campulating Stephen Philip DruceCampulating

By Stephen Philip Druce

Realizing I’d run out of condoms, my girlfriend suggested I use our camping tent for protection instead.

“Campulate with me” she said. “It’s a combination of copulating and camping.”

I took the camping tent from out of the garage and I placed it over her as she lay naked on the bed. Then in a graceful motion, I lowered myself to the area where my girlfriend was horizontally positioned, and I prompted a spiritually physical encounter involving a glorious union of fleshy bouncing.

“Shove your salami up my drain!” she cried passionately. Then from a raised aspect, I descended into a rhythmical action and engaged in a fusion of bodily expression, a grinding melting pot of writhing, entwined, magical oneness.

“Stick your baton up my corridor!” she cried passionately. Then I tenderly enforced an unfettered, endearing, inseparable, burgeoning chemistry.

“Ram your hot dog up my pipe!” she cried passionately. Then I assertively stimulated an embracing attachment, stylistically administering a smooth intermittent thrusting in a blaze of love fervor.

“Stuff your rod in my bucket!” she cried passionately.

I stopped after half an hour as my girlfriend became enraged with jealousy.

“You love that tent more than you love me!” she said.

“No I don’t! It’s about even,” I said.

She told me if I felt that way I should marry the tent.

“Well, now you’re just being silly,” I said.

One week later, I found myself uttering the following: “I, Stephen, take you, camping tent, to be my lawful wedded wife. To have and to hold, from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in picnic blanket, until death do us tent peg according to God’s holy tent peg extractor, and there to I give you my groundsheet. With this ring I thee wed, with my sleeping bag I thee worship, and with all my worldly tent peg mallets I thee endow in the name of the father, and of the son, and of the holy tent peg — amen.”

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