Today is St David’s Day, and Emma wear the Welsh dragon to celebrate. And as a token of my patriotism, I later screwed her while she was still wearing it. We are justifiably proud to have St Davis as our patron saint. For one thing, he was a real person - unlike St George, patron saint of our oppressive neighbour, England, who is the stuff of fairy tales. For another thing, St David is ours alone. England shares its mythical patron saint with Aragon, Catalonia, Ethiopia, Georgia, Greece, India, Iraq, Lithuania, Palestine, Portugal, Serbia and Russia, as well as the cities of Genoa, Amersfoort, Beirut, Fakiha, Bteghrine. Caceres, Ferrara, Freiburg, Ljubljana, Pomorie, Preston, Qormi, Rio de Janeiro, Lod, Barcelona, Moscow, Tamworth and the Maltese island of Gozo. And what is more, he didn’t kill the Welsh dragon.Archive for February 2011
Today is St David’s Day, and Emma wear the Welsh dragon to celebrate. And as a token of my patriotism, I later screwed her while she was still wearing it. We are justifiably proud to have St Davis as our patron saint. For one thing, he was a real person - unlike St George, patron saint of our oppressive neighbour, England, who is the stuff of fairy tales. For another thing, St David is ours alone. England shares its mythical patron saint with Aragon, Catalonia, Ethiopia, Georgia, Greece, India, Iraq, Lithuania, Palestine, Portugal, Serbia and Russia, as well as the cities of Genoa, Amersfoort, Beirut, Fakiha, Bteghrine. Caceres, Ferrara, Freiburg, Ljubljana, Pomorie, Preston, Qormi, Rio de Janeiro, Lod, Barcelona, Moscow, Tamworth and the Maltese island of Gozo. And what is more, he didn’t kill the Welsh dragon.
Cazzo, oggi mentre mi segavo mi sono spruzzato in faccia. Andando in bagno a lavarmi, vedendomi tutta quella SBORRA sul viso (non venivo da 5 giorni) mi sono deciso a riprendere il blog....
A giorni ci sarà una bella foto di una mia bella pioggia di caldo SPERMA.... dove? Vedremo!!
A giorni ci sarà una bella foto di una mia bella pioggia di caldo SPERMA.... dove? Vedremo!!
My thanks go to hypersexualgirl for reminding me that, as a man, I ought to be thinking of sex every six minutes. I don’t even get close, and I doubt if I ever did. Does anyone, I wonder? Ye gods, I'd hate to think that every sixth minute during my cholecystectomy the surgeon was thinking what he would like to be doing to the young nurse opposite. And six minutes into the service, was the vicar who officiated at our wedding really dreaming of screwing my beautiful bride in the vestry? I know I was, but that was surely my privilege. In my youth, I believe I was as obsessed with sex as anyone teenager, but I did spend many a long hour studying Shakespeare and rote-learning Latin pronouns without thinking of sex. But perhaps this every-sixth-minute thing is an average, and I crammed all my thoughts into an hour of finger-dipping debauchery. Nowadays, I look at Emma at least once every six minutes, and I freely admit I don't always immediately think of sex. Well, not quite always.
