A silly thing crossed my mind this morning.
So, beards are good, right?* We like beards. While a stubborn few cling to the idea that to be clean shaven is to be neater and more formal, more socially acceptable, the hipster men of our present generation (not to mention all those adventurous non-hipster masses who came before) have reclaimed The Beard that is their birthright, and have embraced the joy of being fancy once more. And most of the women of the world share in their hirsute delight.
There's a thing, though, that I just thought of. Would you agree, that there's a particular stubborn pungency to the smell of cunt juice that clings to one's fingers as it dries? It's tenacious; not unpleasant, but strongly lingering. If not washed off straight away, it tends to hang around through the day, subtle, yet evident.
Perhaps you see where I'm going with this? One of the things we beard-appreciating ladies appreciate is the added sensation of stubble or hair on our tenderest parts when our men go down on us. Yes? That extra tactility (it's a word, I just checked) of a hundred wiry hairs biting just a little into our sensitive, pinkest skin. It's a delicious cruelty that makes us writhe against your face that little bit more.
But oh! How hard the aroma of us must cling to those face-forests thereafter! And how tantalising, disturbing, alarmingly evocative it must be to walk around with a constant reminder of the services you performed earlier wafting into your nose, embued as your beard is with tiny beads of love-cream. It must be difficult to get anything done.
There's something wonderfully animal about it all. N'est-pas?
*I am choosing to ignore that disturbing article doing the rounds about the dubious bacterial load that beards carry, but would implore all beard wearers to wash their hands carefully as often as necessary.
So, beards are good, right?* We like beards. While a stubborn few cling to the idea that to be clean shaven is to be neater and more formal, more socially acceptable, the hipster men of our present generation (not to mention all those adventurous non-hipster masses who came before) have reclaimed The Beard that is their birthright, and have embraced the joy of being fancy once more. And most of the women of the world share in their hirsute delight.
There's a thing, though, that I just thought of. Would you agree, that there's a particular stubborn pungency to the smell of cunt juice that clings to one's fingers as it dries? It's tenacious; not unpleasant, but strongly lingering. If not washed off straight away, it tends to hang around through the day, subtle, yet evident.
Perhaps you see where I'm going with this? One of the things we beard-appreciating ladies appreciate is the added sensation of stubble or hair on our tenderest parts when our men go down on us. Yes? That extra tactility (it's a word, I just checked) of a hundred wiry hairs biting just a little into our sensitive, pinkest skin. It's a delicious cruelty that makes us writhe against your face that little bit more.
But oh! How hard the aroma of us must cling to those face-forests thereafter! And how tantalising, disturbing, alarmingly evocative it must be to walk around with a constant reminder of the services you performed earlier wafting into your nose, embued as your beard is with tiny beads of love-cream. It must be difficult to get anything done.
There's something wonderfully animal about it all. N'est-pas?
I'm sorry, I couldn't resist.
*I am choosing to ignore that disturbing article doing the rounds about the dubious bacterial load that beards carry, but would implore all beard wearers to wash their hands carefully as often as necessary.
