This question has plagued me for a while now...
Do paraplegics give better head from all that extra mouth usage?
I'd argue they're the ultimate peak of sexual partners.
They're down for literally anything (at least they won't fight you off).
Tongue technique down to a science.
In short: When shopping for a mate, pick the girl next door in the living room and a paraplegic in the bedroom.
That is all.
I'm not normally one for queers and drag. But I would 100% watch a Princess Di movie played by Owen Wilson. On the stipulation that its played as serious as a car crash.
Taco Bell. Sunday. I walked in at 11:30 AM, straight from church, thinking Iโd be blessed with a Crunchwrap and maybe a little Baja Blast to keep the holy spirit flowing. But what I walked into was a waiting room for the spiritually and physically broken.
The place was packed. Not with people eating. Oh no. Just folks sitting quietly, holding onto receipts and hope. I placed my order and joined them. The air was heavy with hunger and confusion. Nobody made a sound. It was like the DMV but with a faint smell of nacho cheese.
I looked around and knew instantly this was not going to be quick. One guy was leaned against the wall like heโd been through battle. A woman looked like she was considering canceling lunch altogether and just starting a new life. And one man, I kid you not, looked like heโd been there since the Old Testament.
The screen hadnโt updated in 15 minutes. I watched as people would cautiously approach the counter just to be told โweโre working on it.โ I saw friendships form. Trauma bonds. A girl near me started journaling. A child asked his mom, โWill we live here now?โ
Finally, after nearly an hour, they called my name. No smile. No โthank you.โ Just a quiet handoff of the bag like a peace offering. My Crunchwrap was warm. My Baja Blast hit. But the emotional damage? Eternal.
Taco Bell, I love you. But not like this. Not on a Sunday. Not at 11:30. I came in with faith and left with a full stomach and a thousand-yard stare.