An open love letter to a beautiful woman
Dear Georgia Southern Girl,
I love you.
I had to get that off my chest before it crushed me like the big romantic softy that I am. These past few days after we met on spring Break in Panama City Beach have been filled with long moments in class daydreaming about your gorgeous face. I don't really remember exactly what you looked like, but if I picture a beer funnel, I think I remember that you had blond-ish hair down to somewhere around your shoulders.
I want to tell you that I have never been so utterly drunk on infatuation for a girl before. Repeating your name over and over in my head gets me tipsy. Trying to remember your gentle caress makes me see double. The fact that you did not wear panties when I met you makes me slur my speech and begin to speak very loudly.
Georgia Southern Girl, you are my beacon. You are my lighthouse in a massive storm of Natty Light. If I am to find myself adrift on a frothy sea of pale, yellow, ice-distilled, American-style lager, I merely shout your name to the heavens and I am rescued. My sloppy songstress. My Georgia Southern Girl.
Simply writing my feelings for you is making it difficult to concentrate. Brief glimpses of what may well have been your face dance across my mind. Your shrill voice, out-yelling an entire rugby team, makes my eardrums purr.
Mere brief memories remain of our blissful time together. I remember going to kiss you, delicately, and pressing my lips up against your tongue, which was completely outside of your mouth. I remember the sweet nothings we whispered to each other in the dark. I remember you, in a moment of unbridled and glorious passion, revealing your true to self to me and only me by insisting that before we made love, I fuck your mouth.
Georgia Southern Girl. I was so intoxicated by lust's first tinge that I forgot your name. When you broke away from me on the dance floor at the club, cleared a pathway and sprinted back toward me, jumping up onto me and riding my hips like I was the most virile bull in the rodeo, I knew we shared something that went beyond words. Beyond names. When you asked me what position I played, then asked if I could catch before jumping up onto my hips, wrapping your legs around me and riding me again in the middle of the club, I felt it. Yes. It. When you pulled the same routine three more times, I felt the most basic animal regions of my brain melt down in the presence of such a fine lady.
I am weeping as I write this because I know I will no longer know your embrace, no longer know what it feels like to experience one of nature's most sublime intimacies when you wrapped your mouth around both of my testicles. I will surely never again appreciate your subtle sense of humor and timing, when, after we did a line of coke of each others' bodies, you asked if I wanted to funnel a beer.
Georgia Southern Girl, this is my love letter to you.
I love you.
I had to get that off my chest before it crushed me like the big romantic softy that I am. These past few days after we met on spring Break in Panama City Beach have been filled with long moments in class daydreaming about your gorgeous face. I don't really remember exactly what you looked like, but if I picture a beer funnel, I think I remember that you had blond-ish hair down to somewhere around your shoulders.
I want to tell you that I have never been so utterly drunk on infatuation for a girl before. Repeating your name over and over in my head gets me tipsy. Trying to remember your gentle caress makes me see double. The fact that you did not wear panties when I met you makes me slur my speech and begin to speak very loudly.
Georgia Southern Girl, you are my beacon. You are my lighthouse in a massive storm of Natty Light. If I am to find myself adrift on a frothy sea of pale, yellow, ice-distilled, American-style lager, I merely shout your name to the heavens and I am rescued. My sloppy songstress. My Georgia Southern Girl.
Simply writing my feelings for you is making it difficult to concentrate. Brief glimpses of what may well have been your face dance across my mind. Your shrill voice, out-yelling an entire rugby team, makes my eardrums purr.
Mere brief memories remain of our blissful time together. I remember going to kiss you, delicately, and pressing my lips up against your tongue, which was completely outside of your mouth. I remember the sweet nothings we whispered to each other in the dark. I remember you, in a moment of unbridled and glorious passion, revealing your true to self to me and only me by insisting that before we made love, I fuck your mouth.
Georgia Southern Girl. I was so intoxicated by lust's first tinge that I forgot your name. When you broke away from me on the dance floor at the club, cleared a pathway and sprinted back toward me, jumping up onto me and riding my hips like I was the most virile bull in the rodeo, I knew we shared something that went beyond words. Beyond names. When you asked me what position I played, then asked if I could catch before jumping up onto my hips, wrapping your legs around me and riding me again in the middle of the club, I felt it. Yes. It. When you pulled the same routine three more times, I felt the most basic animal regions of my brain melt down in the presence of such a fine lady.
I am weeping as I write this because I know I will no longer know your embrace, no longer know what it feels like to experience one of nature's most sublime intimacies when you wrapped your mouth around both of my testicles. I will surely never again appreciate your subtle sense of humor and timing, when, after we did a line of coke of each others' bodies, you asked if I wanted to funnel a beer.
Georgia Southern Girl, this is my love letter to you.