Bubbles and Champain

Sorry my little ours, but really, I'd spent a wonderful evening yesterday, meeting R. and B. and J. (who did things to me, very kind, simple but efficient, at least as visible marks of his attraction though our intercourse started and by lack of bedding possibilities has been postponed to an other occasion). I just am totally fond of spending an entire evening bubbling in English. Mixing up cheerio and cheers, and now someone will read this prosaic writing. Some other will understand, later, back from a well owed vacation, my sweet Mrs B., some will not, but that's my spell and destiny, I do speak in three languages, write them equally badly with loads of mistakes, and than, well, I'm just schizophrenic by three : pochette surprise, trois pour le prix d'un, und wenn's denn auch keiner versteht, manchmal, heimlich, leise, wenn ich Schubert höre, eine Träne im Knopfloch, bien, je crois que mon mec, the one and only, may be not on Monday, may be on Sunday, may be next day, he'll be there, standing at the bar counter, and smiling at me. My heart will break into a thousand little pieces, a romantic rise in the beat frequency of that poor pump that's still working, hoping the man of my life could be more than an illusion, a Fata Morgana in the desert of sex, beer, "dindes du Marais", young but so vain, excitingly cute and awfully empty inside. Even the blondes are wittier, than these lads I usually meet.
Anyhow, R. is fine and needs some investigation, J. will disappear as he appeared, an optical illusion that kisses marvellously well. Mais comme je mange à tous les rateliers, I'd not decline other offers shall they arise in the future.