I just read something that said "ride him reverse cowgirl while holding his ankles and when he's ready to nut tickle his feet" and now I don't want to internet ever again.
I subscribe to Bukowski's ideology of "finding something you love and letting it kill you." That's why I sleep with my head under an acrylic, mounted, solid 20-pound painting of my Muse at night.
Why would you allow yourself to be called daddy or doctor or have her yell "yes, Chef" in bed when deep down you know you want to be called Magic Johnson?