I see in the news today that former Defense Secretary Robert McNamara, the so-called “architect” of the Vietnam War, has died. His passing immediately brought me back to the summer of ’71, when I found myself in a quagmire of my own.
Ron was 18 then, and despite massive protests back home by his parents, he shipped himself off to Southeast Asia for a summer of solo travel. I think he was scared to go, but in the back of his mind, he knew there’d be loose women there and the chance to service a cunt.
Almost as quickly as he arrived, he met Ursula, a hooker whose years of experience weren’t enough to be unrattled by the sight of me when Ron took off his pants.
She was impressed, and within seconds, Ron found himself in the clit.
After some shaky foreplay, Ron nervously used me to penetrate Ursula’s foreign terrain, and I found myself deeply entrenched in her moist Thai land. Now, everyone knows Ron can last longer than a line at Sav-on, but not this time. I started firing my salty ammunition erratically, and sensing the inability for more rounds, Ron was ready to withdraw.
Except that he couldn’t.
Ursula’s pussy was so mind-numbingly tight, that Ron found himself complete stuck—unable to remove me from the area. In an act of desperation, he tried to gain leverage by pressing his hand—nay, palm—against her pelvis to force me out.
But it was futile. Ron was mired in this conflict.
I can’t really remember how Ron finally got out, but I do know that he immediately left Thailand for a trip to Paris, where he found peace, according to his journals—except for a nasty bout of posttraumatic syphilis.
