Fantasy Blogging: IF I WAS FCUKING WISE

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You want to fcuk me.

I get it.

I’m passionate.

Generous.

And well, I can fcuk.

Really well.

Lemme digress for a moment while you gather your bearings…

Wow, I’ve been wanting to say that for a while. Damn, due to my lil hiatus I feel so out of the loop. I missed the whole Truth or Dare phenom…there’s like, these new IT bloggers out of nowhere…and it may appear that I’m at a loss for words.

On the contrary. I have more to say than ever, just haven’t figured out how to manage the time.

Well, this post is inspired by my cyber desires for a certain trans-Atlantic scholar. He finds sport in emailing me when he’s bored (and that only slightly offends me)... and on one such occasion he asked, “Wise, what do you think about two people getting intimate too early on?”

I refrained from explaining that it’s never too early (or late) for him and I to blast a home run, but instead I told him to stay tuned…

If Trans-Atlantic were fcuking Wise, perhaps it would go a lil something like a situation that really happened to me not long ago. Check it…

So there’s this guy who we’ll call Lui.gi. I met him at a party, and gave him my card because he’s also Jamaic.an and he promised to put me on to some reggae spots down here. There was no, ‘I’m feeling you, call me.’ Nothing except a pleasant convo and a few inside jokes in patois.

Fast fwd a few weeks. We’ve spoken on the phone, and it’s…fine. I begin to wonder if he’s just not feeling me…but wait a minute, I’m not on the menu. This is not a ‘feeling you’ situation.

But dammit, I’m WAY hotter than him, and he truly oughta be feeling me. But he speaks to me more like he’s either nervous, socially awkward, or bored. He’s real regular, no outward pretenses about him. An Ivy Leaguer sans the Harvard ego-swag. A nerd sans the idiocy. He’s basically Rog.

So I’m confused, but not pressed. I just want reggae.

Fast fwd again and I meet up with Lui.gi at a show. He lives about 30 minutes outside of Bawtuhmore, so after the show we go to my house to drink and hang out.

We’re sitting on my couch, and he says, “Damn, your legs are the same length as mine.” Looking back, this was the corniest shit I have ever encountered, but at the time, as silly as it seemed, he was right. Dude is like 6’1”…I’m 5’8”… and when we both stood up to measure, sure enough our hips line up.

Wow, our hips line up… I’m standing in front of dude and for the first time I size him up…LIKE THAT. I had already accepted that he’s not particularly attractive. But he’s mature, very nice, and of sound intellect.

And by the looks of things, shorty is packin. I’m sayin. I’m standing hip to hip with him and I see this bulge emerge from his jeans. And all of a sudden, I’m on fire.

The next thing I know, dude and I are rolling around on my couch, skin to skin, like rabbits.

Weird thing is, I’m not even really dick obsessed like that. As magnificent a sight to behold… ya seen one big one, ya seen ‘em all, really (you don’t count Trans-Atl). But there was just something about the presentation of this particular pipe that…shall we say, caught my eye.

Nevertheless, who was to know that subtly unattractive Lui.gi had the body of a god. I played all up and through the curvature of his muscles like opening day at Fenway. I marveled at the reckless hair that lined his pecs, his thighs, his groin. And let’s face it, I’m a girl…I like positive feedback. Brownie points if it’s directed to my body. Shit, I got caught up…but not caught out.

“I’m not going to fcuk you, Luig'.”
“Okay,” he said, a bit defeated. With that bit of business out of the way I went about the task of being thoroughly satisfied…sixth grade style (I let Big Papi hit a triple with a few runs batted in, if you feel me).

I have since gotten together with Luig’ on several occasions, and I always preface the frolic by letting him know that there will be no rounding of my bases. I’m grateful that he’s cool with basically not talking to me on the phone ever, and then paying me courtesy visits and bringing the hot massage oil and a good strong pair of hands.

Thing of it is…I like the guy. He’s decent. He’s even starting to look attractive to me. We have a lot in common, like the same kind of hanging out, similar music, and he’s rather intelligent, which I love. Problem is he’s nothing but a big dick on a sculpted frame with a funny 80s sitcom likeness (he really looks NOTHING like Rog, but for some reason I just find the analogy hilarious)…who happens to be a very cool guy. In a perfect world, it would be the other way around…he’d be a great guy who happens to have a dope body.

But because of an imperfect sequential arrangement, he doesn’t stand a chance. Not because he’s ugly… (truthfully it’s more so because I literally had to teach the muhfucka how to kiss me…to the point where I was literally just pushing his head down to point his lips at my nibbles)…but because I began at the conclusion. Had I taken the time to get to know this guy before I got to know his bare azz, perhaps I’d have a bit more patience, and enough respect not to immortalize him via blogger.

Why read the book when you already know how the hell it ends?

He went out of town last week, and upon his return he sent me a text…”I’m back. Call me if you want some.”

If he was fcuking Wise, he’d not need to text me a cock coupon. He would have been summoned to come over straight from the airport.

Particularly if he was flying in from Heathrow.

*double sigh*

You see where this is going...

You want to fcuk me.

And I don’t blame you.

I’m logical.

I keep it "real".

I have all the (sometimes incorrect) answers.

So I invite you,my psecial reader firends to present me with your drama, your issues, your situations…and I’ll give you one possible outcome from the IF YOU WERE FCUKING WISE perspective (feel my double entendre). You may even do so anonymously if you prefer.

Ladies, I know I don’t have a penis…but I do have balls enough to try to mount you, too. So don’t feel left out. I can go both ways.

Ok, I really didn’t mean it THAT way...whatev.

I’m all ears.