I used to be a freewheeling Man Whore. Widening orifices left and right, dancing around in a cowboy hat while using my wiener as an x-rated lariat…
It all changed when one of my clients—Irma Horfendorff—won the presidency. She made a compelling case for marriage: as First Gentlemen, I would have access to all kinds of perks. The White House comes with a free gym, butlers, chefs…you get the idea. I thought I signed on for four years of grade-A freeloading.
Boy was I wrong.
Every day, it’s “Hey Kent, can we get you to promote this initiative at the black-tie gala tonight?” or “Jesus Christ, Kent—you’re First Gentleman. You can’t do a photo-op in briefs and sandals.” And “Kent, who the fuck is going to take you seriously if you keep scratching your nuts or lifting your leg to squeeze out a fart?”
My dick has never been limper. It’s all too much—they’ve made me respectable.
As I force a smile and pose for a picture with yet another special interest group, something snaps in my brain. I rip off my tux and shuck my pants, hooting like an ape as I take off down the hall. My Secret Service handlers follow close behind, shouting frantically into their mic’d-up cufflinks. As I round the corner, nearly colliding with a trio of agents, I whip out my wiener and—
Slap their faces with my club-like penis—PAP-PAP-PAP! Mushroom stamp, bitches! Hope you like the taste of them smegs!
All three collapse to the ground, gagging and coughing from my smelly secretions. I grab one of them by the lapels and shake him angrily.
“Where’s the weed? WHERE ARE THE SHROOMS???”
He hacks and spits, then manages, “There’s no drugs here, you idiot! This is the centerpiece of democracy—the home of the President of the United States!”
“Democracy my ass,” I growl. “If I can’t trip balls, this ain’t no goddamn democracy. Oh, and speaking of balls—” I lift my sack up and give him a sinister grin.
His eyes widen with dawning horror.
And then I slam my blanket-size scrote down on his face. (Probably feels like a weighted tarp, only with hair and wrinkles.)
HEH heh heh!
But my joy is short-lived—a dozen tasers needle my back, juicing me up with thousands of volts. As I jiggle and convulse, I reach in my pocket and open my eReader to Kor’Thank, activating its reality distortion powers. Magic flash.
Everything hazes at the edges; time and space fold in on each other and—
I bolt up in my futon, gasping and panting, hand pressed against my chest. My heart thuds like a runaway drum.
Slowly but surely, my mind latches on to my new existence: I’m not in the White House. I’m not the First Gentleman. I’m a goddamn Man Whore.
I’m free to eat shrooms. Free to peruse MyFriendsHotMom dot Com.
Kent Wayne escapes again! Ha HA!
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