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She was running late for her afternoon shift as a waitress at Finnegan's. He relaxed his hold so Tyler could breathe and reply. Tyler kissed the head and sucked it into his mouth. He'd seen glimpses of Lamar's dick over the past three years that his mom had been dating the brown-skinned man with cornrows. Soon, Lamar's lusciously large balls began to ache. Unconcerned about the faggot sucking his dick, he kept this information to himself. Shit," he yelled as he erupted into the back of Tyler's throat.
Before darting out the door, she kissed Lamar's forehead. When her car pulled away from the mobile home, Lamar put out his Black & Mild in the ashtray on the table tray next to his favorite recliner and walked out the back to feed the dog. "Man fuck you," Lamar thundered as he lunged towards Tyler. Though Lamar was only one hundred seventy pounds, he was lean and fit. And the irrefutable screams of pleasure coming from his mother when she and Lamar made love caused him to long for Black dick. Lamar, filled with liquid courage, decided to murder Tyler's unsuspecting throat.
I found this rather unsettling and wondered whether there was something perhaps undesirable about me that was causing this trend. I have a laundry list of rather trivial self-perceived flaws that when I'm in a certain state of mind (or dating) can plummet me into this world of "other than." For instance, I hate my overly muscular calves, which is particularly inconvenient since I absolutely love boots.
When I'm not dating or in a relationship I tend to be just fine with the fact that I'm not a big party person, that I have no legitimate hobbies, that I'm not very outdoorsy (my favorite outdoor activity is coming back inside), that I've never run a marathon, or that my chin is too small.
Yet get me out on a first or second date, and suddenly I find myself fretting about every little shortcoming.
As I was slipping and sliding down Michigan Avenue in my snow-caked-no-tread-UGG-sweater-boots I pointed my head at a slight downward angle to minimize the snow accumulation on my face, which provided me with a view of every single woman's calves walking within an impressively broad circumferential range.
And what I saw only deepened my state of despair -- everywhere I looked, and I mean everywhere, I saw tiny, little, petite calves sporting very cute tiny, little petite boots.
We live in a world of ISIS and Ebola, after all, and certainly I am not so superficial as to concern myself with the pettiness of not being able to squeeze my overly-muscular calves into a cute pair of Hunter rubber rain boots.