Spunk

There are two things in life I simply refuse to believe.:

1. That every man hasn’t tasted his own come (spunk/man juice/love liquid/male cream/squirty (made this one up myself), call It whatever you wish).
2. That every woman hasn’t dipped a finger inside the fleshy mound and had a little try-before-you buy inclination.

A few days ago, Desdemona and I chatted about this over the course of the slag meeting. She doesn’t agree.

All men, in her experience, have wanted to put up a fence between themselves and her after they’d come over her, or into her. What are men so afraid of? Perhaps men think tasting their own spunk might just tip them over into the gay category, god forbid. And not once does it cross their minds that it is in fact them producing what they won‘t taste. Ever heard of the butcher who won‘t eat his own steak? No. Neither have I. In fact, most people with their own vegetable patch won’t even step inside the vegetable section at Sainsburys. It’s their very own fuel in the bomb, the soft centre of the candy. Uh huh.

And most guys truly enjoy coming inside their partner. The spunk is a dribble of male authority. Nope, I still refuse to believe any men past the age of 17 haven’t tasted it. Curiosity over enjoyment, for it doesn’t really taste of much.

And to women. Females are so accustomed to hearing from an early age that their vagina is a glorified fish kebab, that I’m sure it takes little more than a few months post puberty for them to delve into the kebab shop. A clean pussy, a natural smelling pussy (Desdemona doesn’t particularly enjoy the soapy lux smell that can sometimes linger in the folds of a recently washed pussy.) can sometimes be all intoxicating.

Oh, the flavours I have yet to savour.