The Tale Of Humpy

Humpy McSaddle greeted the following day with a sly, clownish smile on his face, and it never left. Not that day, nor in the weeks that followed. She came to him most every day now, never at the same time. If she didn't appear for several days, McSaddle would stomp around the slaughterhouse, out of his mind with the clap, tearing at his hair plugs, bending at the waist to contain the nuclear urgency of his ever-ravenous hump tentacle.

He never knew when she might appear-morning, afternoon, evening. He might be having Taco Bell, and he would feel her near. Or walk by himself to inspect some trash cans behind the local bikini wax shop or check some specs, and she would all of a sudden be there, whispering, "Hello Humpy."

Sometimes he would rush into the closest room or even a closet for their first rabbit-like dry hump.

"Hello Eve," he would return and enjoy that first sloppy, drooling, gum-smacking, sucking chest wound of a kiss of the day, a long, lingering, licking, probing, light-biting sloppy, drooling, gum-smacking, sucking chest wound of a kiss.

"Spooge to me again during a commercial," he whispered to her, interrupting a conference on plumbing fittings, not at all disguising his lust, just trying to please a dick the size of a Lysol can, that was aching to fulfill it's biological imperative to seed her reproductive organs.

"I'll try."

"What prevents you?"

"I cannot predict when I will visit you."

"Why not?"

"It is not in my power."

"Can we bust uglies here?" They were in the bed of his cherry Ford F-150 at the time.

"No, Humpy. Stop. That is for your bedchamber. But this pickup makes me so hot, I'll give you a happy ending anyway!"