I don’t mean to make this public, but you think you know me. You don’t know me, Smoove B. First, you want to sex me wild, but baby, it’s gonna take more than 100% silk sheets from the farthest reaches of China and leopard print tightie whities to do it. You want to cook me succulent lobsters…ahh, smoove. Them shits were frozen packed and I saw you shake off the ice freeze. Then you serve juice, while you know my diabetes don’t allow for such glucose, especially at that hour.
Did you even know I had adult onset diabetes. (Also known as Diabetes II)
I did not think so, Smoove.
As you act like you tend to my needs, while you do indeed hit me doggy-style, have you ever heard of the Clitoris, Smoove? And Keith Sweat…for real? Naw, Smoove. Naw. I am talkin’ Marvin, or D’Angelo, or better yet, Sade. I would hope that your sensitivities would allow for you to imagine putting on the sensual and exotic rhythm of a woman like Sade, but I believe you are a product of this patriarchy as much as I am.
I will say, though, I did very much enjoy the placing of both white and purple grapes into my luscious mouth.
Smoove, the IDEA of riding the caravan of love with you to Atlantis SOUNDS good, but you’re broken down ride is all I envision when you speak of such things. You wish to sting; to smoove me. I wish for you to get a new ride, buy some good CD’s, and learn about MY man in the boat, which is the ONLY thing takin’ us to Atlantis.