Friday, February 18, 2005

Ah-ha! cont'd

Men: Be prepared to lose that last ounce of self-confidence you've gained through years of self-flattery. Womanly wiles are vile. I don't know if I'm revealing too much too soon about the female psyche if I write this, but what the hey! it's all in the name of public duty.

So how exactly did KournaWhora come to acquire knowledge of the Boy's mini pincher? Answer: She gave him a hand-job during frosh week last semester, too turned-off to take it any further.

Visualize this: She and I - lying in bed, garments strewn across the floor, our sleeping friend a couch away - with raised hands silhouetted against the dark. Her fingers form a ring and she swings her wrist in an up and down motion over an invisible shaft.

"It was about that thick ... and that long ..." Or small, as the case may be.

I join in. "No way," I interject, imitating the universally understood gesture. "It was more like ..." Our hands sway out of sync; our memories fail to reach a consensus.

So there we were, jerking the air to conduct wholly unscientific research on the grounds of gathering accurate data, a confirmation of men's most irrational fear: Yes, we talk and compare detailed notes. Don't let her convince you any different.


4 inches. Generously.

A compromise was agreed.

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