I get that you like to holiday down south. You like the way it looks. You like the way it smells. You want to get close to the source of my femininity, the secret of your dearest dreams.
I know you want to please the natives. You want to hear me scream for more, arching into you as I dissolve into multi-orgasmic bliss. That’s really sweet of you.
I don’t mind if you visit. Stay as long as you want. I might read a book while you’re away down there, but that’s ok, isn’t it?
Of course, if the weather is windy, it might be better if you didn’t travel to those jungle-clad climes. Nobody wants to get caught in a tropical hurricane, now do they.
But to me, your soft, wet kisses and puppy-like lappings are of no particular interest. Imagine, if you will, the woman of your dreams expending her most passionate efforts exploring, say, the back of your right knee. Well, that’s how it is for me. I’m sorry. I wish it weren’t so, for your sake – I know how you love that knee – but there it is.
It’s not that I’m frigid, far from it. It’s just that cunnilingus doesn’t do it for me. I don’t want you to cruise down south on a wet raft, singing Caribbean love songs. I want to be rammed by an ocean liner at full speed, or at the very least, a flotilla of Royal Navy corvettes.
But I appreciate the thought.