He arrived in a three-piece pinstripe suit cosplay: Monopoly boarD



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carrying a small, scuffed duffel bag. After gulping some lukewarm wine he opened his chamber of secrets and removed a layer of crumpled newspapers. Underneath was a collection of the cheapest sorts of sex toys. Beige cocks wobbled drunkenly next to rubber band rings with AA battery joy buzzers attached to them. Smeared plastic mini vibes, an extra pair of socks, an almost empty bottle of KY.

He turned to me and goggled his eyes out. “Are you ready to have some fun?!” Conspicuously absent were condoms.

What followed was an hour and a half of the horror porn version of Noises Off. Silent incomprehension, bumped heads, a general plot of pursuit. He tried to insert something into my body in the wrong way using the wrong schema of infectious disease approximately every 90 seconds. The word “no” didn’t seem to work, so I periodically threatened to kick him out, which bought me about ten minutes of sanity. He bulged his eyes at me and sang baritone love songs from the ‘50s throughout. At the very end of the session I figured out that stuffing the largest of the dildos down his throat was his button. With his mouth stoppered I finally figured out who I was fucking: Dennis Hopper in Blue Velvet.