I knew my jeans were too tight when I met up with that Peruvian “sandwich artist,” but a last minute change in plans gave me little time to find a better pair of pants. They didn’t smell, so I threw ‘em on. Tight jeans give me erections, and the same can be said for brooding, Latin-types with butts you can bounce quarters off.
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Walking north on Broadway and chatting with a friend on your mobile phone, you caught me doing double-time in the Sporting Wood department: my tumescence was distinct and had obviously become the centerpiece of an otherwise predictable, 20-something overly-animated sidewalk conversation. Although my attention was elsewhere, I recall you had blondish hair, and that you minced. You spat girlish giggles into the mouthpiece of your phone as you approached, your eyes widening with each step – fixated on the biological indiscretion that throbbed behind an unforgiving layer of denim. I’d like to think it was my powerful girth that caught your eye but, alas, it was probably just my poor fashion sense.
When you finally walked passed us in the opposite direction, you lisped “I did NOT just see that” to your cellular friend. It echoed down the barren street. For that brief moment, I was grateful that my companion understood only enough English to know that I wasn’t the one who was going to take it up the pooper that night. This particular sound byte – a major aria in the urban opera that has become my life – will linger at the surface of Memory, replacing (and not soon enough) Whitney Houston’s curiously frenzied observation that “Crack is whack.” Indeed, Whitney. Indeed.
Maybe I should be embarrassed. Then again, I would probably be more embarrassed if my tight jeans and dick pumped to 250lbs/PSI left nothing for your stray, colored contacts to focus on. I’m just glad you weren’t my mother (or, for that matter, an immigration officer).
It may be arrogant to assume that “the guy with the hard-on” was a popular topic of conversation at whatever florist or marketing firm you showed up at this morning. Hell, if I saw some cracker leering at an Incan Oompa-Loompa with several inches of White Oppression bursting from his pants, I’d launch a fucking newsletter.
All right, so he wasn’t that cute. I’ll give you that. Without his latex gloves, the “I’m here to help” nametag and hairnet, I’ll admit that much of his charm was gone. Nonetheless, that was some Grade A rutting. It seems important that you know this.
Thank you for your concern, and thanks for noticing.