A little while ago, I had a conversation with my good friend about the difficulty of writing love scenes. I said that word selection was tough, because the choice was often between the overly clinical or the overly juvenile. She said, “Well, luckily you can just make up your own words.”
I responded, “You fool, you have no idea what you’ve done, giving me a crazy idea like that.”
And so I present a passionate love scene, populated with nouns and verbs (and a few adjectives) of my creation. I apologize in advance.
Please, read no further unless you have a filthy mind and a twisted sense of humor.
Oh my god, I can’t believe I’m actually posting this.
Unbridled Florp—a tale of farungulous passion
By Mathieu LeKincade (a cleverly chosen nom de plume)
“I think we’re finally alone,” said Sarah, as she lustily eyed John, lustily.
“Thank god,” replied John, as he slid his hand around her waist. “Your billy-bobblers look so fibular in that dress; I’ve been staring at them all evening. I could hardly control myself.”
Sara grinned. “I noticed. I’ve been waiting all night for you to rip off my bobble-bowls and throbulate my bojibblers.”
“I love it when you talk dirty like that.” He kissed her roughly on her jillyflapper, while one hand slid up to dooble her fillybilly.
“Oh yeah,” she moaned, “You’re making my tipple-toppers so erongulous”
His hands pulled down the zipper of her dress and the sheer fabric fell away, revealing turbish wangdabblers, fully friggled. She reached down and grabbed his thraffling dinklywobbler.
John buried his face in her cannon canyon. “Mmm, just like that,” she said, “spungle my frungles.”
Unable to control herself, Sarah fell to her knees and unbuckled John’s belt, then pulled down his pants. She paused for a moment to admire his praggid Tom-bombler, gently stroking the gibble, then drew his mungawalla into her wigwam-whammy.
“Oh god, that feels so mangmillious,” John groaned, as Sarah gently florked his kipple, dongering her shillyshally up and down his glistening figgleyfig, while she lovingly cradled his skabooblers.
She spuggled his jingler until he was on the edge of barbongling, then pulled away, with a wicked grin on her pogpiece.
“Oh god, I want to fraggle you,” he groaned, “I want to fraggle your tiggly friggle so framongulously.” He pulled her to her feet and threw her roughly against a convenient table.
“Do it!” she screamed, “piggle my parsimonious pickle-pocket with your clandorous clam cudgel!”
She gasped as he plunged his mitreous mung mangler into her shiffling shiggle-sheath. “Oh yes,” she borbled, “just like that.”
John grunted as he farkled his girbled sally-wangler into her squipid mishmasher again and again, faster and faster, while Sally faringulated wappishly.
The downstairs neighbors banged on the ceiling. A picture fell off the wall.
“Oh Jibbers, I’m going to spudgel!” she whimpered.
“Yeah, spudgel for me.”
“Oh Jibbers Craaaabst!” Sally screamed, as she shrabombulated, again and again.
John biggleboggled seconds later, flarping Sally’s florp with gibbles of skulping fleem.
Entirely Shibbolated, they both collapsed to the floor, quivering and sticky with schlameel.
Sally gently stroked John’s frabbling knobblebobbler. “Oh wow,” she said, “That was parambulous.”
John looked hurt. “Only parambulous?”
Sally quickly corrected herself. “Parambulous in a jibbly way. It was wallywangillious.”
“Darling,” said John, “I don’t even know what the hell that means.”