As part of my Man Whore shenanigans, I sometimes get invited to make myself comfy before my client gets home. Unfortunately, I’ve stumbled onto her disgusting college progeny and his douche-bro frat buddies, all of whom are sporting roofie-slinging names like Tanner, Hunter, Brayden, Chase, Brackston, or whatever regular-ass moniker that is now deemed original because of some “creative” misspelled twist.
The fuck’re they doing, unrolling a map? I can’t see much; I’m peering through the shutters of a small-ass closet…
“All right guys.” Tanner shifts his pointer onto the diagram. “Supposedly, this is the clit. According to my sources, you can’t just go apeshit, you gotta—”
Hands fly up in defeat. They’re accompanied by a smatter of frustrated groans. One of them bitches, “All I KNOW is apeshit!”
Tanner holds up his palms in a conciliatory gesture. “Guys, we’ve been over this ad nauseum. None of us are packing any girth or length. If you’re serious about inducing a female orgasm—”
“Still convinced it’s a goddamn myth,” Brackston grumbles.
“—then you gotta put in the work. Believe me, I’m as pissed as the rest of you.”
Chase looks hauntedly around at the gathering. “Has anyone noticed how their booties keep growing? With the right lighting, I used to be able to pretend I was average. Now, if I’m hitting it doggy, it looks like a fucking sundried apple stem.”
Before I can stop myself, I blurt out, “Sounds like a personal problem.”
Everyone freezes. SHIT.
In a deceptively calm voice, Brayden asks, “What the fuck was that?’
As I burst from the closet. a horde of douche-bros pour toward me. One of them screams, “Look at his dickprint! It’s the penile equivalent of a goddamn tyrannosaur—HE SHAMES US WITH HIS VERY EXISTENCE!!!”
My hand closes around the knob, but it’s fucking stuck. After a couple of yanks, the door swings open. No dice—they pile on top of me before I can flee. I’m smothered in a legion of snarling faces, determined to exact their small-wienered vengeance.
Fuck it. No options left. So I reach in my pocket and open my eReader to a Kent Wayne novel, activating its mind-bending reality distortion powers. Magic flash.
I feel my womb-hammer trembling in my pants, like it’s about to throw a Dragonball Z-style city-killing hadouken. Suddenly, it rips through the fabric and shoots out of the dogpile, allowing a dozen hands to grab onto the shaft and rip me free of the poorly endowed swarm. While I’m sliding across the deck, I catch a glimpse of my saviors (the murderous frat-bros’ thirsty-ass moms) and the Hans Zimmer Batman theme starts playing out of nowhere, as if Bats had just grappling-hooked out of a Scarecrow-gassed mob.
Brayden’s mom shouts, “Hands off the Man Whore! You know how much stress you generate??? This right here is our only relief!”
The douche-bros drop to their knees in their shock, horrified by the thought of their moms getting widened by yours truly. Some of them sob violently into their hands, others unbutton their shirts with trembling fingers and deadened gazes, apparently ready to commit ritualized seppuku.
One of the soccer moms throws me over her shoulder. As she’s carrying me down the stairs, I throw the frat-douches a cheese-eating smile, accompanied by a cheeky double-handed shaka.
Kent Wayne wins again! HEH heh heh!
😀
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Dirty Sci-Fi Buddha 