i'm a producer dammit, why won't women have sex with me?!
so where are the legions of young starlets aching for me to tongue-fuck their puckered brown-eyes?
i mean, look, when i was 15 i read robert evans' autobiography, "the kid stays in the picture." there i was, short, mildly chubby, pimple-faced, cursed with a hideous jewfro, unable to get even a nut massage from the homeliest looking humans at horace mann in possession of vaginas, but i figured that if portly, profusely perspirating gasbags like don simpson can have bitches cat-fighting over who gets to blow the next rail off of his diseased cock, certainly i can get laid modestly well if i became a producer.
now i go out to parties and clubs and tell women that i'm a producer and they look at me as if i told them that i have fucking SARS! every night ends with me cruising pornotube at 3am in search of just the right clip to sufficiently inspire me to rub one out into a goldtoe nylon sock.
- Location: West Hollywood
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