I have no desire to return to Facebook. I’m not interested. Stop pestering me about something so trivial. And that shocked (is it even genuine?), high-pitched (I imagine it is) repetitive “Why?” means you’re probably too stupid to understand. Why don’t you go count your bellybutton lint collection?

To the rotten cunt in her SUV on her cellphone who almost hit me today – I hope spiders lay eggs in your ears and your tits rot off. Swearing at me was your second mistake. I hope you arrive at whatever important place you were going, somebody points out that the snot glob I so amazingly landed in your salon perfect hair is indeed a loogy. You are a vile waste of skin, with your retardedly over-sized sunglasses, your frost pink lipgloss, and your talon-like acrylic nails. You make Paris Hilton look like a MENSA member! It really is no wonder that police find people like you in ditches with strangulation marks on your throat. Go get a virulent case of herpes. In your eyes. Where some fratboy SKULL-FUCKS you!

My dad was in a pretty horrific accident this weekend. Totally fucked up his leg. I mean, destroyed it. And of course, I’ve got to listen to all the stupid family shit that now comes with this tragedy, as they all think this accident is about them. The feuding and arguing, the blaming and fake crying, and the opportunistic power plays – they wonder why I left home at 17? Fuck, I hope my dad can make it through them, never mind the physical therapy. What a bag of assholes.

The thing with my family is you should never tell them anything, anything that will get used against you later on. This is why I don’t tell them about my artwork or what I’ve been up to and I keep this all a big secret. I used to think it was because they love to embarrass you over Thanksgiving turkey but it’s really about one-up-manship. Who can be better than the other one through a process of shame, but to what purpose? I don’t have the foggiest… I just wish they’d stop.

This morning I was incensed by the revelations that the rap artist, M.I.A., wasn’t exactly who she puffed herself up to be which also confirmed my sneaking suspicions that the self-proclaimed voice to the young Tamil struggle in Sri Lanka was nothing more than a face (albeit a beautiful one) to an utterly disgusting pop-Frankenstein made up of lethargic, middle-class producers and engineers performing their ill-fitting duties as the cogs in a dying machine called the music industry. Frankly, I think Lynn Hirschberg at the New York Times let Maya Arulpragasam off way too easy, damning her with 9 pages of faint praise and contradiction.

Sure, the song ‘Paper Planes’ captured imaginations rocketing her to fame with it’s sampling of The Clash as a backdrop for her voice over rap – but it only stands to testimony that some things are classics and can stand on their own. And as she borrows here from the great Joe Strummer and company, Maya wraps herself in conflict and strife of the Tamil Tigers, falsely claiming their struggle as her own, and embossed that into the minds of many with that facile, para-military, ginger holocaust styled video in which we were assaulted with on the internet for her song, Born Free.

My first inkling that M.I.A. wasn’t all she said she was came when I was watching Real Time with Bill Maher and he interviewed her asking her about the plight of her native land, to which she seemed to know less to nothing about the Sri Lankan civil war than I did.

Chris Matyszczyk, at Cnet.com, summed up my sentiments this morning, reinforcing my dislike of M.I.A. and Twitter simultaneously. Simply put, Maya Arulpragasam, is a flaming jackass! I pity anyone who bought into her shtick and purchased any of her music. Her persona is like an onion, the more you unravel the layers, the more you are brought to tears, only to then be used to make Revolution Canapé.

Now, why does this even matter to me?

A writing teacher in college once told me, “Don’t write or produce work from the point of view that you know nothing about. It will be your own undoing.” These are words to live by, as an artist. Another one might be, “Don’t shit where you eat.”

I’m the product of my working class family and my environment. Historically, I’m also the first person in the last 200 years (perhaps more) of my family to attend a college and complete my studies. I almost dropped out of college after my second year because I ran out of money, and only when I begged the school to find some need based scholarship funds was I allowed to continue my studies to get my Bachelor in Fine Arts degree of which I have remaining $12,000 in loans I pay at regular monthly intervals. I bust my ass in a graphic design/printing job that sees me as little more than a skilled hand to press buttons, just so my right-wingnut boss can live just off a golf course and make ludicrous payments on a lease for his Porsche to keep up appearances at the country club or on his Match.com dates. I come home and I’m so fucking tired, that what little time I have for myself on weekends is spent doing battle with weeds in my garden or going out looking for somebody to fist my brains out so I can forget it all for a night when I should be making artwork for appreciative clients – not the ones who run magazines who collect thousands of dollars from beer or porn company advertisements or run gay shops in trendy parts of town who can’t be bothered to dole out paltry sums of money to artists trying to make it in this world.

Ask me again why I’m upset and I will keep pointing at charlatans like M.I.A. and the people who like to play the fool.

Stupid doctors, crappy healthcare.
Dressed in head-to-toe gowns
In the air
There’s a forced feeling
of Christmas.

People sick
People passing
Seeing people out of work
and on every street corner you’ll hear

We’re in hell, we’re in hell
It’s Christmas time in the city
Ding-a-ling, Republicans
Soon it will be Christmas day.

Throngs of homeless
Under stop lights
In soup kitchens it’s obscene
As Walmart shoppers rush
home with their treasures.

It’s a cash crunch
Kids without lunch
Glen Beck makes a scene
And above all this bustle
You’ll hear

We’re in hell, we’re in hell
It’s Christmas time in the city
Ding-a-ling, Republicans
Soon it will be Christmas day.

With extreme trepidation I joined the legions of people on Facebook over a year ago after I was censored by the MySpace goon-squad and was likened to ‘lice’. Initially, I found the good-natured and well-mannered people on Facebook to be like crisp, clean sheets – seductive and a great comfort to linger about in on a Sunday afternoon. I’ve made some great friends on there, reconnected with old ones, sold art through it (which I never did on MySpace!), and found the conversations to be adult and way above the troll-like behavior of some of the gay message boards filled with shadowy faces and dubious profiles seemingly created for the sole purpose of flinging feces upon everyone and anyone on the internet.

You had to put your face and some information about yourself on Facebook – hence the name I gather – and meeting people was similar to doing an event or going into a bar and feeling very much like ‘fresh meat’. Good for the ego with none of the downsides. A pure win-win situation, I thought.

Then I started playing the little games and apps on there, spending way too much time clicking and poking and prodding at candy-colored tiles and flash or java based games. I’m a diabetic in a candy store who can’t stop filling his gullet with the oh-so-sweet treats, knowing all too well that I was wasting my time waiting for somebody to reply to my message or comment when they very well might be asleep in bed.

I got lazy somewhere between the crisp, clean sheets – thrusting my butt up in the air, much like my cat does when I come home demanding a good solid brushing, at best and at the worst, like some wanton sex fiend on Craigslist. Where I used to be rather suspect of anyone without a face on Facebook or just a photo and some brief blather about themselves that would make me walk away in any other social situation, I began adding people with glee abandon.

Blind invite after blind invite came so fast and so furious, studied for a brief moment in some sort of A.D.D. litmus test and then added just so I could go back to Scrabble or my Dungeons & Dragons Tiny Adventure or Castle Age, until I was so full of anonymous electronic Facebook semen that I just lost the will to stop. I’ve got ‘friends’ on my Facebook account that I can’t tell you one thing about. Not one! ‘Friends’ with such dubious taste in music, fashion, and some might say lacking in basic intelligence that maybe it is I who should have his head examined!

So I guess it begins and ends with me.

If I want the madness to stop, I have to apply the brakes. That means deleting everyone and anyone whom I don’t like, speak with, have no interest in doing things with, all those desperate people padding their friends lists with ‘cool’ people, even the hot ones, the ones who post Madonna concert footage, the ones who can’t be bothered to spell correctly, and those with personalities that must taste like cardboard. In real life, I have maybe 5 friends. Close friends. Online, I have over 600! Six-hundred people who don’t give a shit about me and frankly, that street goes both ways.

If that makes me a douche, so be it, but at least I’ll feel sane.

Here we are now, at the bottom of the fresh hell my brother has unleashed – nearly 8 years in the making. A ‘disaster bomb’ if you will.

Because of my inability to remember the course of events back to the time when I fled Connecticut for the green grass of Missouri and Kansas and when I held what state license, my plea for logic in the case of my license being suspended and being on the national “DO NOT DRIVE” database, I am now forced to travel to Los Angeles on October 2nd to go to traffic school.

Traffic school for a crime I did not commit. A crime perpetrated on me by my brother that will go unpunished in the arms of the law, but will not go unpunished by the likes of myself. I paid $125 to ‘facilitate the paperwork’ in the Constitution State to only hit a brick wall and within days of submitting concrete proof I was not in the state I have no other alternative but to attend the class in Marina Del Ray.
A class which will run me $100 plus any fees to ‘facilitate the paperwork’ over to CT DMV to clear my name of any traffic violations they can NOT find on record as they only keep them for 3 years.

The mental anguish, physical toll, time wasted on phone calls and in line at the DMV, and the money spent are unlikely to ever be recuperated from my truculent and sorry excuse for a immediate blood relative.

Maybe it’s in the stars that not only my world be turned upside down, but in the government’s star charts as well (if you believe in that mumbo-jumbo) with our country’s economy on the brink of collapse from unregulated ‘yeee-haw’ capitalism. Seriously for a moment, if you vote for McCain – you’re no friend of mine.

All week I waited for Rancid to come to town only to have the show canceled/pushed back to December as Matt Freeman has hurt his arm and shoulder. Disappointed again, but no fault no foul, I hope he gets better.

In the meantime, I’m going to hold on to my sanity (and receipts) and mail them to my brother and family, with a nice note detailing what I’ve been through as they just don’t get it. The rotten cunt owes me over $200 and I’m going to get it back one way or another. Until then, my brother can suck a bag of dicks and I’ll wait for an apology from my family – but I won’t hold my fucking breath.

Otherwise, I’ll pretend I was adopted and forget they even existed.

My birthday came and went with not so much of a *bang* but a whimper, staying in and planning on visiting the dreaded DMV to renew my California license on the Monday following. I stood in line to get a ticket to stand in line once more whereas I hardly spent 15 minutes at the DMV in Kansas, so this made my nerves a little raw to stand in line 45 minutes just to get a deli-style ticket and be lined up to see if we were allowed to wait inside even longer for our magic number to be called to get my propers.

Crying children, dumb jocks, boys who look like used q-tips with their moppy hair and painfully thin emo 70s bodies, white trash from east county, and your random ‘mos notwithstanding – I stood ignoring the great unwashed to get my license.

Denied.

I’m sorry you can’t get your license until your record is cleared in Connecticut.

Pardon?

You have some unfinished traffic issues and a suspended license in Connecticut.

I haven’t been there since I was 17 and I surrendered my license my freshmen year of college, lived in 3 states since then and you are telling me that it’s revoked?

Yes, sir. I’m sorry, sir.

Then it all came back to me. My fucking brother had written my name on traffic tickets he’d gotten while ‘driving without a license’ 7 or 8 years ago and now all the birds have come home to roost.

Steaming mad, I called and threatened my parents and brother with unspeakable acts causing them to fly into a mad panic and rage, turning it all back on me like I was the one committing identity theft in the nutmeg state. After many heated email exchanges, between my family, myself, and my brother’s boyfriend detailing the steps and when I’ll take to seek legal counsel, the only adult in this whole mess (my brother’s boyfriend) played mediator to get me to calm the eff down and to make my brother stop being the bitchy mess he so quickly reverts to under pressure.

Now, I’m in driving limbo, having attempted to seek out information from both CT and California DMVs to find that I’ve been put on a national “do no drive” list that prevents me from getting a license in any state in the union. Fab. And now the mountains of paperwork, pleading, and proving in a logical manner this couldn’t possibly be me doing this while my brother drives without impunity.

Long ago, I’d forgiven him because he told me it was all taken care of. His words, not mine. Last week, those were replaced with fuck-yous and tough-shits and you’re-not-my-brother all directed at me for being matter of fact and a cool headed adult (after I calmed the eff down).

This week, the resolution hangs while I type up my deposition detailing the details under duress to get that chip of plastic and a bad photo so I can drive, get on a flight, write checks, work various state programs, and many other things one might enjoy if they had identification.

Today, I sit in my bedroom playing video games, smashing, exploding, destroying, and jumping up and down on things I imagine to display my brother’s face.

You’re kid is a menace and you are a rotten neighbor.

Your child is definitely a case for making sure a kid isn’t home schooled. This kid runs around all year round with no apparent supervision and barefoot, hits parked cars with CDs and footballs, yelling epithets at neighbors from around the corner of houses, barking like a rabid dog from the darkness of his window when people walk by, leaving ‘stink bombs’ on the front doorstep and the tire of the ice cream truck (which doesn’t come around anymore!), scaring neighborhood pets, screaming like a demon all hours of the day with his gang of neighborhood brats that all need a good swat, flea dip, and a hair cut. When these aggravations are brought to the attention of his inattentive and feckless father, he just rolls his eyes, sighs, and talks to him in a quiet voice conveying nothing to the devil child – who then bald face lies that “It wasn’t me” or “No! I didn’t!”. Holidays roll around and the feral child is lavished with gifts to mollify him. Nice going! That’ll teach him. Try reform school.

To make matters worse, the brat’s father is part of the ‘neighborhood watch’. That’s irony for you seeing how I stopped a guy from stealing a motorcycle while you played cards with the next door neighbors – in the front room!

And now you call my fucking landlady today because I feed cats and get them into loving homes and off the street?!? What kind of mealy-mouthed motherfucker do you have to be? That passive aggressive bullshit doesn’t wash with me, since I’m upfront and in your face almost every weekend telling you to put a damn leash on your devil spawn. Grow a set and confront me like a man. If you didn’t like me feeding those two cats on that side of the street, you could have come over and told me and I’d be happy to oblige, but this isn’t about the cats… it’s about you being impotent to control your kid. Now I’ve got to worry about my landlady calling me?

It’s gotten so bad, that when I was in Seattle, your kid was on his bike pulling a wagon with another kid in it careening into parked cars! Again, who’s going to pay for the damages? When my roommate confronted your kid to stop, he ran and told you he “threatened to kill” him! Your kid is a liar.

You’ve crossed the line now, pal. The next time your kid so much as comes out into the street to do anything untoward people’s property – you’ll be dealing with the police. I’ll relish playing back the video for the officer that I’ve set up facing the front yard and street as your kid cries that “it wasn’t him” for the last time. It’s my only recourse as you refuse to do nothing when I tell you about these problems. I don’t even get an “I’m sorry” from you! And now you call my landlady?!?

I don’t fuck around. Your kid is going to juvie and that’s just the start. I just wonder what city services I can call to do pop inspections of your property with all the rental units you collect money on.

I will destroy you.

My weekend seemed to get off to a good start and having Monday off because some zombie guy died 2000 years ago and my day-job boss is feeling giving. I’m sending out 4 pieces of art on Tuesday and maybe a few extra packages for some friends. Those are the high points and it pretty much goes downhill from here.

I went out on Friday looking to socialize. Did so and came back to not find the friendly feral cat who sleeps on my front porch, which is strange. She’s always out here to greet me and follow me inside for love and food. It’s been over 48 hours now and it’s as if she’s totally disappeared without a trace. Nobody in the neighborhood has seen her or heard anything. She was there when I left. For little over a year now, she’s made my back yard a sanctuary to get away from the street and she waits at the door for food and petting almost like clockwork, 4 times a day. She made the first steps to become friendly with me and just this week she was cuddling with me. I now have little hope left for Patience (the cat) and this makes me incredibly sad. I’m fearing the worst.

To add insult to injury, as I sometimes do, I log into MySpace and add truncated bits of this blog over there to keep people aware of goings on and things I’m proud of with a direct link to what it pertains to in regards to my illustration work and events I attend. I originally joined up to keep in touch with college friends, but it’s morphed into a place to keep in touch with nearly anyone I’ve ever met, slept with, known through events, worked with, gone to school with, collaborated with, or just plain enjoy their company. A friend on there informs me that my blog link is “weird” that links to my post below so I investigate. Here’s what came up:

Now, I’m no spammer, phisher, or “head louse” but either somebody on MySpace is a prude and doesn’t like to read about events that are rather G-Rated or somebody in management at MySpace has a small penis tiny reptilian brain power abuse problem and is making up for his short comings by blocking random users from linking to stuff that may or may not be objectionable without reading any of the content. As you can tell there is nothing wrong with the post below and I don’t even think I used an expletive. They decided that I was to be censored over a rather tame posting where some of my other postings were decidedly left alone and much more, um, not for the faint of heart. I immediately filed a complaint with their help desk.

Surprisingly, I got a nice note from somebody who took time to read the posting and personally offer his dismay and explained to me the general workings of his office atmosphere and corporate bullshit since being bought by right-wing douche-bag, Rupert Murdock. I asked him to escalate the problem to a supervisor (side note: this tactic can be applied to everything you disagree with in life from your percentage on your credit cards to the lack-luster food at your favorite restaurant. 9 times out of 10, it works to get favorable results unless the person you are talking to is less intelligent than a potted fern. You just have to be good at arguing.) but he couldn’t promise me anything as these things usually go on unanswered and fall on deaf ears because everyone is too busy pulling knives out of their backs or feasting on some unfortunate person’s brain like a ravenous jackal. I think if I worked there I’d eat barbed wire to dull the pain.

In any case, I’m leaving MySpace posthaste by Friday the 28th. I’ve been on there for a good solid 4 year stint and informed my peeps of my happy move over to Facebook and to hand over their contact information for any further love and affection. Rupert and his gang of 4th level magic-users can suck hairy goat balls.

This afternoon, I channeled my negative energy onto the overgrown plant life, dirt and rocks. I cut, hacked, weed-whackered, buried, moved, overturned, pruned, killed, and maimed anything I was sick of looking at – much like I’d like to do to most Baracknids and the “reporters” at the Fluffington Post.

This is just what you need – another list of must have music, hot-or-not people, events that will always be remembered as a “2007 Event”, right? Or maybe some wistful, dreamy, dewy-eyed dream for the new year that is now upon us?

Fuck that noise.

I’m going to attempt to re-frame that annual idea as more of a high colonic for all the shit we’ve had to put up with from people I rather wish would just remove themselves from existence. I’ll attempt to vent frustration on some other things that the powers-that-be deemed newsworthy when they actually were not.

I don’t want to hear any more quotes from Paris Hilton, Larry the Cableguy, or any other Huxleyan Gamma Minus that the all too stupid press is hungry to pick up and make nonsense with which to amuse the abundant flock of average nattering numskulls with no ability for rational thought.

And speaking of the Epsilon class… Perez Hilton, please go away. Who died and left this hack access to copyrighted photos, rudimentary photo editing software to “doodle” upon said photos, and the self-inflated ego to comment and fabricate gossip about celebrities we could give two shits about? The man is a professional gay harpy and an amateur human being and if you link to him in your blog-roll, you’ve got problems too.

I can’t watch CNN any more. This year it seems they’ve gone all out trying to retain viewers instead of actual reporting. Glenn Beck? Are you shitting me? Why don’t you just film a cactus for an hour and put that on. At least then you’d get something out of it. I wish this station would close it’s doors. Lynn Russell, save us!

Hey, St. Liberace! Keep your nose out of the politics of a country who is moving forward with a logical progression in human rights. You are a religious leader, stick to what you know. The last time I read the news, gays and lesbians that got married in the few places where it is legal weren’t invading other countries, wrecking other married couple’s homes and taking lives. I think you guys did it best when you called it the Crusades.

So this year, the world finally gets global warming and the argument is over. Everyone and every business seems to be climbing on board to show how green they are and how they are effectively reducing their ‘carbon footprint.’ Fantastic, now where the hell are those hydrogen cars Bush talked about in 2002? If a Honda Civic can get 52 miles/gallon on the highway, don’t you think it’s about time the automotive industry got pulled by the short hairs into this reality we are all living in? I want to see a real drop in the dependency on oil and some actual, usable innovation come out of this industry. You got that, Ford? Ford? Somebody check on Ford because I’m not getting a pulse.

Everyone gets that the Republican Party is full of corrupt, duplicitous, greedy, hypocritical, war-mongering, faux religious, corporate shills who get away with whatever they want? Ok. Good. Moving on.

Everyone gets that the Democratic Party couldn’t fight it’s way out of a paper bag or organize a piss-up in a brewery, right? That includes you, Senator Feinstein and Harry Reid. A pox on your house for not standing with Christopher Dodd over the illegal wire tapping fight he and a mere handful of your party members took to filibuster and had it pulled, but will likely be resurrected when Congress reconvenes. And the pat answers written back to me as if spit out by robot? Lame. I’ve never seen a bigger bunch of lily-livered, overpaid jerks in all my life. You work for us.

No more girl jeans on guys! No more of that Growing Up Gotti hair on guys! (I call this style, The Mup. You’ve seen it. It looks like a dirty mop end and makes the guy look like an absolute muppet.) I’m sure that as soon as this 70′s revival fad passes, the great unwashed inevitably will come up with something abysmally worse. Remember the faux-hawk?

Morrissey. Oh, Morrissey! What the hell is wrong with you? Suing the NME over the comments you made in an interview? For the sake of all things sensible, you are the son of an Irish immigrant, you lived in Los Angeles and now live in Italy and you make xenophobic comments about immigration? This is staggeringly bizarre. Then you blame the guy who recorded the comments? It creeps me out that I have music in my collection that sounds more and more like a Tory MP with each gray hair.

No more reality television. Ever. And don’t talk to me about it like I might care. Go read a book!

During the writer strike, Keith Olbermann has been a welcome discovery this year. Keep up the good fight, Keith!

I have to try to scale back my ideas for things I’d like to do, like trying to learn Spanish, which I never started. Maybe I should set the bar low and try to be more social? Hmm… Maybe I should just learn Spanish.

He was tall, bald on purpose, and was wearing Dickies shorts even though the San Diego weather was a bit nippy today. There was some grease across Ron’s work shirt from working on cars all day. I had my estimate for my breaks that needed to be done along with an oil change and my 60,000 mile check up. $531. I figured it would be a little more than the estimate. It always is, but it’s a Hyundai so it couldn’t possibly be that bad. Right?

“Hi! You’re car is all set,” he smiled as friendly as he could, “Can I ask you to stand and face the desk?”

That’s an odd request, I thought. I shrugged and placed my thighs against the faux wood desk that was rimmed with cold aluminum.

“So what’s the damage?”

His small right hand wore a wedding ring and it gripped my shoulder and squeezed several times.

“Unbuckle your belt and push your jeans all the way down.”

“What?”

“You don’t have a say,” he said as he slapped the back of my head, “Drop your goddamn jeans. And your underwear too.”

I unbuckled my belt with the studs in it and pushed my dark blue jeans just to my knees. Ron pressed his boot into the crotch of my jeans and boxers and pushed them to my ankles. He kicked the insides of my boots to spread my legs apart farther and slammed my chest down on the desk.

“The grand total is $985.28!”

“WHAT?” I felt his ungreased knob push clumsily into my pucker and kept pushing until it went in. One solid push.

“I’ll review,” he sighed pulling out and slamming my thighs back into the desk as I saw sparkles and spots, “We had to do a lot of work, machining your brake rotors and your drums. You gonna be alright?”

“NO!” I couldn’t see straight. I was kind of numb. He banged me harder into the desk moving it a bit forward. I grabbed the side to brace myself. “This is expensive! You could have been more clear!”

“Sorry,” he sucked air through his beautiful teeth. I didn’t need to look over my shoulder. I knew. I saw them earlier. “I should have been more clear. We replaced your brake pads and rear break shoes, but I’m guessing you knew this was coming.”

“Yeah. Oh yeah.” I was beginning to get where this was all going. He picked up the pace banging me good now. Hard and steady and right to the balls.

“The motor oil…”

“Uh.”

“Spark plugs…”

“MmHm.”

“The oil filter…”

“Yeah…”

“Coolant…”

“Mmmhmmph!”

“Timing belt…”

“Ugh!”

“Three accessory belts…”

“FUCK!”

“These were all replaced too. You ok? I know this has gotta hurt a bit.”

“I’m used to it.”

“Yeah. I really did a thorough job inspecting the car, rotated the tires, and then there was the labor. How do you want to pay?”

I was sweating. He reached down into my wallet and thumbed through my credit cards, ramming his thick married cock into me as I wondered if he fucked his wife like this.

“Mastercard? Cool.”

In one swift movement he swiped my card, leaned down with that firm hand on my shoulder placing the slip in front of my face firmly pressed into the desk. His warm breath in my ear, his back arched and his hips humping all 11 inches of his dirty cock deep inside my ass.

“Go ahead and sign there. Yeah. Sign it. Sign IT! Fuckin’ sign it! Christ… mmph… sign that fuckin’ thing!”

“$985.28. Fuck. OK. Ugh… This is so fuckin’ painful! This really hurts!”

“Sorry man. It’s almost over.”

He bucked and bucked, coating the walls of my rectum with his steaming hot spunk as I signed my signature, taking it like a man.

“Here’s your card,” Ron pulled out of me with one quick pop of his enormous dick, handing me my credit card, “Go ahead and clean my cock off. I can’t go home smelling like I fuck people hard for a living.”

I greedily gobbled and licked him clean, tasting myself and all the other people he’d done this to today. He zipped up as I pulled my pants back up, shook my hand and thanked me for coming by before he closed that day.

It happened just like that.

Except without all the fun bits – but that would have been worth the money.