Johnny Scott Wants to Fucking Cuddle You

cuddle

Alright. Let’s get one thing straight right off the hop. I fucking love to cuddle. Yeah. You read that right. I love to fucking cuddle so much most people can’t even fucking believe it.

There’s this stereotype that goes around, about men, about how they don’t like to cuddle. How they just want to bone and get the heck out, or roll over and go to sleep, or something.

Now, I find this generalization to be not only offensive, but baffling too. Who the hell are these guys? They don’t want to cuddle? What, do they also not want this fucking cheque for a thousand dollars and this gift basket full of beer and puppies? Do they have some sort of problem with things that are fucking awesome?

Oh, but it’s not macho to cuddle, it’s way more manly to just pop ‘em ‘n’ drop ‘em like James fucking Bond, right? Be all about banging ladies with ridiculous puns for names on top of fighter jets then use them to stop the bullet heading for your skull and toss them aside as you sip on a dry martini? No fucking way, man. Not for me. That dog will not fucking hunt.

Gals, I will fucking cuddle you all. I’ll cuddle you in the morning, I’ll cuddle you at night, I’ll cuddle you when you get home from your fucking hot yoga class and you’re sweatier than a fucking South Carolina stevedore. Then I’ll cuddle you when you’re in the shower. I don’t even give a shit. I’m fucking bonkers for cuddling. Hell, I’ll cuddle you all the live-long fucking day if you want to. Let’s just stay in bed. I don’t get hungry if I’m cuddling. Think you hear my stomach rumbling? Nope. That’s my goddamned cuddle engine kicking into overdrive, and I run it fucking hot.

Do I want to hold hands as we walk down the street? You’d better fucking believe I want to hold hands as we walk down the street. That shit’s like cuddling for your fingers. You want to get all up in these arms at a movie? Let’s fucking do it. I’ll even cuddle you at a goddamned play. At your niece’s school fucking play if you want me to. You roll with me, girl, you’re going to get mad fucking cuddled. You ever been cuddled at a bar mitzvah? A bat mitzvah? I’ll cuddle you at all the fucking mitzvoth you can handle.

If you want me to rub your back, I’ll be all over that shit. Rub your feet? You just try to fucking stop me. You take your socks off them and I’ll be slobbering for those things like a hungry hungry hippo in a marble factory. Your feet will be getting pampered more than the motherfucking royal baby.

Let’s spoon. I’ll be the big spoon and wrap myself around you like a damn cuddle vampire in his cuddle crypt. Or I’ll be the little spoon and camp out in the warmth of your fucking embrace like it’s goddamned all outdoors for so long that Jon Krakauer writes a fucking book about me.

I’ve got enough clean-burning cuddle energy running through me to power a fucking city. Cuddle City, population you and me. Where our chief export is cuddling, our motto is whatever’s Latin for “let’s fucking cuddle,” and I’m the mayor who just got re-elected for my tenth consecutive term in a fucking landslide. Right now we’re holding a town hall meeting in my bed, and guess what? Yeah, it’s about cuddling. Next up on the docket: more fucking cuddling.

I don’t want to overwhelm you with all this, I know it’s a lot to take in. You might even be wondering if you can handle all this cuddling. Well, I’ll let you in on a little secret; you will be able to, because I’m fucking terrific at it. You don’t cuddle as much as I do without getting goddamned great at it. They say it takes 10 000 hours of something to become an expert at it. If that’s true, then I’m not just an expert, I’m a fucking virtuoso.

But, hey, if you’re thinking you’ve gotten along fine with the shit amount of cuddling you’ve gotten so far in life, and wondering why would you need more now, that’s cool, by all means keep telling yourself that you’re satisfied with your limp-armed boyfriend’s half-assed cuddles. But one day, when you grow up a bit and realize you’re looking for real fucking cuddles from a real fucking man, you’ll look for me. It’ll be a damned shame for you, though, because I’ll have died happy of fucking suffocation brought on by a terminal case of cuddling.

 

Photo by nicholasjon via Flickr

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