Munch More Box

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Nice Move

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It should be your bread and butter. Your go-to. Your two-step. Your out pitch. Hell, it could be your only pitch. Just ask Mariano Rivera how far mastering one filthy technique can get you. This is your hall of fame cutter getting you out of a World Series jam. So simple, yet so effective. They know it’s coming, but it somehow catches them off guard, gets the job done, and picks up the save every single time.

How exactly do you get any girl in the palm of your hand, wrapped around your finger, and literally melting in your mouth? Easy. Slider strike zone with a spitter.

Nothing will have your woman overlooking and forgiving the glaring disparity in looks between the two of you quite like diving in head first to cooch creek. JACKKNIFE! Perfect entry. Give your boy a 10. I’m talking plunging so deep and so often into her shadowy ocean abyss that you should really be scuba certified. Shredding more gnar than Johnny fucking Tsunami. Call yourself Poseidon, because you’re about to flood this bitch with a three finger trident and release the kraken.

Munching box is a lost art with our instantaneous gratification driven generation. We try to forcefully jimmy a lock open with a crowbar when the key to the kingdom is conveniently at the tip of our tongues all along. It’s the paintbrush that strokes her canvas. The maestro conducting a harmonious moaning symphony. A prophet that leaves her in a temporary toe-curling spiritual awakening, muttering the words “Oh my God” over and over again. Do it right and she’ll be a disciple to the church of your saliva glands for life.

It’s not rocket science, either. Start slowly. Eat that peach gently as if it were a sorbet cleansing the palate and build your way up. Don’t seize around like some low class type-2 diabetic trash who forgot his insulin five cones in at a Golden Corral ice cream machine. Take your time. Tuna tartare doesn’t go bad. Tease that oyster ditch like your mouth is the popular kids’ lunch table and her vag is the trench coat wearing goth that’s on the verge of shooting up the school. Just when she’s almost annoyed with sexual tension, that’s when you paddle her rose colored canoe. Get at it with the enthusiasm of a junkyard dog drinking out of his comically small water bowl after spending the entire day in the hot summer sun and she’ll erupt on a Mount Vesuvius splooge level.

“But I don’t want to end up like Michael Douglas and get throat cancer,” chimes in some excuse-ridden sloth reading this now. You should be so lucky to be mentioned in the same breath as Gordon fucking Gekko. You wear that throat cancer like a badge of honor, because that’s the highest achievement one can accomplish in life. Legitimately dying from slaying too much puss. Your gravestone will read, “Here lies King Cunnilingus. He never saw a snatch he didn’t want to lick to the center like a tootsie pop. He went out doing what he loved.” It’s a more honorable death than most get. In the afterlife, do you want to be the jamoke who got locked out of his house as a senior citizen in crisp 70 degree weather and keeled over from heat stroke, or the casanova who essentially drowned in the amount of tail he was pulling? Exactly.

“But why the fuck should I even care if she gets off?” spews out another moronic try-hard from the comments section. You don’t have to, really, so long as you’re cool with your lady eventually getting hers elsewhere with some giant bean flicking barbarian down the road. Because she will. If you can live with being Captain Cuckold, by all means, keep doing you. However, if you want to keep that shit on lock and have a ride or die bitch, keep wearing her thighs as earmuffs and pressure wash her pink shutters nightly.

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