Cat Woman - I Can't Get Enough...

Dear Cat Woman,

They say blow jobs are EVERYTHING. That's your secret, huh? Don't say it isn't because I know it really is. Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me. Fool me three times and I will cum on your face. Wait, what?

You texted me last night and wanted me to come over...AGAIN. You were blunt and honest. You didn't want to go out to dinner. All you wanted was to blow me. Not even have sex...just suck thy wang like it was the last piece of fried chicken on earth. You wanted all of my eleven herbs and spices and special sauces.

I was tempted, I'm not going to lie. The shenanigans you pulled on our last two encounters I can't knock you for. Reason being - 1) I was drunk and 2) I put myself in that position. Well played, Roseanne Barr. Well played. Side note, I am voting for Roseanne Barr for president. The country needs more fat, crazy women in office. That will show the world that our "give-a-fuck" meter is broken, so don't even try us. (She is legit on the ballot for President - look that shit up)

While I was watching Hoarders on my DVR last night, praying that my boy J-Wunder didn't get axed by that crazy bitch from yesterday's advice column, I stared at your text and asked myself, "Do you really want to go? Do you really want to put yourself in that situation...AGAIN?"

Then I thought, "J-Wunder and The RINGER are going to give you hell. They said it themselves...bro, if you fuck with this broad again, we will be sure to do a collab on blasting your ass on the blog." Hey dipshits, have you not noticed I've been blasting myself on the blog? Fucking jerks. Plus, I am pretty sure I got a text from J when he was getting killed, but like I said, Hoarders was on and for some reason all that crazy was giving me major wood.

25 minutes, while drinking a vodka/soda, eating a bag of Doritos and watching Hoarders, I stared at that text and started to write - "Come over and play baby..." But I couldn't finish it.

I drank more. I ate more. I debated. Over and over and over again. God, you give amazing blow jobs. That's the only quality you have. I don't get it. You are a retarded version of Rosie O'Donnell, smell like cat shit but have completely Jedi-Mind fucked me. All because your mouth is amazing. So warm. So soft. So gentle. You are the epitome of a cruel joke. Face like a Mack truck, mouth like soft-serve ice cream.

Then it happened. I got drunk. Horny drunk. I texted you back with the only response I could think of...

"Hey chubbs, I'll be there in a jiffy. 8======D (get ready for the fury)"

I arrived at your house only to be greeted by that awful smell of dirty cats, potpourri, ham, what resembled gouda cheese and cat dookie. Like last time, I wanted to throw up. You wasted no time and went straight for my pants until I stopped you. You looked confused...more so, hungry. I was not going to let you chomp on my wang like an Auntie Annie's pretzel, so I made you a sandwich. Like three of them. Who the fuck still has pimento loaf? I thought that shit was discontinued, but there it was in your fridge, next to what I could only hope was mayonnaise. Side note: you eat some really unhealthy and awful shit. Just sayin'.

After I fed you dinners, you looked at me with eyes that burned with desire and hopefully not chlamydia, then walked me over to your plastic covered couch (and don't think I didn't notice that some of it was yellow, and smelled like cat-death) and sat me down. I thought I sat on a cat turd, but it was only a cat toy. And when I threw it on the ground, what could have only been 10 or 12 cats, came out and started fighting over it like it was the last bone in a dog fighting kennel.

You looked at me with those fiery eyes, like you wanted to kiss. I was wasted (yes, I am going to keep repeating that I was wasted because it makes me feel like I had a reason for even giving you the time of day) so I did what any drunk man would do...I dropped trow and pulled my cock out like I was in a stand-off gun fight. Then it happened...

I fell asleep on your couch only to wake up and find you sucking my dong with peanut butter and whipped cream spread across my shaft and balls. To make it even worse but yet amazing, "French Fry" was trying to get in on the action but you had none of it. You hissed at her like two cats in a cat fight. Ok, you actually roared and sounded like an overweight mountain lion...if one was ever to exist.

Again, you had me at the blow job.

You handed me a towel, I cleaned up and headed for the door. That's when you shocked me with those words as I was leaving...

"I want to be with you baby...I don't want this only to be about blow jobs. So will you???"

I looked at you as I sobered up by the madness you were speaking. After you had drained my body with almost a weeks worth of man juice I only had one response:

"Bitch, YOU CRAZY?! Fuck that, I'm out!"

Sure I loved your blow jobs and sure you had me addicted but let's be honest...did you really think I was going to date you?

AIN'T NOBODY GOT TIME FOR THAT!

By the way...I went to Verizon today and changed my number. I'm also moving out of my place because my lease is up. Kidding, I lost my job and can't afford rent. I'm moving in with The RINGER.

It was fun while it lasted. I'll never forget you, those silly fucking cats, your humongous body rolls and that amazing mouth. Don't let any man tell you different Lunch Box...EVER.

XOXO,

Anonymous