gullybogan

Dear Reader,

Princess, Sybylla, and me, we all share the month of July for the anniversary of passing through our mothers’ vaginas.

We got together on the weekend to celebrate yet another happy return of this glorious liberation. It was good to catch up with Sybylla, and the goodness was only slightly soured by the fact that Foamboy was there, and that he insisted on constantly squeezing and licking her. It was like she was a Zooper-Dooper™ or something. Except warmer.

We got all dressed up to the nines…

…and hit a downtown Ringwood restaurant which we discovered was suffering under pretensions to being a Morrocan brothel. Everything was mezes and tapas and the waiter told us off for using the wrong cutlery, like we were bogans or something, and like he was sick of putting up with bogans coming into his Ringwood restaurant.

« Tsk! You’ve used your mains fork for the dip; pass me the entree fork and i’ll get you a fresh mains fork, Madam… no! The ENTREE FORK! Pass me the ENTREE FORK!… »

Because hospitality and good manners are all about making people feel at ease.

We failed several other tests he set us, such as how we were to serve out the share-salad when he hadn’t given us any salad utensils to share with. Sybylla was almost going to use her mains fork, but she daren’t, after the tongue-lashing she’d been given by the waiter. So we sort of tipped the salad out onto our plates, with varying degrees of success.

The table behind us was populated by a clutch of girls with biological clocks ticking so loudly it was like we’d stumbled onto a Jemaah Islamiah bomb factory.

« Oh, i hear that if you get your guy to ejaculate every day that it increases the genetic quality of the sperm… »

« Sweetheart, i’ve seen your guy, and nothing on this earth is going to increase the genetic quality of his sperm… »

« No, i’d heard that however old the guy is in years, that’s how many hours after he cums you have to wait before he’s returned to producing volatile sperm… »

« No, that’s not right, that’s how long it is before he’s built up to his maximum load of semen; the sperm are produced continuously… »

« Yeah, if Greg tries to do me straight away again afterwards, he’s practically blowing out hot air… »

« I dunno, my Steve shot in my face half an hour after doing the baby-lode – you know, as a special treat – and there was way enough there to sting my eyes something shocking… »

It was at about that point that we were glad we’d not gone for the dip platter.

It was good being the three of us together again, but Foamboy was a rather inconvenient truth that we had to deal with. He spent the evening working his way through the western district’s wine growing areas, and, by dessert, he was all over Sybylla like an old Driza-bone™.

« Let’s get outta here, » i decided, once his tongue was spending more time in her ear than in his wineglass, and we walked to our car. Sybylla opted to drive, and Princess and me sat in the back, while Foamboy messed about with the radio, changing the station every thirty seconds. It was as if, denied the chance to twiddle Sybylla’s bits in the privacy of the back seat, he transferred his twiddling to the radio knobs instead.

I noted as we belted up that Sybylla still takes her shoes off to drive. Sure, she had heels on on this occasion, but she always does it; it’s just a little thing that’s so utterly…her. It’s the cutest darn thing, a woman all dressed up in a slinky evening dress, kicking off her shoes and driving barefoot…

Or maybe that’s just a me thing.

We went back to our place and Sybylla insisted we play a few hands of poker. As you know, dear Reader, she and Princess regularly play each other online, so it was a logical extension for them to play in real life.

Foamboy, the western district having now worked its magic on his brain, suggested that we play strip poker.

Sybylla looked at him for a second and then turned around and asked him to unzip her. When he had, she dropped her slinky dress to the floor, stepped out of it, and asked if he was satisfied with that.

« Thing was too tight for poker playin’ anyway, » she explained, half-convincingly.

Not to be outdone, Princess went to our bedroom and returned in her dressing gown.

« I’m naked underneath this, » she confided in Foamboy. « Now, let’s play poker… »

Which we did.

Foamboy would have been happier, i got the feeling, if it had been Princess sitting in her underwear, rather than Sybylla – you know, grass is greener and all that – but he was asleep with his head on the table before too long anyway.

And that was our birthday weekend. The end.

Oh, and Princess won the poker. In case you were wondering.

Yours,
Gullybogan