I could see him through the steam. Emmett. His veiny triumphant bastard of a cock was rubbing gently against the doorknob he was humping. It was breathtaking; if only you could see it, but I won’t let you. His muscles had been rubbed down with baby oil, and his skin was dark like chocolate, at least 90% cocoa.
I could see from across the room that there was a tattoo on his left scrotum. Also he had two scrotums. It was a heart surrounding the words “If you can read this, it’s not too cold in here.”
I chuckled moderately. He gets to live.
I decided I simply had to have that tattoo for myself. I bashed him in the head with a chair and exchanged his skin from the waist down with mine. Now, ready for love, I made my way across the street for an erotic massage.
“One hand job, on the fly,” the receptionist shouted.
Mindy, if that is her real name, met me in the lobby and walked me back to a special room that was coated in plastic sheeting. It seemed weird, and I don’t like weird, so I thought of leaving, but once she pulled my dong out, I was hooked. She worked me over for an hour before I finally gave her the goods.
At a loss for what to do, and with my penchant for mayhem unsated, I phoned in a bomb threat to work so I didn’t need to come in. I forgot about caller ID. Are any of you hiring? I’ve got an impressive resume and almost never do anything weird. My many talents include knitting human hair, cooking with nothing but connective tissue, and I have military training in spit ball combat. Also, I can type twelve words per minute if you’d all just shut up and let me think!