March 20, 2014 | by Three Girls And A Book Obsession | Taint
by S.L. Jennings
(Website, Twitter, Facebook, Goodreads)on May 20th, 2014
Right now, you’re probably asking yourself two things:
Who am I?
And, what the hell are you doing here? Let’s start with the most obvious question, shall we? You’re here, ladies, because you can’t f*ck. Oh, stop it. Don’t cringe. No one under the age of 80 clutches their pearls. You might as well get used to it, because for the next six weeks, you’re going to hear that word a lot. And you’re going to say it a lot. Go ahead, try it out on your tongue.
Ok, good. Now where were we? If you enrolled yourself in this program then you are wholly aware that you’re a lousy lay. Good for you. Admitting it is half the battle. For those of you that have been sent here by your husband or significant other, dry your tears and get over it. You’ve been given a gift, ladies. The gift of mind-blowing, wall-climbing, multiple-orgasm-inducing sex. You have the opportunity to f*ck like a porn star. And I guarantee, you will when I’m done with you. And who am I?
Well, for the next six weeks, I will be your lover, your teacher, your best friend, and your worst enemy. Your every-f*cking-thing. I’m the one who is going to save your relationship and your sex life.
I am Justice Drake. And I turn housewives into whores.
“Unless he’s completely desperate or under the influence, a man can’t – and won’t – fuck what doesn’t get him hard.”
Less gasps this time, but every perfectly powdered face is beet red with embarrassment, causing my mouth to slide into a sardonic smirk.
Truth be told, I love this shit. I love ruffling their meticulously groomed feathers. Their obvious discomfort entertains me. Seeing the rosy hue of coyness bleed through their blush is like a balm to my little, sadistic soul.
“And in that case,” I continue, “you don’t want him anyway. What you do want is for him to be salivating at the soles of your Jimmy Choos. And let’s face it, ladies… that’s not happening. Why do you think that is?”
Crickets. Fucking crickets.
“Anyone? Come on, ladies. I can’t help you unless you want to be helped. So unless you all have picture-perfect marriages and husbands that blow your backs out on a regular, I should see some hands.”
This time I’m rewarded with the almost simultaneous intake of eleven breaths. They’re all still here. All willing to bare their souls and dirty laundry in an attempt to rekindle the doused flame between their thighs.
You see, women are liars.
Yeah, I said it. L-I-A-R-S.
They want intimacy just as badly as men do. But to them, intimacy is more than just the physical act of sex. They want to be cherished yet want a man that will get down and dirty. They want tenderness, but crave to be banged like a $2 hooker. They want a man that’ll go all night, but still have the energy to kiss and cuddle and talk about their feelings afterward.
Listen up, ladies. We’re fucking tired! You try going jackrabbit-style, throw in some Cirque du Soleil moves and see if you can keep your eyelids peeled. Us passing out after sex is a compliment- a testament to how good it was. And quite frankly, if your dude can hop out of the sack and go to work or run a marathon, then he still has energy left for sex. He’s just done having sex with you.
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