.
I was fishing for a compliment and so I threw my line into Sinperu’s pond.
“Do you find me attractive?”
“You’re not Brad Pitt.”
Now I don’t particularly like to be asked a question when the questioner has a vested interest in my answer. I have been asked by yoga instructors or the front desk at the studio after a class, “Did you like the class?” to which case I almost always feel a little guilty when I reply, “Not really.” Of course, I answer this way regardless of whether I enjoyed the class or not just to teach the douchebag that asking such a needy question was a pressure-inducing dick move.
But I have to admit to being a little taken aback by her answer to my own question. I guess I was like everyone else: when I asked the question I didn’t just want an answer, I wanted the answer I wanted to hear. Something along the lines of, “You’re the hottest piece of ass I’ve ever had,” a line that was whispered into my ear after sex one cold prison night and just thinking about it warms not only my heart but my buttocks, was what I was looking for. Instead I got, “You’re not Brad Pitt.”
Dejectedly I went to the bathroom and stripped down naked. I looked at my body. My hair—long and matted like a dirty hippie, some of it seemingly burrowing back substrata from the top of my head and resurfacing through my ears. My forehead—scars from youthful falls, kickboxing cuts and walking into poles and walls. My chest—wasn’t it a few inches higher just a year ago? My abs—what was once as hard and ripped as a ripcord now sadly reminds me of Michelin Man. The only thing moderately appealing about me was my near-perfect 14” cock; if it weren’t for a freak accident involving peanut butter and a pack of wild dogs, it would be perfect. Let’s check out the rearview.
I turned around and saw the cause of the mysterious dragging sound that has been following me for years. My ass, big and muscular when I was squatting with 365 lbs. for reps, had lost the bulk at its bottom and now looked like many of the flat-ass old men I have seen in the gay bathhouses I have frequented over the years. What used to be a smooth piece of granite that would bend the first half-dozen steroid needles I stuck into it, now looked as if someone had given me an ass-kicking while wearing a pair of spiked golf shoes. This inspection had gone from bad to worse.
I put on my clothes, for at this point even I was starting to feel a little queasy looking at my disgusting body, and left the bathroom. I really had no response to neutralize Sinperu’s comment. The best I could come up with was, “Get the fuck out.”
. When I was alone, I went online and checked out a few Brad Pitt clips from the movie Troy on YouTube. I wasn’t satisfied with just seeing gorgeous dirty-blonde hair and chiseled arms, so I searched out the sex scene between him and the female prisoner he took and had his way with, which gave me a nostalgic moment to my prison years where I vowed next time that I was locked up I would play the “Captor” instead of the “Captive,” if for no other reason than to allow me to hear my farts again.
Now I consider myself predominantly straight, despite the prison sodomy and bathhouse gay sex, but as I watched his rock-hard tight ass on top of this woman, even I wanted to take a bite of it. For a guy who could argue about anything,
I imagined Brad Pitt asking Angelina, “Do you find me attractive?” and her response being, “You’re no Brad Pitt,” to which he would have the ability to come back, “Actually, I am.” And then it hit me.
I called up Sinperu and told her I wanted to have a role-playing romp and told her to wear the sexiest outfit she could find and I would be over to her place in 10-minutes flat already wearing a condom. When I got to her place, the door was slightly ajar and so I pushed my way into her apartment. There she was, splayed out on her plush brown velvet couch, wearing black lacy lingerie that would make the chick from George Michael’s “I Want Your Sex” video jealous. Her black lace bra pushed her breasts together for added cleavage to her already full breast. You could make out her erect nipples if you were looking hard enough—and I was. Her panties also had a lacy sheerness to them and a garter belt that held up French lace stockings framed them nicely.
She spread her knees apart invitingly and said, “Do you find me attractive?”
Without missing a beat I said, “You’re not Angelina Jolie,” and turned and left.
[...] Go here to see the original: Not Brad Pitt [...]
This golf blog must have a program that sends them notice when someone uses a golf term in order that they can cross-link and hopefully increase their traffic. I doubt they know–or probably care–that I was referring to my ass and not anything to do with the boring game of golf when I wrote:
“What used to be a smooth piece of granite that would bend the first half-dozen steroid needles I stuck into it, now looked as if someone had given me an ass-kicking while wearing a pair of spiked golf shoes”
Had I known, I would have added” “…the closest I’d ever get to anything ‘golf,’ as that ‘game’ is only for fags who are too pussy to beat each other up in the name of sport like real men.”
haha. Wow, Brad Pitt is so not attractive. With all those craters he has on his face, dude…take it as a compliment when you’re told “You’re not Brad Pitt”