The blank page beckons. And I heed its call.
Or DO I?
FORTY-EIGHT HOURS LATER, AFTER SEVENTEEN EJACULATIONS, THREE STUFFED CRUST PIZZAS, AND A MARATHON SESSION OF STANNING TAYLOR SWIFT’S INSTAGRAM…
Urgghh…think I’ve ruined my balls. Not a single sperm left within their wrinkled folds…God, Taylor…why do you insist on giving me boners…
I belly-crawl across the floor, moaning piteously as I lurch forward an inch at a time. Urgh. Urgh. URGH. Never jerked off this much before…how am I s’posed to write if I can barely move or stay awake…
My computer flashes with an ad for a site: MyFriendsHotMom dot com.
My right hand starts creeping toward my waistband. I grab it with my left, stopping it in its tracks for a nerve-rending second, but then it keeps going, slowly but steadily honing in on my dick.
If I don’t do something soon, it’s off to another jerk-sesh of epic proportions. I’ll end up withered and desiccated, like a goddamn pharaoh, or Mickey Rourke’s face. Must…stop…MASTURBATING…
My hand pulls a fast one: it slaps me twice across the face—pa-pap-PAP—then darts into my pants and grabs my hardening dick. FUCK!
Only one option left. I grab my eReader and open it to Echo, activating its reality distortion powers. Magic flash.
Steven Seagal bursts through my wall, rolling across the floor in a leopard-print speedo. He stops in front of me and holds his fingers up to my nose.
“Smell,” he says in a deadpan voice. “It’s grease from my neckbeard.”
What? How would that—
CHRIST ALMIGHTY THAT STINKS! BLUUURRRGH!!!
My boner instantly shrivels into a tiny, stunted nub. Seagal nods at me, then runs out the hole he made in the wall. I curl my knees up to my vomit-coated chest, unsure of whether I should be thankful or traumatized.
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