Page 91 of Stroked by (Stroked)
Hopping on my back and straddling my body, she laughs and says, “You’re so ridiculous.”
I don’t budge. “Please, let me nurse my wounds in private. It’s the least you can do after castrating me with your comment.”
“Well,” she hops off me and onto the bedroom floor, “guess I’ll head home then.”
Damn her!
Sprinting out of bed, I run after her, naked parts flying around my bedroom. Her giggle fills the room, and right before she escapes the bedroom, I hook her around her waist and pull her back to my bed, corralling her body with mine.
Pinning her hands above her head, I say, “Why can’t I ever win with you?”
“I’m smarter.” She winks. “It’s the jock in you.”
“Hey now.” I chuckle. “I know things.”
“Random, nonsensical pen facts.”
Outraged with laughter, I say, “These facts save lives.”
“I’m sure they do. All I can say is, thank God you’re pretty.”
“Pretty?” I ask, a raise to my eyebrow.
She raises her chin, sticking to her term. “Yeah, pretty.”
“Not ruggedly handsome? Sexy? Some might say I have the body of a Greek god, but that’s just hearsay.”
“I can’t stand you right now.” She chuckles.
“That’s disappointing, because I was getting ready to lick the fuck out of your pussy, but I guess if you can’t stand me—”
“On second thought.” She palms my head and pushes it down between her legs.
“Fucking horny woman.”
“Whatever.” She settles into the mattress. “You know you like it.”
I part her slit that’s glistening and give her one long, luxurious swipe with my tongue, causing her to moan. “You’re right, I do like it.”
Chapter Twenty-One
**BELLINI**
I feel bad for anyone who has to be around me on a daily basis. Not because I’m some deviant looking to cut a bitch with every turn of the corner. No, I’m a saint in a sweater set with high morals and a heart of gold. I feel bad for people because I am the epitome of everything beautiful, inside and out . . . but mainly out.
I don’t care what society tries to tell us; we judge people by their looks. It’s human nature. I’m guilty of it. I refuse to be served by the giant mole with a residing black hair poking out of it at The Brown Derby—it’s where all the celebrities go—despite the wretched waitress who refuses to see Dr. Kevin downtown who can laser off such monstrosities. Honestly, I’m at the point of taking my father’s state-of-the-art samurai sword and chopping it off myself, only to serve it to her on a platter. See how she likes it.
Thankfully, I was born with perfect bone structure, flawless skin, and hair as golden as the sun. I’m beautiful, an integral cog in this world for making it a more suitable place to live. Could you imagine if we had pot-faced platypuses walking around this earth, their lips plucked out and unshapely clothes that would look better on a homeless asshole caressing their bodies? Harsh? No, it’s the truth. That’s how I see the people around me. Most of the time, the human race is too offensive to look at. You think I’m being a little severe? I’m not.
Fact one: high-waisted pants have come back around in the fashion world. Sure, they look cute on Taylor Swift but on everyone else, they’re a picture frame to the art you’re mounting between your legs. The camel toe. Ladies, if your lips are defined by your pants, it’s time to make a change. No one wants to see the crevice to your private parts. Positively ghastly!
Fact two: glitter. It will never be in style, despite how you want to paint it. Oh, it’s unicorn farts, it’s the rain at kitty’s play palace, Leprechaun sneezes are just glitter spreading around the world. No mythical idea will ever make glitter okay. It’s made for whores, prostitutes, and drag queens. Unless you’re one of those, then your glitter use should cease immediately. You’re no longer a menstruating tween making poor decisions that will affect your social life forever. Cut it out.
Fact three: tattoos. What an appalling idea. You want to express yourself? Here’s five dollars, go get a diary and write it down. They’re hot, they’re symbolic, they represent who I am . . . false. If you are a trash bag dug up from the inner depths of the graveyard of biker’s anonymous, then sure, get a tattoo. You’ll fit in perfectly.
Fact four: cat shirts. So you’re wearing a sock hat these days with jeans so tight that when you bend over, they stretch to the point we can see your skin. You’re a hipster, congratulations, oh, I mean,whatevs. I won’t even go into how hipsters are just geeks trying to act cool, but I have to mention the cat shirts. No matter how much you try to spin it, it’s a cat on a shirt. I don’t care if it’s flying on a Pop-Tart, if it has laser beams coming out of its eyes, or its face is mingled in a pepperoni pizza. It’s a cat on a shirt and should never be worn by a grown adult unless your name is Aunt Milly and you can’t remember if you put your dentures in your mouth or in your butthole. Burn the damn shirt and ask for repentance.
I could go on forever about the poor choices made by the human race, but I’m already bored.
