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How Many Weight Watchers Points Are There In Semen?

Oh yes, she did. Thomas’s Aunt Kitty Hunt called me last night with that question. Yeah—while we’re at it, say that real fast a few times: Kitty Hunt. It’s even worse than that—Thomas’s father is named Michael Hunt—Mike Hunt? Big fun for someone like me who has the sense of humor of a 12-year-old. But, I digress. I’ll get back to Aunt Kitty’s phone call.

So last night, Aunt Kitty calls me. I tried to pass her off to Thomas, but he just madly waved his hands around in horror, shaking his head and refusing to take the phone. The conversation started something like this:

“Sam, I’m reading that new book of yours, Blackjack. It’s so good, but that cover is so spicy that I had to put a dustcover from some Amish romance over it so the ladies at the church mixer wouldn’t see what I was reading. You know I don’t do those new-fangled computer books—no, I need to read on real paper. Anyway, in that scene in Paris Thomas calls you a ‘sexpert’ so I thought you’d know the answer to my question. Oh my, that scene is torrid, young lady! I must confess after reading that scene I keep eyeing the rope at Home Depot… I had to change my underpants after reading that. Of course, you know I have to imagine Pierce Brosnan rather than Thomas in the scenes when I read your book.”

“Yes, Aunt Kitty, I can see where having your nephew in an erotic book would be awkward. I’m glad you’re enjoying it, though. What did you need me to help you with?”

“Well, I’ve started doing the Weight Watchers, and I have my meeting tomorrow. As I was writing out my food journal, I couldn’t find the number of points for semen. It’s not listed anywhere in the documentation; do you know? If you know the calories I can figure it out with the points calculator.”

“Umm, let me Google it, I’m not sure. I’m putting you on speaker so I can type. So…you gave Uncle Charlie a blowjob?” I look over at Thomas, now rolling on the floor dying of laughter.

“Is Thomas crying, honey?”

“Not yet, Aunt Kitty, but he will be…”

“Oh, well I don’t feel sorry for him after reading about his shenanigans, tying folks to trees and such. Although, to me of course Dom Thomas is Dom Pierce. Anyway, is that what you call it, a blowjerk? Because I didn’t blow, exactly. Here’s what happened: The other night Uncle Charlie came back from bowling and was feeling frisky. Well, I was not giving into that because I had the yeast cream in, you know the kind where you put it up your hoo-ha for a few days? It says not to have intercourse right there on the package. I showed him the package, even. So Charlie won’t listen; I’m sure he’d had a beer or two that snake. He starts, you know, touching himself there. In the bathroom no less! With the LIGHTS ON! As I explain to him that my lady bits are closed for the evening, he takes it out of his slacks. That pervert should be ashamed of himself. Anyway, get this—he says to me, ‘Kitty, put your mouth around my thing’. The nerve of that man! But I try to be a good wife, and luckily the children are grown and out of the house. So…I had him sit up on the counter; I am not bending down at my age. Leaning down, I put my mouth on his business, praying that he’d gotten all the pee off. You know, men are not sanitary with their toilet habits, and the last thing I need is to catch dysentery from that crazy man’s ding-a-ling. I had no idea what to do with that leaking throbbing thing in my mouth, but I just held on as he put it in and out—I guess men aren’t that picky where they stick their privates. I mean, have you seen those FLESHLIGHTS for heaven’s sake? A fake hoo-ha disguised as a flashlight? Anyway, it only took that looney man about half a minute before he was spraying his stuff right into my mouth!”

“Aunt Kitty, hold on a minute, I think I have your answer. According to this website, an average ejaculation is about a teaspoon of fluid and has around 5-7 calories, so I don’t think you need to worry about your food journal.”

“Well, I can’t say that the crazy mess is worth the calories. It tasted like warm salty egg whites if you ask me.”

“I admit I like it…”

“You would, Sam, you’re such a Naughty Nelly. I’m going to go ahead and add two points to my food journal. I must confess that far more than one teaspoon of that stuff went down my throat over the course of the weekend. Won’t the ladies at my Weight Watchers meeting have something to wag their tongues about!”

“Is there anything else I can help you with Aunt Kitty?” Thomas is, of course, still almost peeing himself laughing as he listens to our conversation through my iPhone speaker.

“That’s all Sam, but I’m sure I’ll have to continue adding that point to my food journal. I guess once you start blowjerking them there’s no going back, is there? Anyway, I loved the book, I can’t wait for the third. I just try to skip the swears, and of course I have to imagine Pierce Brosnan instead of young Thomas.”

Of course, everyone, Aunt Kitty is right—once you start blowjerking your man, there’s no turning back.


Read the rope scene that titillated Aunt Kitty in the sequel to Roulette:

Blackjack: Wicked Game

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