Tuesday 1/23/24
Another dream, and soon enough Langston realized he was having his favorite kind again.
There he was talking on the phone with that red-haired Russian escort with the clean bill of sexual health who was really into him.
Wasn’t business for her with Langston, no sir. Zero charge, but he’d kick a few rubles her way. Putting herself through school like that studying art. Had to admire it.
“You come over soon, yes?” she asked—no, pleaded. “We have horny date. You like horny date, yes?”
“I’m busy, baby,” Langston replied, holding fast to the line because he was a captain of industry and discipline mattered.
“Work wait,” purred Walecka. “You come. We have horny date. Please, I need. I use mouth hole. You like mouth hole, no?”
“I’ll be there as soon as I can,” Langston promised.
A man in demand has to be focused.
She sure knew a lot about Color Field painting. Talk your head off with it afterwards.
Then the alarm rang out and it was Monday morning.
Langston had that feeling he hated that there was something unpleasant he should be remembering and then it occurred to him that his team had blown the big playoff game last night.
He was still groggy. Maybe they didn’t. Could be that the morning was playing tricks. Here was hoping.
He thought about it for another second or two. Yeah, they did lose. Last second missed field goal. Blew it again.
Motherfuckers.
And it was freezing. No such thing as a short walk to the shower when you’re cold.
Langston padded down the hallway, arms crossed against his chest, shivering, acutely aware of his nipples.
His penis felt small. Now would not be the time for a doctor to see him and he hoped he didn’t present this way at his check-ups.
