberg Fan Fiction. You think I’m kidding, punk?
My heart is beating hard as my eyes meet Jonah’s. My body heat rises and my entire soul trembles. In his eyes I see his desire for me, but besides that I see his love. This is what causes my heart to beat so, my desire to make love with him does not stem out of lust. But rather out of the love I felt so deeply and the need I have to fully express how much I need him body mind and soul. He is nervous, yet so am I. I slide easily into his arms my gaze never leaving his although his glasses are steamed up from his exertions coming up the two flights of stairs. I run my hands up his back threading my fingers into his hair. God, he has a rich and luxurious pelt on his back. My gaze slowly slips down to Jonah’s lips, a smile curving mine. He truly did have magnificent lips. Lips have always been a fetish of mine. I loved to kiss, especially this man. This pudgy slightly damp man who smelled of Ding Dongs and Hai Karate and danger. Not the kind of danger that you might find in a soldier or a fireman or an actuary. No, it was the danger of his mother coming down to the basement and finding us half-clothed, playing strip Star Wars Monopoly.
On that thought I rose up on my tip toes and pressed my lips to his. He kissed me back, his body pressing into mine. Our lips touched and parted then touched again. I was content just to stand there kissing him while feeling in his pockets for loose change. I let my tongue slip out teasing the seam of his lips as his hands slid up to my hair.
“Talk dirty to me,” he murmured in my ear. “Say I’m your Donut Eating Goucher Monkey and you want me to quote all of the Bill Murray lines from Caddyshack while I lick pudding out of your shoes. “
Yes. This was my Jonah and he was asking for a number 4; our most precious and sacred merging of flesh and spirit and dessert toppings. I asked him for his credit card number and he grinned wickedly at me.
“Not this time, my love,” he leered as he slid his elastic-waist Dockers™ over his somewhat feminine buttocks. “This time I have…rolled coins.”
I think you get the idea. I got a nice blog here. It would be a pity if anything happened to it…
(Disclaimer: Portions of the above (Jonah and the Ocean of Lotion: A Work in Progress) liberally borrowed from a story over at Literotica, where bad porn meets worse spelling)