The day was gloomy and rainy, in other words, the perfect day to stay in bed and that was my sole plan for Winter and me.  To lie together and get better acquainted. Looking into her dark eyes as we snuggled beneath heavy blankets, I asked, "What do you want to know about me?"

She mulled it over and finally responded with "Tell me about your last girlfriend.  Like how long it lasted, why you broke up... you know, the good stuff!"

Oh Hell, she came out swinging, and I wondered why I ever imagined this was a good idea. I was hoping for something like "Favorite Hostess snack cake?" "But honesty is the best policy," words never said by a male the history of time, so I began my sad tale.  "Her name was Zoey, and it lasted two tumultuous years."

"Now, why did it end?" She continued the interrogation, rubbing her hands together in joyful anticipation. 

Slipping into my patented delaying tactic, I hopped out of bed to make our brunch, a Spam and sausage gravy Hot Pocket.  Returning to her, she glanced first at the steaming entree then at me and in her cheesiest  British accent bellowed, "But I don't like Spam (knowing all too well that any Python reference reduced me to Silly Putty in her hands.) Then for the next thirty minutes, we discussed how a Hot Pocket could be scalding hot on each end but yet be as frozen as Trump's heart in the center.  We reached no viable explanation.

"So...why did it end?" She continued. (Damn this vixen's memory!) 

Searching through a drawer, I removed a handful of papers and sat beside my diminutive brunette.  "It's very difficult for me to talk about," as I handed her a typed piece of paper.

Reading to herself, she said, "It was a dark and Stormy night...I don't understand."

"Oh, sorry, wrong paper. That is something Snoopy sent me for editing. Leaning to kiss her forehead, I continued: "Zoey committed suicide, and it took me a long time to get past the feeling that I was, in some way, responsible.

Winter embraced me sweetly, sobbing softly and said in a loving voice, "I'm sure it wasn't your fault, babe."

"Not my fault?" I repeated incredulously. "In her suicide note, she wrote I was solely responsible...see for yourself. She even underlined my name three times!"

Then handing her another sheet, this one laminated for some fucked up reason, Winter gazed at it, looking confused. Finally, she said in an ashamed tone, " Look, just because I graduated from Stanford,  doesn't mean I can read cursive!"

Thinking for sure I heard that incorrectly, I  repeated "Stanford?" (I was curious if there was a Stanford Community College hidden away in Arkansas I was unfamiliar with.)  
   
She nodded and explained she majored in philosophy. Philosophy? At least I now know why she didn't have a job!

Shaking my head in bewilderment, smiling, " So you're my little Socrates?"

Her reply: " Isn't that pronounced So Crates?" in a most excellent Bill and Ted reference that filled my heart with joy and I began to contemplate buying her an engagement ring (if I can get to the Dollar Tree before it closes).  

Of course, the only proper reply to Bill and Ted is "Wayne's World" so peering deeply into her eyes, I whispered proudly, "She will be mine" repeatedly.  All this romantic, sweet talk was inspiring, so I dove in next to her, squeezing like a python that hasn't fed in weeks

But she spurned my advances while inquiring "Guess what I found in your dresser this morning?" (My face flushed since I knew almost any answer could be either very embarrassing or incriminating.) From beneath the bed, she withdrew my faithful, trusty, strappy, with more buckles and straps than goth jeans at Hot Topics. My face turning crimson until I noticed her lust-filled eyes.

"Hey! Wasn't that drawer padlocked?"

She held up a bent paper clip, grinned mischievously and asked: "What would McGuyver do?"   She then offered the toy to me, instructing me to put it on. (I really had no choice, being the perfect hostess)  

It has been a while, so I read the owner's manual for helpful hints, then after hooking up a series of levers and pulleys I was ready to go as I eased myself on top of her, using the toy as a divining rod to search for her wetness.  "Let me turn over," she told me before flipping onto her hands and knees, fully exposed and looking very philosophical.

Caressing each butt cheek, I said, "As you wish, Buttercup."  While bringing the rubber tip to her wrinkled, brown hole, I whispered, "Rosebud," the most perverse homage to "Citizen Kane" ever uttered.

As she felt the toy at her anus, she glanced over her shoulder at me and replied "inconceivable," continuing our "Princess Bride" tribute but also informing me of what wasn't going to happen today. 

"Denied," I groaned but staying in Wayne's World character. Undeterred, I deftly guided the fake phallus slowly inside her gushing pussy until fully hidden within like the prize hidden in Cracker Jack's. Our bodies began moving in unison, our skin slapping together and those delightful, squishy sounds providing our soundtrack.  The bed was creaking and popping like my knees after I've sat five seconds. Now donning a cowboy hat and placing a lasso around her neck (she looking like David Carradine hanging from a hotel closet, sans penis, thankfully)  I began slamming into her with wild abandon,  feeling like John Travolta riding a mechanical bull in "Urban Cowboy," without the Scientology gibberish. 

As Winter's voice reached a crescendo, I began spanking each cheek with both hands like playing the bongos. I even stopped once to sing "Babaloo," however, my Ricky Ricardo impression failed to impress as she turned and pleaded "Must go faster!" Now I can handle a lot in bed but hearing my girlfriend impersonate Jeff Goldblum is not one that works for me. But, still, all in all, a day well spent even if the family below kept rudely banging on their ceiling,  telling me my bathtub was overflowing into their apartment. 

"It's not the tub, idiots! My girlfriend is a squirter" I yelled proudly. That seemed to work as they went quiet, probably trying to explain this phenomenon to the aging grandmother who lives with them.

Then, without warning, Winter knelt beside me,  unhinging her jaws like a boa constrictor and took every inch of the toy into her mouth, barely pausing to gag.  Accomplishing all this while I was on the phone, checking Dollar Tree's hours of operation.  But when she informed me next time, she was wearing the strappy, I decided to splurge and began calling pawn shops, or any arcade that might have a claw machine.   Either way, she will be mine. Oh yes, she will be mine!