My Rock with a Cock

I am taking this opportunity to discuss my latest health crisis as well as pay homage to one of my oldest friends.
It was his birthday a few days ago, so the timing is almost perfect.

This guy is special because, surprisingly, we've never had sex. I think the main reasons for this was because:
A) I could snap him like a twig; it would not be pleasant, and
B) I kind of helped raise him, even though he's actually a year older than me.

I think I may have had a shortly lived case of misplaced affections towards him when I was 12, but then he went and got a perm and that pretty much helped me move on from there.

Yes. A perm.
(Sorry, but he's never going to fucking live that one down. Not ever. If he dies before me, I'll make a point of mentioning it at his funeral, because that's what true friendship really means. If I die before him, I'll still figure something out.)

And no, he's not gay.

And yes, he's a boy... or since he has a hot wife and two cool kids, rather, a man. Kinda. 

He's like my son, or perhaps my man-sister from another mister...

Or my bestie with a flat chestie...

My rock with a cock.

See where I'm going with this? OK. Hold that thought.

In other news, I recently almost died from Toxic Shock. It wasn't pretty. In fact, it was slightly terrifying with a dash of mortification. The doctor laughed at my horror, telling me it happens all the time. Not to fucking me, it doesn't! I've watched all the doctor shows, thank you. I do not shove strange foreign objects up my cootch such as light bulbs, hot dogs, carrots or baseball bats.

Wait. What?

OK. I'll re-phrase. In the last two decades, anyway, it's just been the usual boxed set: Dildos, fingers, penises and tampons... ugh... tampons. Umm, yeah.

Why are these two trains of thought related, you ask?

Well, I was speaking to him on the phone the other day, revealing these latest embarrassing details.

His immediate response: "How does that happen to you? Shouldn't it have just fallen out? I thought you had a giant vagina!"

Awesome.

Apparently, it's giant enough that I had no idea it was up there, but not giant enough that it could fall out on its own. All I knew was that I was dying from the inside. Actually, not dying. Dead. And rotting.

So, thank you, my darling, for the vote of confidence for my huge vagina. Unfortunately, she, too, has now proven to be fallible.
It was truly a sad day, indeed.

Also? Happy fucking birthday to one of only two men* that openly converse on the size and state of my vagina.

A drawing by him. Not sure what's going on there.
His creative mind is disturbing, even at the best of times.
I love him.

(*PS. For the record, the other man is not my husband. He does not discuss such things. :-)