My dears, I have seen some sexy things in my tenure as First RoveHo — a denuded Rovey emerging from a midnight dip in the pudding vat, with moonlight glinting off his butterscotch-slicked hindquarters and amply padded man-teats, demanding to be tongue-dried mama cat/baby kitten fashion…Rovey's Crisco-pale skin swelling like ripe, rising sourdough against the edges of the Special Chair's straps…the tender peach-cleft of his sumptuous hindquarters gently fuzzed with fronds of green pajama flannel nestled in the resident hair during an afternoon nap (now that he waxes from navel on down, it is but a distant, cherished memory to which I cling). But after yesterday's retail romp, I believe I can safely proclaim the A#1 (to date) formula for RoveHo happiness…
IKEA Swedish Meatballs + Sweaty Rovey = One ecstatic RoveHo
The trip commenced as it always does - enjoying a lashing of lingonberries and marinated herring, while Rovey pops down a few dozen of the tasty, gravy slathered Swedish meatballs for which the IKEA cafeteria is famous. I'd rather wanted a plate of my own, but that wily Rovey told me that should I prove a good and obedient RoveHo during this shopping venture, he'd allow me some once we'd passed through the check out. Rovey sealed the deal by allowing me to suckle a small rivulet of gravy from the splattered edge of his polo shirt's collar, and I was then, as per my usual, in the thrall of both Rovey and savory pork products.
We wended our way through the store in the usual fashion - testing out the beds and couches for potential springiness and solidity during our typical carnal frolics (And NO, you cheeky monkeys - we kept our clothes ON! There were kids present, for heck's sake! We used our special NASA-designed StealthFly suits to mask any docking from impressionable eyes.) But the *real* thrill came when we entered the self-service furniture section to acquire the Hümpløgg chair they'd called to tell us was back in stock. We'd already nabbed Klïtsukk and Tüshrimm, so by the time we got to aisle 6C, Rovey was a bit dewy from the effort of schlepping the heavily laden cart. As he squatted down to help me heft the awkward box onto the dolly, he emitted a manly grunt, and a bit of wind, and the sound and scent caused me to look over at my Rovey. Ohhhhh…Rovehos…his khaki Sansabelts strained against his meaty loins…the thin cotton of the undershirt down to which he'd stripped clung sopped and matted to his chest, teasing me with the crisp outline of both pert nipples and each wisp of hair on his chest and back…the musky aroma of Rovey's cascading perspiration mingled with the intoxicating scent of the gravy that had seeped through the fabric and sent me into a lustful frenzy, the likes of which even I had not before known…
Gentle reader, I led him by the waistband, behind a discreetly tall stack of Tüngfelch, and you'd better believe I coerced him into feeding me some of those meatballs.
Skol!