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Take last Sunday, for instance, when I casually struck up a conversation with this guy in the health-club locker room. Nothing fruity, just a couple of fellas talking about their workout routines while enjoying a nice hot shower. The guy looked like a real man's man, too—big biceps, meaty thighs, thick neck. He didn't seem the least bit gay. At least not until he started sucking my ♥♥♥♥, that is.
Where does this queer get the nerve to suck my ♥♥♥♥? Did I look gay to him? Was I wearing a pink feather boa without realizing it? I don't recall the phrase, "Suck my ♥♥♥♥" entering the conversation, and I don't have a sign around my neck that reads, "Please, You Homosexuals, Suck My ♥♥♥♥
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YOU HAVE JUST BEEN ♥♥♥♥♥ SLAPPED!!!!! YOU ARE NOW
OFFICIALLY MY ♥♥♥♥♥
YOU ARE NOW PLAYING THE ♥♥♥♥♥ SLAPPING GAME
RULES: REPOST THIS AND GET
YOUR OWN ♥♥♥♥♥♥♥ BEFORE
THEY ARE ALL TAKEN BY
ME! YOU CAN’T SLAP ME BACK, I’M YO ♥♥♥♥♥ MASTER NOW
GOOD LUCK MY ♥♥♥♥♥!!