Yosemite Sam & Sex, Me and Scorpio III

Dears,
While reviewing your comments, I uncovered some rage from Mr. Roy Dahlin. Seems he was a tad upset to be linked to my Doggydoodoo post when he instead researched Sonny Bono.
   Roy Dahlin For crying out loud, how the Hell does "Sonny Bono" turn up "waaahhh Donald Trump racist?" I am sick of Google hamfisting whiny brainless liberal BS into literally every damn search. Scooby Doo, John Wayne, and Yosemite Sam do not mean "waaaahhh republicans are racist Donald Trump racist teabaggers racist ted cruz racist waaaaaahhhh." There's more from Roy, including sweet details regarding bodily injury all liberal minded folks are due. Don't worry, his page reads "This is the end." And I certainly responded to Roy in my usual caring manner (see last comment here). What I really don't understand though . . .Yosemite Sam? With that loud proud orange facial hair and skin, a fetish for frenzied shooting at the -Hello!- Gray-White-mixed-hybrid-who's-thus-clearly-an-immigrant rabbit? Yosemite's NOT a racist? Poor Roy. He ain't the brightest twit in the hamfisted pig's punch. Is he?

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~Now, back to me and Scorpio

   I processed Scorpio’s words: "It feels so right." Feels so right. So right. It did. I caved.
   "D’you wanna go to my bedroom?"
   "Yeah." Thank goodness he answered correctly.
    Scorpio carried me to my bed, clothes lost along the way somehow, or were already lost. I don’t remember.
   "Sorry, the mattress is weird and lumpy," I explained, as if he was listening. "I’m in-between beds, getting a new frame. I thought it’d help us take things slow -" Kissing, stroking, and deep breathing ensued. "It’s awkward I know . . . " He worked at the goal. I rambled. "Sorry… mm, mmm." Scorpio made an attempt. Sh*t! It didn’t work. Why must I attract all the men in the world with penile incompetence? I’m so damn frustra-- Wait, I spoke, er thought, too soon. He’s in. Oh, oh, oh my, this is good. Really, really, who knew it could be so good? "Oh my God, Oh God, Oh my God." 
   The neighbors likely thought I’d just become Born Again. Again. And again. Again. Suffice it to say, especially for a man in his fifties, Scorpio greatly impressed and pleased me over and over that night. And again. Maybe I just needed a man with loads of speed in his system. The guy’s fast with relentless stamina. He was also generous, gentle, and in control. I couldn’t believe it.
   While I didn’t stop to set up the cameras, dears, I did get this photo at another time shortly thereafter. 

    After several hours of ecstatic loving, Scorpio sat up on his knees and pressed his arms down his meaty thighs as if to soothe them. "The only thing about me," he said, "I have Restless Leg Syndrome."
   "I’m sorry." I sat up with him. "What can I do honey?" I gently stroked his arm.
   "Nah nothing, I just need to drink more water. When I get like this, it’s worse if you touch me."
   "Oh okay." I dropped my arm. "It’s alright. I mean, that’s lousy. I know a couple that sleeps separately because he has a bad case of it."
   "Yeah, I need a hard surface."
   Um, okay. I, well, gave Scorpio a sheet and blanket to sleep away from me and in the living room. Then I fell asleep alone on our first night "together," my first night with someone else, but alone, in two years. In a couple, at last. (?)
 To be continued.