How do I love my lady’s anus? Let me count the ways.
Have you seen her? Have you seen my beautiful lady and her anus? Unless you are an ex-boyfriend, her proctologist, or an art student in that class she modeled for, you probably have not have glimpsed the fairest orifice on God’s green Earth. For this, you have my deepest sympathies.
I would put my lady’s anus up against any of the legendary anuses of the past: Helen of Troy, Joan of Arc, Marie Curie, Eleanor Roosevelt. Even Cleopatra, who, according to legend, had a team of eunuchs apply balms and liniments with silken cloths to keep her anus and inner rectum immaculate, could not stand up to my lady. (My lady needs no such fripperies to be beautiful… though I do not hesitate to lavish them on her.) Lovely as Cleopatra’s anus may have been, compared to my lady’s, hers is a pustulent, lesion-ravaged hole.
My lady does not like me to go on and on about her anus, but how can I resist? When I look into that one brown eye, it’s like gazing into a deep, untouched lake. Sometimes, it’s as if I’m gazing through a taut, puckered window into her very soul, placing myself in danger of being hypnotized by the swirls of her rectum. Her anus is like a vessel I can’t seem to fill with enough love, no matter how hard I try. I am not what one would call a holy man, but when I am gently kissing my lady’s fragrant anus, I am convinced that there must be a higher power out there who made this sacred aperture.
As I am very protective of my lady’s anus, few have seen it. Nevertheless, I am fond of waxing rhapsodic on its beauty. This can be difficult, though, for how does one describe the beauty of a Tuscan moon? How does one tell of the glory of the cosmos? Shakespeare would have written sonnets about it. Beethoven would have discarded his “Ode To Joy” in favor of “Ode To My Lady’s Anus.” And Raphael would have tried–and failed–to render its essence in oils. Lo, prodigious as these immortals’ artistic gifts were, my lady’s anus would have proven too elusive a muse for any of them to capture.
Yes, my lady’s anus is a sight to behold. But it is not just a question of looks. For all its aesthetic loveliness, the greatest thing about my lady’s anus is its personality. Sometimes silly, sometimes sad; sometimes dilated, sometimes clenched, it reveals a new wrinkle every time we meet.
Whether I see it reflected in candlelight during a romantic dinner or after it has just awaken from a night’s slumber, my lady’s anus is still as lovely to me as the first time I saw it. My friends say I won’t feel the same way about it when it’s 60. I disagree. It may lose that youthful glow, but this is the kind of anus that will only ripen with age. As further assurance, I once caught a glimpse of my lady’s mother’s anus and, as we all know, the apple does not fall far from the tree.
People say I’m spoiling my lady’s anus by buying imported, hand-woven silk toilet paper. But do you polish a diamond with sandpaper? Do you restore the Mona Lisa with a hammer? My lady’s anus deserves ruby and emerald enemas. Swabs of cotton soaked in the finest champagne. Anything less would be woefully inadequate for an orifice of such sublime beauty.
And don’t even get me started on her perineum.
