Listen, we've all been there. My first girlfriend from high school was always bringing FOS (french onion soup) around.
At first, it was exciting. The only soup I'd known prior was Campbells chicken noodle, and those Chunky commercials with NFL players and their moms.
We'd tap the top of that cheese layer with a 17th century bone spoon, slurp swapping those wet bread chunks between our gums. We'd guzzle ratatouille broth off each other's bodies, bullion cubes and all. The next day I'd be licking those crock edgings for burnt dried cheese scraps.
But like the most passionate affairs, eventually things settle out. I started to think she liked the soup more than me. I once couldn't satisfy her sexually, after a few too many underage beers, and she gave me an exasperated sigh and abruptly retreated to the bathroom, bowl in hand, to finish what I had started.
I'd see the signs. Random spoons in her purse. Late night phone calls to French boulangeries. Soggy croutons in her pussy. She told me she was aging them for a friend, but I knew better.
The last straw was when she shouted out the wrong name in bed-- "gruyere", she moaned. I knew it was over then and there.
piketpagi on May 10th, 2020 at 02:52 UTC »
Hang in there, Colin.
ObliviousIdiot_ on May 10th, 2020 at 03:29 UTC »
French Onion Soup is a delicacy only to be enjoyed in bed.
dbumba on May 10th, 2020 at 04:38 UTC »
Listen, we've all been there. My first girlfriend from high school was always bringing FOS (french onion soup) around.
At first, it was exciting. The only soup I'd known prior was Campbells chicken noodle, and those Chunky commercials with NFL players and their moms.
We'd tap the top of that cheese layer with a 17th century bone spoon, slurp swapping those wet bread chunks between our gums. We'd guzzle ratatouille broth off each other's bodies, bullion cubes and all. The next day I'd be licking those crock edgings for burnt dried cheese scraps.
But like the most passionate affairs, eventually things settle out. I started to think she liked the soup more than me. I once couldn't satisfy her sexually, after a few too many underage beers, and she gave me an exasperated sigh and abruptly retreated to the bathroom, bowl in hand, to finish what I had started.
I'd see the signs. Random spoons in her purse. Late night phone calls to French boulangeries. Soggy croutons in her pussy. She told me she was aging them for a friend, but I knew better.
The last straw was when she shouted out the wrong name in bed-- "gruyere", she moaned. I knew it was over then and there.