 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
|
 |
 |
|
 |
|
|
|
|
|
|
My Own Pad Jay finally gets some Finally, I can masturbate in the living room. I don't mean to let you in on more than you care to know about me, but this is a pretty big deal for me and I just want to share it with everyone. For the first time in my life, I'll be living completely alone. No family or roommates around to interfere with my vibrant, self-contained sex life. No more looking straight down to the ground when my mother points out, "I can't believe this Bath and Body Works hand cream is going so quickly!" No more questioning glances from my roommate's friends as I return from the bathroom during Planet of the Apes for the third time. No more "Jay, phone call!" at the worst possible time. Nope, from now on I'm free to wax the bishop wherever and whenever I damn well please. Don't get me wrong - it's not like I never get any. But because relationships tend to drain my will to live and I haven't quite mastered the delivery of that "If I told you that you had a beautiful body, would you hold it against me?" line, I find myself spending more time alone than a lot of my male comrades. So now that I have my own single-bedroom apartment, the big question has been burning in my mind - does this mean that I have to start a porn collection? I've never really understood porn, probably because I've never owned any. I mean, the fear of my mother discovering a stack of magazines entitled Skanky Hoes or Bitch in Heat as a kid was rivaled only by the fear of hearing the cops at the door shouting, "Come on out - we know you bombed the state capitol!" Plus it never really held any fascination for me, since those girls usually seem a bit too ... I don't know ... used-up, I guess. And just way too much makeup. So why should I waste my money when a simple trip to the grocery store and a careful selection of the right cashier will do the trick just fine? But all these guys I know have their own collection of porn, so maybe it's simply the guy thing to do. And they're always going on about the wonders of the Internet, but that gets me paranoid. I've gone to great lengths to pass drug tests for jobs before, but what if someday jobs or landlords require an Internet history check? What if I accidentally link to some bestiality site and then, a year or two down the road, decide that I'd like to work for the SPCA? And no physical evidence of imaginative debauchery will keep my record clean. What if I die in a car accident and my mother comes to my apartment to clean out my stuff? Oh, the look on her face. And if, by some chance, a female does decide to step into my new pad, I'll never have to make that most embarrassing of explanations. So I guess I'll continue to be "not like the other guys." Hey, don't laugh - at least it'll keep my imagination in good shape. (By the way, if you're the cute Safeway cashier with the pierced tongue and the red hair, thanks.) And until Ms. Right comes walking through that door, I have seven hundred square feet of my own Dionysian temple to defile. For now, I guess, I'm off to ... um, watch TV. |
||
|
|
|||
