OK, I will try this twitter thing. Here's my entry in case you don't get twitters:
Henry Hobbs drove into the Third Ward on a Wednesday night after bowling. He knew the ONYX club and he knew of the trailers in the darkness beyond the gravel parking lot. He needed his horns trimmed, his pipes cleared, his load loosened. He drove with the fiery bravado of eleven shiner bock?s in his big southern belly. He didn?t bother with the strip club. He went straight to the trailers and knocked. The little window in the door slid open all speakeasy style and he was in. The whores were sleepy that night. They lounged on ratty couches and appeared to be eastern European, with sharp jaws and steely eyes. All of them wore lingerie except one sporting a biker bitch look with a snap back cap and a silver chain clamped to her nipple at the one end. He chooses one of the bolviks, the one without sores on her face, and she ushers him back to a tiny bedroom.
He strips down and carefully placed his jeans and bowling shirt on the dresser. He left his socks on. They were the therapeutic type, for his circulation. They were black and high, halfway up his calves. It felt clinical almost. Like therapy for the naked. Mercy. And then it was on, it was all arms and legs at first. And then it settled into the rhythm of missionary. The old in out. He?s sawing and sawing without purpose. He tries to concentrate. He plays the slideshow in his mind: Johannesson, Anniston, the Baywatch Locklear, a random cheerleader, Cindy Hemmitt, the girl next door. But nothings working. There?s a disconnect between his brain and his organ. The shiner bock parade at the Lucky Strike has left him listless and numb. His bladder feels like a fifty gallon drum, full to the brim, in the back of a dumptruck going seventy miles per hour.
?пожалуйста, закончите!? She cries. She motions for him to lay on his back. He flips over and she straddles him like Johnny Bench and works his johnson like a brand new lightbulb. Just as he?s gaining some traction, he notices the ceiling is mirrored and he completely loses focus. He can?t stop staring at himself. He looked silly. Fat and white and those goofy black socks. He thinks, I?d rather be home. I?d rather be at Appleby?s watching the Rockets. But there?s no magic slippers, and he?s many miles away from the comforts of his sock drawer and everything around it.
This post would get deleted and you would get banned from Twitter. Tweets are only 240 characters long. Keep it short and make your point quickly. Post sex fantasies on a different site.