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As you probably already know, I am all about the love. I'm just bursting forth with love, and a love to share that love with all whom I love.
Yesterday, my Papi and I had the blessed chance to enjoy a few rare moments of some sacred alone time in our boudoir. Just the two of us, without any long legged toddlers in our bed kicking us, or fighting us for our pillows. Never one to let a golden opportunity pass by, I provocatively posed for Papi by laying across the bed, a come hither expression upon my face. I strategically placed my hands on my hips, and had my fishy kissy lips all puckered up, and ready for action. Of course, the seductiveness of my glamorous "Geek Squad" T-shirt coupled with the infamous monkey socks of yore, undoubtedly added to the passionate ambiance I was trying to create.
Papi moved closer to me, our fully clothed bodies NOT sweatily writhing around, nor was my voluptuous bosom heaving while he anxiously ripped open my bodice with frenzied fingers. Wait. Okay, I've only read one Harlequin Romance novel in my entire life, but it left a lasting impression on me. Papi did indeed move closer to me though, and then the primal growl started up within me. Yes, I needed to fart. Always one to fully embrace my natural side, but also ever so thoughtful and considerate, I gently leaned over and placed my hands over Papi's ears while I let the monstrous gas rip loudly, echoing throughout our bedroom chamber. I bravely shielded him from the deafening noise, but my generosity didn't stop there, oh no. Once, the awkward moment had passed, I then sweetly pinched my fingers around Papi's nostrils so that he wouldn't have to deal with the flatulence aftermath. Hear No Evil, Smell No Evil, is what I always say.
Obviously, filled with uncontrollable desire for me, Papi weakly said, "Girlie, you sure do know how to set the mood." And the skeptics claim that romance is dead. Pshaw!