I orgasm by rubbing my penis against my wife’s thigh, whom I can't believe is my wife sometimes. Little Miss Obama shirt. My little Scully.
She places an order for Amazon Now. In the order are Clif Bars, macaroni, some soap, some Chips Ahoy, and some pretzel sticks.
The order is supposed to come between ten and twelve. I put my clothes on at 9:50, but the order doesn’t arrive until twelve thirty.
Musette is fast asleep by then.
I am upset at having my porn watching opportunities so seriously cut into, so I masturbate twice in a row to make up for the lost time.
This would have affected me a lot more back when I believed that the number of times a person masturbated in a day changed their physiognomy and personality, thinking it was like some sort of slot machine wheel, spinning, revolving around different character traits, like, one time was a refresher, two reverted you to who you were yesterday, and three turned you into some sort of tomorrow creature.
It got complicated after three, nine having been such an important number to me back then, me being so disappointed when my record stopped at seven.
I still don’t know what that means for me, seven. Maybe it’s why I’m so likely to die early in war. Maybe it’s why I’m still alive.