12 June 2006
69. A Little Clarification
Black Sheep H3 - 11 June 2006
Some people have hobbies that require them to buy things like paint and brushes. Some people fix up classic cars and have to find spare parts. My pastime forces me to get a tetanus shot and a Hep A vaccine. And after this trail was over, I was glad I had both. This was one of the best Black Sheep trails I’ve done.
That was pretty much what I uttered at trail trial, and I’ve now had enough people ask me about that statement that I guess it wouldn’t hurt to explain myself. So here you go:
WHAT MAKES A HOUND BLURT OUT SUPERLATIVES AS OFTEN AS HYPER-INTELLECTUAL SNOBS BLURT OUT BIG WORDS LIKE "SUPERLATIVE"
--Getting to Experience Something Epic.
Maybe the trail is all underground and you have to fight claustrophobia and a rather unpleasant smell. Or maybe your trail is 6 miles of gorgeous but tough, hilly terrain that makes everyone come in wide-eyed but exhausted. Today’s question is: can you have one piece of geography that turns the trail from good to great? Today’s answer is: Yes. (Get ready for more superlatives.) We went through the toughest patch of swamp I’ve ever been through on a Black Sheep trail, and it eclipsed the pain of the toughest swamps I’ve ever experienced at a Southern Comfort or down in Macon. Put it this way... this swamp nearly broke some people. It started off innocent enough, with some calf-deep muck and the occasional ankle-busting deadfall. But all of a sudden, we made a turn, the forest canopy disappeared and it quickly turned into this slog-fest, where we were all knee-to-thigh-deep in mud, straining to pull our feet out at every step. There was also at least a foot of water on top of all the mud. People were stuck and screaming. Others were losing shoes and screaming. Stopping only meant you sank that much deeper, making it that much more difficult to keep moving. The air temperature didn’t seem overly bad here, but the swamp water was so warm, it made it feel like the Jolly Green Giant had just used the swamp as his personal toilet, and that uncomfortable feeling made us want to get back to solid ground that much faster. But we couldn’t. After fatigue set in, I started looking around for stuff I could grab onto, to help pull me out of the mess every time I needed to take a step. Sometimes I found the rounded stump of a small tree. Other times I found a patch of reeds. But more than half the time there wasn’t anything to grab, so I was forced to curse tall people and keep fighting. Toward the edge of the swamp, there was no water, and it made us think we were finished. But the mud was just as deep, and without water, this was even more psychologically punishing. After we got to the on-in, we estimated this whole area was about 200 yards, which works out to about a tenth of a mile. One little piece of geography that definitely left some mental scars.
--Having to Push Yourself to the Limit.
Some of this has nothing to do with the hares, but with your own energy level and the weather. It was well over 90 degrees during trail, and that can suck the energy right out of you. It was actually as hot as it was two weeks ago, but there was a breeze this time around, so it didn’t feel as bad. Also, I’m still recovering from an injury, and I’m not back to where I need to be physically. So that swamp and those painfully small tunnels absolutely beat me down. Oh yeah, the tunnels. After we got done with the swamp, the hares decided to take us through a series of tunnels under the business park at Beaver Ruin. Colonel Clit and Top Cunt told the hares to bring flashlights, but some didn’t. Other hounds had their batteries give out while down there. The only help they got was from lighted hashers who might have been near them, and the occasional glow stick thoughtfully placed at every intersection. Turn after turn ensued, and at one point, the tunnels got small enough where it was necessary to walk on all fours.
--Getting Way More Good Than Bad.
There were some areas where the marks were really thin, especially right after the tunnels. If it weren’t for us noticing the Slack Sheepers making a beeline for the end, some of us tunnel rats would have been stumped. Also, there were several points where CB’s and a WS and something else we couldn’t figure out was placed over vegetation using flour. They were mostly unreadable. There have been trails where this stuff would have been a death sentence during trail trial, but not one person even mentioned them this time around. Some examples of good vs. bad are more about personal experiences on trail, rather than the overall group experience. Before we got to the swamp, I had seen a couple hounds who let branches swing back and hit the people who were behind them. One of these hounds was especially thoughtless, and at one point, a really thick branch flew back and smacked me right in the nuts. News flash to anyone without testicleeze: if you get hit right, you get the lovely experience of a blinding pain where you double over and try to keep your eyes from watering. About a quarter mile later, I see this thoughtless hound try to jump down into a really dirty creek and make a quick cut to the right at the same time, and they end up slipping and doing a face plant in the water. Ahhh, it’s the little things.
--Getting Sympathy Pains while on Trail.
Yeah, this is probably only me, but there are times when we’re all suffering on trail and I’m actually feeling bad for whoever SCOUTED it. Blazing trails can be tough, especially when you’re in virgin territory, working through really tough spots, or don’t have a map/GPS.
--Having Your Brain Stay Active While Moving.
This is one reason that road turns into road rage. It’s boring. Forest running with some deadfall presents a challenge. Running through an abandoned house is entertaining. And you can’t turn off your brain while running through creeks. I actually used part of my half-mind on this trail trying to figure out how the two hares split the flour duties. A trail that turns into a constant mental assault leads to happiness. Huh, I said doody.
And finally...
--Having the Boys get Wet.
If I was female, it would be “Getting the Beaver Wet,” although if I was female, I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t want that to happen. Yes, I actually know how many times in a row that Slim Jim and the Twins get submerged. Prior to this hash, I went four trails without that happening. Trails usually don’t get a positive superlative if the boys aren’t moistened. In case you think I’m being heartless, this means around 70% of my OWN trails would be automatically disqualified.
This has been an opinion piece from a hash retard. So don’t bother wasting precious beer-drinking energy trying to disagree. These are my personal guidelines, and I suck anyway.
May the Hash Get a Piece
Some people have hobbies that require them to buy things like paint and brushes. Some people fix up classic cars and have to find spare parts. My pastime forces me to get a tetanus shot and a Hep A vaccine. And after this trail was over, I was glad I had both. This was one of the best Black Sheep trails I’ve done.
That was pretty much what I uttered at trail trial, and I’ve now had enough people ask me about that statement that I guess it wouldn’t hurt to explain myself. So here you go:
WHAT MAKES A HOUND BLURT OUT SUPERLATIVES AS OFTEN AS HYPER-INTELLECTUAL SNOBS BLURT OUT BIG WORDS LIKE "SUPERLATIVE"
--Getting to Experience Something Epic.
Maybe the trail is all underground and you have to fight claustrophobia and a rather unpleasant smell. Or maybe your trail is 6 miles of gorgeous but tough, hilly terrain that makes everyone come in wide-eyed but exhausted. Today’s question is: can you have one piece of geography that turns the trail from good to great? Today’s answer is: Yes. (Get ready for more superlatives.) We went through the toughest patch of swamp I’ve ever been through on a Black Sheep trail, and it eclipsed the pain of the toughest swamps I’ve ever experienced at a Southern Comfort or down in Macon. Put it this way... this swamp nearly broke some people. It started off innocent enough, with some calf-deep muck and the occasional ankle-busting deadfall. But all of a sudden, we made a turn, the forest canopy disappeared and it quickly turned into this slog-fest, where we were all knee-to-thigh-deep in mud, straining to pull our feet out at every step. There was also at least a foot of water on top of all the mud. People were stuck and screaming. Others were losing shoes and screaming. Stopping only meant you sank that much deeper, making it that much more difficult to keep moving. The air temperature didn’t seem overly bad here, but the swamp water was so warm, it made it feel like the Jolly Green Giant had just used the swamp as his personal toilet, and that uncomfortable feeling made us want to get back to solid ground that much faster. But we couldn’t. After fatigue set in, I started looking around for stuff I could grab onto, to help pull me out of the mess every time I needed to take a step. Sometimes I found the rounded stump of a small tree. Other times I found a patch of reeds. But more than half the time there wasn’t anything to grab, so I was forced to curse tall people and keep fighting. Toward the edge of the swamp, there was no water, and it made us think we were finished. But the mud was just as deep, and without water, this was even more psychologically punishing. After we got to the on-in, we estimated this whole area was about 200 yards, which works out to about a tenth of a mile. One little piece of geography that definitely left some mental scars.
--Having to Push Yourself to the Limit.
Some of this has nothing to do with the hares, but with your own energy level and the weather. It was well over 90 degrees during trail, and that can suck the energy right out of you. It was actually as hot as it was two weeks ago, but there was a breeze this time around, so it didn’t feel as bad. Also, I’m still recovering from an injury, and I’m not back to where I need to be physically. So that swamp and those painfully small tunnels absolutely beat me down. Oh yeah, the tunnels. After we got done with the swamp, the hares decided to take us through a series of tunnels under the business park at Beaver Ruin. Colonel Clit and Top Cunt told the hares to bring flashlights, but some didn’t. Other hounds had their batteries give out while down there. The only help they got was from lighted hashers who might have been near them, and the occasional glow stick thoughtfully placed at every intersection. Turn after turn ensued, and at one point, the tunnels got small enough where it was necessary to walk on all fours.
--Getting Way More Good Than Bad.
There were some areas where the marks were really thin, especially right after the tunnels. If it weren’t for us noticing the Slack Sheepers making a beeline for the end, some of us tunnel rats would have been stumped. Also, there were several points where CB’s and a WS and something else we couldn’t figure out was placed over vegetation using flour. They were mostly unreadable. There have been trails where this stuff would have been a death sentence during trail trial, but not one person even mentioned them this time around. Some examples of good vs. bad are more about personal experiences on trail, rather than the overall group experience. Before we got to the swamp, I had seen a couple hounds who let branches swing back and hit the people who were behind them. One of these hounds was especially thoughtless, and at one point, a really thick branch flew back and smacked me right in the nuts. News flash to anyone without testicleeze: if you get hit right, you get the lovely experience of a blinding pain where you double over and try to keep your eyes from watering. About a quarter mile later, I see this thoughtless hound try to jump down into a really dirty creek and make a quick cut to the right at the same time, and they end up slipping and doing a face plant in the water. Ahhh, it’s the little things.
--Getting Sympathy Pains while on Trail.
Yeah, this is probably only me, but there are times when we’re all suffering on trail and I’m actually feeling bad for whoever SCOUTED it. Blazing trails can be tough, especially when you’re in virgin territory, working through really tough spots, or don’t have a map/GPS.
--Having Your Brain Stay Active While Moving.
This is one reason that road turns into road rage. It’s boring. Forest running with some deadfall presents a challenge. Running through an abandoned house is entertaining. And you can’t turn off your brain while running through creeks. I actually used part of my half-mind on this trail trying to figure out how the two hares split the flour duties. A trail that turns into a constant mental assault leads to happiness. Huh, I said doody.
And finally...
--Having the Boys get Wet.
If I was female, it would be “Getting the Beaver Wet,” although if I was female, I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t want that to happen. Yes, I actually know how many times in a row that Slim Jim and the Twins get submerged. Prior to this hash, I went four trails without that happening. Trails usually don’t get a positive superlative if the boys aren’t moistened. In case you think I’m being heartless, this means around 70% of my OWN trails would be automatically disqualified.
This has been an opinion piece from a hash retard. So don’t bother wasting precious beer-drinking energy trying to disagree. These are my personal guidelines, and I suck anyway.
May the Hash Get a Piece
# posted by L&F @ 11:38 PM 
01 June 2006
68. Hedonistic Easements
Black Sheep H3 - 28 May 2006
Wow, it was hot. Oppressive hot. The only consolation we had was that the humidity could have been a little higher. This was Hedon weekend, so as usual, the start was close to Camp. And as usual for a Memorial Day weekend, Hired Snatch stepped up to the plate for the haring duties. The spawn of his seed, Big Squatch, was having the birthday thing that people generally have every year. And since we saw him at the start with flour and that look of heightened anticipation, we immediately knew how he wanted to celebrate the milestone: co-haring and getting briar slashes up and down his legs. So this is how the Second Anal Big Snatch Run came about.
The start was a dirt lot off Tingle Lane, and yeah, the tingle came from the blinding heat streaming down from above and radiating up from the dirt at our feet. I think I counted eight brave wanks who came from Camp. Hey look, a visitor. Ganja Man (from Jamaica, then Britain, then Ventura H3 in SoCal) took leave of Hedon briefly to join us, despite the punishment he endured at trail the day before. Oops was another camper, but Deposit Slit was notably absent. Apparently too much drinky-drinky. By the time Sani showed up, I had been standing out in the sun long enough to not even notice that Bunny had not cum down with her. And I shit you not, when Bwana blessed the hares, I was so heat-befuddled that it barely even registered that Bunny wasn’t doing the blessing. This is what my brain was telling me: “Fuck it’s hot… Hey, Bunny’s not… FUCK it’s hot!” Here’s something else that crossed my mind as Bwana wrapped up: “Fuck it’s hot… Hey, O&5 is co-hari… FUCK it’s HOT!”
Back at camp:
A drunk hasher stripped off all their clothes and joined other drunk hashers in a game of naked volleyball. Some drunk hasher sitting among of group of other drunk hashers took a drink in front of them, and everyone else in the group saw it and subconsciously took a drink immediately afterward. Some drunk hasher was having sex with another drunk hasher in a tent.
I think there were about 20 hounds watching the hares disappear into the distance. And this act took a while. My Ampersand Brother took the easterly route up Tingle Lane toward the I-85 off-ramp, while Big Squatch took the westerly route, across the length of the lot, up a kudzu hill and toward the far side of a distant building. As for Hired, he decided he had enough excitement for the day and let his son take over as the main hare. Translation: Hired would be transporting himself to the end via vehicle. He was already bloody, so we figured he had earned his keep. A few minutes later, we finally found someone who had been timing the countdown (Gentri I think) and we were off soon after.
In short, there was some forest running, some power cut running, some easement running and some fire lane running. Yuron had a new puppy with him and bailed out right before we hit a very-welcome beer stop at about the halfway point. We hit a big, floury “BN” not too long afterward, and followed flour a couple tenths of a mile down a fire lane to our destination. We were all dripping wet, even though we never found water on trail. The Quote of the Day was uttered here, by a steamy Hot Lips: “I’ve been sticky before, but never THIS sticky.” Hey, you find entertainment where you can.
Back at camp:
Another keg blew. A gentle breeze blew next to the camp kitchen, providing some relief to the humid hashers sitting on the wooden bridge. Someone blew someone.
The end was the intersextion of the fire lane and a power cut, in a shaded area not too far from a sewer cap, which we only noticed when the breeze shifted. The first thing we saw when we got in was that 2 Crabs Fucking was turning into 2 Crabs Leaving. Already in his truck, he said something about the man who owned the property calling the cops on SoCo’ers the last time he ended here. Sani had just gone back to the start without knowing this, and at some point while she was away, she got the same message. Shit, we were going to have to leave. At this point, a general malaise set in. Yes, I said malaise; an aura of uncertainty that turned our delicious beers just slightly bitter; a nervous anticipation that kept us from that pleasant/settled feeling you get when you know you’re done moving and exerting any more mental energy. This is when EverQueer used his half-mind to remember back to that fateful night at SoCo, when the crazy homeowner accused the pack of doing drugs and other morally questionable things. Cops were called and a shitty time was had by all. But he also remembered that the homeowner had said something about asking permission next time. So that’s exactly what EverQueer did. He and Big Squatch drove to the guy’s house, got his permission, and they even cleared up that little drug issue. They got back, Sani returned and there was much joy and sat-iss-faction. We mourned the temporary loss of 2 Crabs, someone temporarily renamed him 2 Crabs Freaking (and 2 Crabs Fleeing) and we got back to drinking delicious beer and finding thirsty ticks all over ourselves.
Of note: Holy shit, 0&5 got bloody. Hey Pussy Pilot, he broke your record for the most blood I’ve ever seen on someone after a hash. And your record has held for almost four years now (sorry Foreign Lesion… I didn’t see you on your trip to the hospital a while back). It wasn’t exactly the volume of blood that was so impressive, but the perfectly even distribution of red across every exposed surface. On that note, I’ll take this time to apologize to everyone who came but didn’t get a mention today. Next time, please do something horrifically embarrassing or pathetically cute at some point during the afternoon so I can proudly proclaim your insanity.
Back at camp:
Someone woke up from a nap in their tent, leaned over to grab their half-full mug, drained the warm golden contents and shuffled to the keg trailer for a refill. Someone at the Tiki Bar laughed at someone else who had puked the previous night. Two harriettes got a group of guys totally horny when they mashed their boobs together and started moaning. Someone even got wood. So did someone else.
There were puns flying around in circle, so we started naming people after Barf Bag. Example: Barf with an Attitude. During trail trial, our out-of-towner Ganja Man decided he liked the quick journey to the beer, and he was especially happy that he found plenty of Newcastle in the cooler. The compliments led to applause and happiness. We swung low courtesy of Hired, combed the area for any trash so the landowner wouldn’t get upset, and we were off. It was sometime later that Boner Rooter realized she didn’t have her ultra-super-special PowerPuff Girl water bottle with her. And because we had picked the area clean of anything other than ants, ticks and grass, she knew there was a thief in our midst.
Back at camp:
Music collector and Hedon DJ Asshole realized a thief was there as well. His IPod, a borrowed IPod and an IPod charger all disappeared in the overnight hours, leading to much irritation and the gigantic question of how he was going to replace $800 worth of stuff.
For those of you who saw Davey and I back at the start, an explanation might be in order, especially considering some of the looks we got. We had decided we needed to make an appearance at Hedon, and thought streaking would be appropriate. So I took my morbidly dirty Trash bib and tied it around my waist. You know, so the bib covered up my Skin Whistle and Oysters. Then Davey tried tying one of those microfiber sunglass bags around his junk and decided his full package was too large to fit inside. So he put it only around his schlong and pulled the string on the sunglass bag really tight so it gripped as much as possible. Once we were happy with the placement of our coverage, we were off.
Back at camp:
Two loyal Black Sheepers streaked around the entire Hedon property with their makeshift loincloths. It probably wasn’t the brightest idea considering how hot it was and how instantly sweaty they got, but it was generally acknowledged that the two scantily clad hounds were very proud to represent their hash in such a revealing way.
Join us next time, when a Clit named Colonel gives us his version of a shiggy orgasm.
Until June 11th UFF’s
May the Hash Get a Piece
Wow, it was hot. Oppressive hot. The only consolation we had was that the humidity could have been a little higher. This was Hedon weekend, so as usual, the start was close to Camp. And as usual for a Memorial Day weekend, Hired Snatch stepped up to the plate for the haring duties. The spawn of his seed, Big Squatch, was having the birthday thing that people generally have every year. And since we saw him at the start with flour and that look of heightened anticipation, we immediately knew how he wanted to celebrate the milestone: co-haring and getting briar slashes up and down his legs. So this is how the Second Anal Big Snatch Run came about.
The start was a dirt lot off Tingle Lane, and yeah, the tingle came from the blinding heat streaming down from above and radiating up from the dirt at our feet. I think I counted eight brave wanks who came from Camp. Hey look, a visitor. Ganja Man (from Jamaica, then Britain, then Ventura H3 in SoCal) took leave of Hedon briefly to join us, despite the punishment he endured at trail the day before. Oops was another camper, but Deposit Slit was notably absent. Apparently too much drinky-drinky. By the time Sani showed up, I had been standing out in the sun long enough to not even notice that Bunny had not cum down with her. And I shit you not, when Bwana blessed the hares, I was so heat-befuddled that it barely even registered that Bunny wasn’t doing the blessing. This is what my brain was telling me: “Fuck it’s hot… Hey, Bunny’s not… FUCK it’s hot!” Here’s something else that crossed my mind as Bwana wrapped up: “Fuck it’s hot… Hey, O&5 is co-hari… FUCK it’s HOT!”
Back at camp:
A drunk hasher stripped off all their clothes and joined other drunk hashers in a game of naked volleyball. Some drunk hasher sitting among of group of other drunk hashers took a drink in front of them, and everyone else in the group saw it and subconsciously took a drink immediately afterward. Some drunk hasher was having sex with another drunk hasher in a tent.
I think there were about 20 hounds watching the hares disappear into the distance. And this act took a while. My Ampersand Brother took the easterly route up Tingle Lane toward the I-85 off-ramp, while Big Squatch took the westerly route, across the length of the lot, up a kudzu hill and toward the far side of a distant building. As for Hired, he decided he had enough excitement for the day and let his son take over as the main hare. Translation: Hired would be transporting himself to the end via vehicle. He was already bloody, so we figured he had earned his keep. A few minutes later, we finally found someone who had been timing the countdown (Gentri I think) and we were off soon after.
In short, there was some forest running, some power cut running, some easement running and some fire lane running. Yuron had a new puppy with him and bailed out right before we hit a very-welcome beer stop at about the halfway point. We hit a big, floury “BN” not too long afterward, and followed flour a couple tenths of a mile down a fire lane to our destination. We were all dripping wet, even though we never found water on trail. The Quote of the Day was uttered here, by a steamy Hot Lips: “I’ve been sticky before, but never THIS sticky.” Hey, you find entertainment where you can.
Back at camp:
Another keg blew. A gentle breeze blew next to the camp kitchen, providing some relief to the humid hashers sitting on the wooden bridge. Someone blew someone.
The end was the intersextion of the fire lane and a power cut, in a shaded area not too far from a sewer cap, which we only noticed when the breeze shifted. The first thing we saw when we got in was that 2 Crabs Fucking was turning into 2 Crabs Leaving. Already in his truck, he said something about the man who owned the property calling the cops on SoCo’ers the last time he ended here. Sani had just gone back to the start without knowing this, and at some point while she was away, she got the same message. Shit, we were going to have to leave. At this point, a general malaise set in. Yes, I said malaise; an aura of uncertainty that turned our delicious beers just slightly bitter; a nervous anticipation that kept us from that pleasant/settled feeling you get when you know you’re done moving and exerting any more mental energy. This is when EverQueer used his half-mind to remember back to that fateful night at SoCo, when the crazy homeowner accused the pack of doing drugs and other morally questionable things. Cops were called and a shitty time was had by all. But he also remembered that the homeowner had said something about asking permission next time. So that’s exactly what EverQueer did. He and Big Squatch drove to the guy’s house, got his permission, and they even cleared up that little drug issue. They got back, Sani returned and there was much joy and sat-iss-faction. We mourned the temporary loss of 2 Crabs, someone temporarily renamed him 2 Crabs Freaking (and 2 Crabs Fleeing) and we got back to drinking delicious beer and finding thirsty ticks all over ourselves.
Of note: Holy shit, 0&5 got bloody. Hey Pussy Pilot, he broke your record for the most blood I’ve ever seen on someone after a hash. And your record has held for almost four years now (sorry Foreign Lesion… I didn’t see you on your trip to the hospital a while back). It wasn’t exactly the volume of blood that was so impressive, but the perfectly even distribution of red across every exposed surface. On that note, I’ll take this time to apologize to everyone who came but didn’t get a mention today. Next time, please do something horrifically embarrassing or pathetically cute at some point during the afternoon so I can proudly proclaim your insanity.
Back at camp:
Someone woke up from a nap in their tent, leaned over to grab their half-full mug, drained the warm golden contents and shuffled to the keg trailer for a refill. Someone at the Tiki Bar laughed at someone else who had puked the previous night. Two harriettes got a group of guys totally horny when they mashed their boobs together and started moaning. Someone even got wood. So did someone else.
There were puns flying around in circle, so we started naming people after Barf Bag. Example: Barf with an Attitude. During trail trial, our out-of-towner Ganja Man decided he liked the quick journey to the beer, and he was especially happy that he found plenty of Newcastle in the cooler. The compliments led to applause and happiness. We swung low courtesy of Hired, combed the area for any trash so the landowner wouldn’t get upset, and we were off. It was sometime later that Boner Rooter realized she didn’t have her ultra-super-special PowerPuff Girl water bottle with her. And because we had picked the area clean of anything other than ants, ticks and grass, she knew there was a thief in our midst.
Back at camp:
Music collector and Hedon DJ Asshole realized a thief was there as well. His IPod, a borrowed IPod and an IPod charger all disappeared in the overnight hours, leading to much irritation and the gigantic question of how he was going to replace $800 worth of stuff.
For those of you who saw Davey and I back at the start, an explanation might be in order, especially considering some of the looks we got. We had decided we needed to make an appearance at Hedon, and thought streaking would be appropriate. So I took my morbidly dirty Trash bib and tied it around my waist. You know, so the bib covered up my Skin Whistle and Oysters. Then Davey tried tying one of those microfiber sunglass bags around his junk and decided his full package was too large to fit inside. So he put it only around his schlong and pulled the string on the sunglass bag really tight so it gripped as much as possible. Once we were happy with the placement of our coverage, we were off.
Back at camp:
Two loyal Black Sheepers streaked around the entire Hedon property with their makeshift loincloths. It probably wasn’t the brightest idea considering how hot it was and how instantly sweaty they got, but it was generally acknowledged that the two scantily clad hounds were very proud to represent their hash in such a revealing way.
Join us next time, when a Clit named Colonel gives us his version of a shiggy orgasm.
Until June 11th UFF’s
May the Hash Get a Piece
# posted by L&F @ 8:40 PM
