My friend Lucy refers to herself as a “camel.” This term does not denote a hump nor her ability to constantly slobber. This term denotes her ability to maintain satisfaction 
long after the last orgasm has been had. I think I can relate. Though I am almost embarrassed to admit so.
By Lucy’s definition, a camel is a woman who can store up the sex she has had in order to sustain through dry periods. This tendency comes naturally, as Lucy feels more than content with the hookups she had last summer. Though she may be assless now, she feels utterly slutty. Of course, she would like to have a sensual kiss or a quick fingering, but she is not in desperate need for such casual encounters. Happy out of sex, Lucy may just be the epitome of a a young 20-year-old subsisting in a friend culture. Maybe it would be easier if we were all camels. Then those moments of dry dust rather than wet cum wouldn’t hurt our ego. Imagine the projects we could complete if our horny nature could be channeled into creative activities! No Eiffel Tower puzzle would be too difficult and no Soduku competition would be too far-fetched.
But, who am I? Am I platypus, who though may be rare, frightens many with their bizarre looks? Am I a sloth, who is simply too lethargic to even discuss the matter of sex? Am I a Canadian goose, who before a relationship can be established, has already migrated across country? Or am I a hippo….for reasons you can gather? In an effort to save time, let me list those animals I do not resemble in and out of bed. I am not a tree frog. I do not hop from tree to tree without the faintest of breath. I am not a lamb. Men do not flock to me because of my tender curls and timid face. Nor am I a gazelle, with my long legs and long stride to match.
If I had my choice? I would be a peacock of course. Furling in feathers ranging from deep purple to emerald green, by hues outshine the dirty white of my male counterpart. I am not only a guest at the Playboy Mansion, I am a main attraction. My skin and texture has been immortalized on Palace rugs and Hollywood screen legend purses. I transcend animal. I am icon. Ideally.
More likely? I am but a beaver. In order to make the damn strong, I repeat the mistakes of my parents and maintain monogamy to ensure the health of my offspring. Almost atrocious to look at, the only kind I bond with are those of the same persuasion. Gnaw. Gnaw. Gnaw. While swans swim by and majestic storks pass over, my awkward tail and dreaded fur frighten those of a sexier breed. In essence, the Roseanne Barr of the animal kingdom.
3 Comments
I definitely would say though, that I do not consider myself slutty. In being a sexual camel, it means that I prefer to wait until I find a nice glass of water, and do not settle for anything luke-warm. I think what you meant by slutty, was that even through my waiting periods, I still maintain and exude sensuality and don’t lose confidence.
You are a peachick (a baby peacock), not a beaver. You are on your way to becoming an icon, but right now, not many people know your potential. That you will dazzle everyone is not a possibility but an inevitability. Not, I repeat, not the Roseanne Barr of the animal world!
Well said, Delicious Tiramisu, well said.