by Skibum & CreamyLady ©
Okay, this absolutely sucks. I have got this HUGE zit, right in the middle of my forehead, and another on my chin, and Iím supposed to go to a party with this guy and this is just so FUCKING typical!
I canít tell you how much I hate this stupid little planet. Yellow sun, super strength, and let me tell you about PMS. Yeah, right. PMS Ė really freaking funny, isnít it? LOOK at that zit!!! I mean for Godís sake, itís bigger than Mt. St. Helens, and will probably blow just like it, too.
Donít even TALK to me about concealer, okay? Like, donít even go there. I canít wear makeup Ė X-ray and Heat Vision are HELL on mascara. Nothing will hide this thing anyway, except a bag over my head. I wish I could just stay home. Thatís it, just stay home with a quart of Ben and Jerryís, and hide for four days, and then come out again when itís over. But Iím just too horny and this guy is HUGE Ė I mean, heís big and strong and HUGE Ė and I really need something huge!
Iím not hideous, right? I donít scare little kids, and I donít break mirrors, but I canít get lucky to save my life, and Iím pretty damned frustrated right now.
My first date? Middle school Ė the Winter Dance. I got all dressed up, and I got in the backseat of Mr. Carverís Buick with Fred Carver. What does the weasel do? Grab my tit. I grabbed his hand and broke all his fingers.
Some Winter Dance Ė the whole night we were at the emergency room, and Mr. Danvers and Mr. Carver were yelling at each other.
In high school, Joe Mantuzzi bet all the guys that heíd be the first to fuck me. Iíd have rather fucked his fatherís bull, but he just wouldnít leave me alone. He grabbed me one day near the gym, and I had to hit him.
I didnít know the concrete on that wall was so hard. He can walk now without too much of a hitch, and he doesnít drool as much.
Oh, yes, and the time Fred Carver (who is not the brightest bulb in the chandelier) was staring at me one day at cheerleading practice and I stared back and his pants caught fire.
It was kind of funny, but Iím glad they put it out. I mean, had I known what he was packing in those pants Ė letís just say that I felt a lot warmer toward him after that, though it didnít do me any good.
Not that it matters. Thereís this little problem; when I come, my muscles clench. Yeah, clench. HARD. I could crush an Earth guyís dick like an overripe banana, if I didnít break his back with a simple hug first. And what if I lost control and dug my fingernails into his back like all the women in those trashy romance novels do when they come?
And did I mention my Kryptonian hymen? Like, a guy needs a jackhammer to get through it . . . Iím pretty sure I can work around the clenching, reverse Kegels or something, and I donít mind a little bondage; Iím strong, but steel alloy restraints will keep people from being hurt.
But how in the hell are they going to get in in the first place? Poor Fred again Ė he bruised himself. I was SO ready, I mean, wet and making those smacking slurpy sounds (Fred had a pretty good tongue, too!) and had just climaxed like crazy, and Fred just drove in with that good sized dong of his and WHAM!
He was in too much pain for even a blow job. Iím good at those; goodness knows I do enough of them!!!
One thing, though . . . kind of a pleasant surprise for Fred. Even that small contact with my juices was good for him. He became, if not the Man of Steel in that respect, at least the man of Rock. Last time I saw him he told me he could go forever, and come hard as well . . . over and over again.
Itís a pity he can never know what caused that. Yeah, I had to burn out that part of his memory. I have this reputation to live up to, and that sucks as well.
Do I WANT to uphold truth, justice and the American Way? Like hell! I want to have fun; I want to dance; I want to party; I want to shop and hang with my friends. I most definitely do not want to wear these stupid clothes; I think I looked pretty hot in my thong, but nOOOooo, "It gives the wrong impression, honey."
Instead, every time thereís a crisis, I get a call from my STUPID cousin and off we go to save a bunch of stupid dorks from some supervillain or natural disaster or something. I mean, things would be getting interesting with a guy, and then "Supergirl!" and then Iím pleading cramps or death or something and running for the ladiesí room. (Iím not an idiot; there are no more phone booths!)
Canít these people get into trouble during normal hours? Why in the HELL does it always have to be at 10:00 when Iíve got a good buzz going?
Which reminds me that Iím really pissed off at Clark. He gets all the credit, and Iím just a stupid girl Ė his sidekick. Yeah, right. Like I canít solve problems on my own, WHEN I want to?
Oh, man . . . that zit is just horrible. Iím going to have to cancel. Shit Ė all heíll be looking at is that, and never mind the fact that, at this minute, my tits are still bigger!
I guess Iíll go to the one thing my stupid cousin did right . . . That little ice castle at the North Pole. I can hole up there for a week or so with enough Ben and Jerryís Chunky Monkey to take the edge off, and come back when that thing is gone and my period over. Thatís another thing Ė just try to find a tampon to handle THAT part of the process. Eeeeewwwwww.
Of course, there may be a good side to all this . . . he might be there, and we can renegotiate this deal. Iíll be pretty goddamned horny by the end of the week . . . and heíll be there, mooning about his love life. Hmmm. Iíll bet heíd have no trouble at all getting through that thing, and Iíve seen him with my X-ray vision; heís pretty awesome. From the neck down, anyway . . .
Maybe if we just get the edge off with each other, we can go easy on the poor weak earthlings . . . I know he really wants to get into Loisí pants, and Iíd kind of like to look Fred up again . . . not to mention patching things up with my guy tonight.
Gee . . . things always look better when you think them through. Off to the Fortress of Solitude Ė and Iím bringing my raspberry cami and thong. Just in case . . .
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