You boof! You boof!
Flattered on September 20, 2026.
You want the lips and the curves, need the whips and the furs? Well, so do I.
In all my years on doG’s green Earth, I’d never given my penis a name. Until last week. I had named him “Peenee.” It seemed like a good name at the time. It still did—despite my soft, squishy, big little redheaded huzzey-muffet’s tittering laughter when I revealed it to her.
I got mad. I huffed. And puffed.
“You ignominious toad!” I excoriated her. “You bufo! You boof! You bœuf!” I ribbitted furiously. “You big fat beef!” I kept ribbitting. Becasue stopped giggling at me, smiled, and began mooing back instead. I fetched the egg beater, a stick of butter, and pounced on her.
My huzzey-muffet always loved it when I called her names—the more amphibious the better. One of her many quirks. Last night was no different. (Well, except when the egg beater jammed. That was different—and awkward!) This morning was the same. The same surreal grunting and squeaking. And the same loud lowing.
“Of course I am!” Becasue ended the conversation we were having with that.
“Buff horse I am!” I shot back—never one to let her have the last word (or noise), oh no. I was met with a quizzical stare. Then an eye roll. Then she rolled out of bed and sauntered downstairs skyclad. I just ribbitted some more.
You want the lips and the curves, need the whips and the furs? Well, so do I.