Three years and one night ago I was drunk and incoherent, and you were horny and opportunistic.
You asked me if you could finger my asshole, and I refused (like I always did). But this time your logic and reason had persuaded me. Mainly, it irked me that you labeled my rebuttal as heteronormative and obvious, even though it was, and out of spite I allowed the baptism to take place–but there would be stipulations to the ceremonial rite of passage:
Condition #1: Only a pinky would be used.
Condition #2: ONE knuckle at a time.
Condition #3: After each aforementioned knuckle you would ask for consent to proceed to the next.
Condition #4: Lubrication!
You agreed with devilish glee.
Upon insertion of the first pinky, it became clear to me that the bottleneck would impede and eventually terminate your efforts.
My love for you was one-knuckle-deep.
I think of you often, and I sometimes wonder if you're happy with your current three-knuckled-deep compliant lover. You must be. You have a new puppy together, and you're master to them both. What more could a woman ask for?