I’m in a liquor store, buying a bottle of wine to bring to my friend’s dinner party. Standing in line at the checkout - there’s a decal pasted on the checkout counter saying “Don’t buy minors alcohol!” “Minors and alcohol don’t mix!” with a picture of a wasted drunken teen. The little old lady in front of me - taps on the picture and says “But if you don’t get them drunk, they don’t want to fuck you.” and everyone pretended they didn’t hear her except me, snickering uncontrollably.
Naked images cross my dashboard, and I wonder, “What’s the fuss?” until there’s a particular beauty. My hand reaches under my zipper to tug my root. In that first warm response, when the doors swing open to the rising flood of pleasure, “This” I flex my pelvis “This is the fuss, this is the fucking big fuss” and I am again reminded, it’s sex, and it’s a big deal.
I was staring hard at the cute drummer, and said to my friend, our mutual friend, “Do drummers, with their command of rhythms, have more fun fapping than the rest of us?” He repeated this to his friend, the cute drummer, who laughed so hard, he fell on the floor. But that didn’t answer my question.
Sometimes, when being handed change by a cute cashier, or being handed anything by anybody cute, I look at the webbing between the thumb and index finger, and think of cum running down the valley as their hand is wrapped around their cock.
I look at the floating staircase in some fashionably beautiful architect’s wet dream of form over function loft, and think “I’m gonna fucking fall and break my neck the first time I try to go to bed drunk.”
Sometimes, after jerking off, waves of weariness wash over me, and I drift off into tides of dreamworlds. Sometimes, after jerking off, I’m wide awake, and I think “Shit. Now there’s really nothing to do.”
I come home. Everything looks the same, but feels different. Nothing has changed, but it’s like I have my shoes on the wrong feet, and I know you’ve left.
Late at night, when I’m bored, I can click the remote through the all of the channels on my receiver. After filtering out all the “Paid Programming” there’s absolutely nothing that I, nor my dick is interested in. This is why I love Tumblr.
If, like me, you get up from the computer to go pee, and your underwear is damp and your dick is sticky from pre-cum, you might have too many porn sites on your dash.