July 19, 2012
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Word on the street is, or was, that all women love cheese. Well, in this week’s installment of Vintage Frog Lore, Elizabeth Rose proves otherwise.
I apologise. I apologise for all those who escaped reading this story the first time round and are now faced with it’s gruesome reality; and I apologise to those who have already read it and thought the nightmares were finally laid to rest after a year. Except I don’t… not really. Having finally recovered myself, I find it far too amusing not to make it’s publication an annual treat for you all. I’ve even included the original comments to add“flavour”.
Happy Halloween, my darling Readers!
Poets have hitherto been mysteriously silent on the subject of cheese. – G.K. Chesterton
O MY GOD! Most upsetting and horrifying experience on Saturday! I drunken stumbled home with a reasonably attractive young Canadian (being Slutty Mc Ho-Bag) and to start with his equipment was much smaller than his stature would have suggested (I should listen to my own advice as he had very clean shoes). Then to add insult to injury, I discovered his foreskin contained a truly gopping amount of crusty knob cheese.
Picture, if you will, my Halloween horrors– we have been drunkenly fumbling around and are just getting to the good stuff…
I slip his boxers down flinging them off into the corner of his room,…
I lean forward to enjoy one of my favourite pre-shag snacks…
My hand grips his shaft and slowly I pull back his ,a foreskin…
My eyes are closed and my mouth inches away from his helmet..
…and then this hideous smell made me gag. I look down in alarm to see a cottage cheese like substance oozing out from under his foreskin complete with some greenish tinge I can only assume was mould.
Luckily he was drunk and easily pleased, so I got away with just jacking him off while holding my free hand over my face and leaning as far back as possible. I ran straight to the bathroom to wash my hands and legged it out of there before he had time to smoke a cigarette.
For Canadian readers not knowledgeable with my vernacular, knob cheese is what will form under the foreskin of an uncircumcised man if he doesn’t clean properly. It is a mixture of dried cum and sweat.
It is foul beyond measure.
The whole experience was so horrifying I thought I might be put off sex for a while. Fortunately, all was forgotten when I met my upstairs neighbour.
Now I know I should have learnt my lesson after my London troubles with a flat mate, but this is a really big building with no shared kitchens or anything like that. Besides, Andrew (the neighbour) is hot, smart and funny. I was introduced to his cock yesterday and I am already a little smitten with it. However I have learnt some lessons – least of all that Canadian men scare easy, so I haven’t emailed, called or texted him, or done any of the other insanities I am desperate to indulge in to gain repeat access to his nether regions. I have set myself a target for noon tomorrow for a quick “breezy” email.
Does this sound ok, dear readers? Or can I just drill a hole in my ceiling this afternoon, install some stairs and surprise him with a two bed duplex apartment after work? Complete with mirrored ceiling and a love swing?
Having said that, I did send an email to the owner of the cheesy knob today; I realised I still had his business card from when we were talking at the bar, so I dropped him a very polite little note to explain how to clean his penis correctly. I warned him that if he didn’t it may rot and fall off. So lovely Toronto ladies, I have done you all a favour. Assuming he will learn the error of his ways, his next victim will have an altogether fresher, if still ‘sizably’ disappointing, experience.