How depression is making me consider running instead of prostitution.
I’ve tried prostitution. I was that sad puppy left in his shelter cage. All the pretty girls insisted they don’t need to pay to have sex with me. Well, that certainly was depressing. I tried wagging my tail, making sad eyes and even posted a notice that I am up to date on my shots. Nothing.
I’m going to begin jogging. Heck, maybe I’ll become an Olympian. All that testicular bounce-age should reduce my sexual urges. Soon I’ll have an ab or six–they seem to be very attractive to women, based on the top romance novel covers. I’ll begin gelling up my hair, shaving my chest, and wearing scarves with v-neck t-shirts. Hm, that may attract the other gender, and I’m not quite that fed up yet.
What’s a male prostitute to do?
I watched Gigolos on Showtime, to get some ideas. This made me want to dive into a wood chipper. How can any woman actually want, let alone pay to have sex with one of these freak-tards?
Women seem to enjoy men in suits. I could dust off a few jackets from last decade, slide on some loafers, and wrap my wrist in (fake) Rolex. Then again, that will give the impression of wealth, thus defeating the intent of finding a lovely lady to pay me to have sex with her.
This is so depressing. Pardon me while I do some online shopping. It improves my mood. Oh, how I love seeing that brown truck pull up, hearing the squeaky gate hinge followed by the flop of the box and the doorbell. BRB…
OK, I’m back. I feel a little better. What did I buy? A slow cooker and nose hair clippers. Well, you asked.
I think it was some dead CEO guy who said something to the tune of “if you act important, people will assume you are.” I didn’t read much further because, well, the guy is dead. How good can his advice be when he couldn’t even stay the fuck alive, right? Still, I bet the rest of the paragraph had something to do with sex–perhaps, “If women think you’re important, they’ll lift their skirts for you.” I can do that. I’ll act important. I’ll check my phone frequently, place an occasional blue tooth call, and demand that my personal assistants fetch me eggs and caviar. Yay, much sexage is coming my way!
Guess I could just pay for sex. Kind of do anyway. Gas money, movie tickets, wine, dinners, and morning-after pills add up. It’s frowned-upon though. People are so distracted with buying guns, predicting who’s quarterbacking the Jets this week, and buying Lululemon pants, they probably wouldn’t notice if I bought a slice of ass or two. Heck, this could be my gift to America. My economic stimulus. If a hummingbird in California can cause a tornado in Texas, my John-ing might steer this fine (well-armed) country clear of the fiscal cliff.
It’s no use. I’ll never make it in prostitution or marathons. Best I stick to pounding this keyboard in hopes of selling a few books, which could actually make me rich and famous and bring me lots of sex … or, not.
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