Wednesday, August 17, 2011
Saturday, March 26, 2011
Hunger, But Not For Food; Hunger For Sex!
“I needs me some sex right now!” I proclaimed.
Professor Cockblocker looked up from his desk at the front of the room. “Be quiet, Mr. Playson,” he said. “This exam is worth 40% of your final grade. I suggest you focus.”
“I am focused,” I said. “Focused on my gonads and that lovely lady.” I pointed at a sexy chica seated in the row in front of me. She blushed. Oh, I liked the shy ones! I’d have to grab her digits after the final exam. I’d have to grab more than her digits, if you know what I mean! Awwwww, yeah!
“Mr. Playson,” Cockblocker started.
“I need sex!” I interrupted. “I yearn for it! I hunger for it, as it were. I long for it in my bones! And in my boner!”
“Claybor!” Professor Cockblocker yelled. “Shut up and finish your test or I will give you an F right now!”
“Okay,” I said. “Chill, man, just chill! Take it easy.”
My classmates stifled laughs. They admired my wit and candor. The avoided me in social situations because they were intimidated by my coolness and animal magnetism. The men wanted to be me. The honeys wanted to do me.
My name is The Playah. Okay, well, actually my name is Claybor Playson, but everyone calles me The Playah. Sex and I go hand in hand. Some people say I have a sex addiction problem, but they’re just jealous.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to write this final for Human Anatomy.
* * *
That evening, there was a huge bash at the college’s bar celebrating the end of the semester. In preparation for this sexerific event, I was spraying on my Axe spray-on deodorant. I was now irresistible to the ladies!
My roommate, Albert Aloysius “Mac-Dog” MacBeal, was a Tag man. It’s no wonder I’ve had twice as much action as he’s had. No, make that THRICE the action!
“Hey, Playah,” Mac-Dog said as he put his bling on. “Who’s driving to the bar?”
“The Chillah is,” I said as I positioned my ball cap at just the right angle over my bandana. “He’ll be here any minute.”
As if speaking his name summoned him, just like the devil, there was a knock on the door. His bling chattering, Mac-Dog went to the door and let Chillah in.
“Yo, Mac-Dog!” Chillah’s voice boomed.
“Wassup, Chillah!”
They each formed a T with the first three fingers on each hand. Together, they said, “Triple Threat!” You see, Triple Threat is the name of our exclusive gang. We’re the only three people bad enough to belong to it.
Satisfied with my hat, I grabbed a box of condoms and rolled them up in the sleeve of my T-shirt.
“Hey, Chillah,” I said.
“Hey, Playah,” Chillah—aka John G. Chilliwak—said. We flashed each other the Triple Threat salute and punched our fists together.
“How many senoritas are you gonna bang tonight?” Chillah asked.
I shrugged. “Six or seven. Can we go already? I haven’t had sex in three days!”
We left the house that Mac-Dog and I shared and went out to Chillah’s car. We had stolen the house last year from a family of five. Chillah’s car was a pimped out stolen police car. The cop he had stolen it from was dead. Chillah had killed him for giving him a jaywalking ticket. There were still lights on the roof, but instead of blue and red, they were neon green and pink.
Chillah got behind the wheel, Mac-Dog got in the passenger seat, and I got in the back with the subwoofer.
We arrived at the bar in a sea of swirling pink and green while Eminem blasted out of the siren, which Chillah had hooked up to the stereo.
The three of us strutted in the front door, Chillah in the middle.
“Triple Threat is in the hizouse!” Mac-Dog yelled and held his arms up, three fingers extended from each hand.
I was immediately on scan mode. So many hot mamas! “Who’s the first lucky ho to play with The Playah?” I yelled. The ladies looked at me. I could see the hunger in their eyes. Hunger for my man meat.
The three of us split up to sniff out some honeys. I quickly found the hottest piece of tail in the bar. She was a blonde vixen in a tight, low-cut sweater and a miniskirt. I danced towards her. It was my irresistible Do-Me dance. I was a hunky hurricane of hips and hands. She couldn’t keep her eyes off of me.
When I was close to her, I said, “Knock-knock.”
“Who’s there?” she asked.
“Richard.”
“Richard who?”
“Sir Richard Screwsalot, but you can call me Dick.” On that last word, I thrust my hips at her.
The mamacita laughed in delight. “Hi,” she said. “My name’s…”
“Shh,” I said and put my finger to her lips. “It doesn’t matter.” I took her hand and kissed it.
“You’re cute,” she said.
“Puppies are cute,” I disagreed. “I’m a stallion. And if you’re bad, I’ll let you ride me bareback.” I pantomimed riding a horse, whipping it with an invisible whip.
The vixen laughed. “Oh, I can be bad.” She jumped on my back and smacked my butt. “Giddy-up, horsey!”
I galloped out the back door into an alley. My tractor was revving; I was ready to plow her soil.
She kissed me deep as I slipped my hand under her sweater, up her back. We ripped each other’s clothes off in a frenzy of lust. In the rush to get naked, my box of condoms flew off into the dark.
“My condoms!” I mumbled around her tongue. I looked over her shoulder to see if I could spot them.
“Forget the condoms,” she said and wrestled me to the ground.
I forgot the condoms.
* * *
“So how many?” Chillah asked the next morning.
“Eight!” I announced.
“Daaaaaamn!” Mac-Dog exclaimed and slapped my back. “You truly are The Playah! I only scored once, but it was with two chicks.”
“How did your night go, Chillah?” I asked.
Chillah shrugged. “I killed four people. Not my best night. I was feeling generous.”
“How’d you do ‘em?” Mac-Dog asked.
Chillah counted on his fingers as he listed them off: “Shot one in the heart, stabbed on in the ear, curb-stomped one, and ran over one in my car.”
“Sweet!” Mac-Dog said.
* * *
“I’m pregnant.” The blonde girl who said this to me looked like she could’ve been hot, but she looked tired, unkempt, and unfashionable.
“Do I know you?” I asked.
“Three weeks ago at the end-of-semester party.”
“Oh, right,” I said. “The girl who lost my condoms.” I reached into my wallet and pulled out a card. “This is a good abortion clinic.”
“I don’t want to go here!” She pinched the card between her thumb and index finger as if it were diseased.
“Ah, you’re a do-it-yourselfer, are ya?” I reached into my car and pulled out a red purse. “When you’re done, put it in here,” I instructed. “Then leave it up on the mountainside or something.”
“Oh,” she said and took the purse. “O-okay.”
I’m The Playah, yo. Triple Threat, dawg!
Professor Cockblocker looked up from his desk at the front of the room. “Be quiet, Mr. Playson,” he said. “This exam is worth 40% of your final grade. I suggest you focus.”
“I am focused,” I said. “Focused on my gonads and that lovely lady.” I pointed at a sexy chica seated in the row in front of me. She blushed. Oh, I liked the shy ones! I’d have to grab her digits after the final exam. I’d have to grab more than her digits, if you know what I mean! Awwwww, yeah!
“Mr. Playson,” Cockblocker started.
“I need sex!” I interrupted. “I yearn for it! I hunger for it, as it were. I long for it in my bones! And in my boner!”
“Claybor!” Professor Cockblocker yelled. “Shut up and finish your test or I will give you an F right now!”
“Okay,” I said. “Chill, man, just chill! Take it easy.”
My classmates stifled laughs. They admired my wit and candor. The avoided me in social situations because they were intimidated by my coolness and animal magnetism. The men wanted to be me. The honeys wanted to do me.
My name is The Playah. Okay, well, actually my name is Claybor Playson, but everyone calles me The Playah. Sex and I go hand in hand. Some people say I have a sex addiction problem, but they’re just jealous.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to write this final for Human Anatomy.
* * *
That evening, there was a huge bash at the college’s bar celebrating the end of the semester. In preparation for this sexerific event, I was spraying on my Axe spray-on deodorant. I was now irresistible to the ladies!
My roommate, Albert Aloysius “Mac-Dog” MacBeal, was a Tag man. It’s no wonder I’ve had twice as much action as he’s had. No, make that THRICE the action!
“Hey, Playah,” Mac-Dog said as he put his bling on. “Who’s driving to the bar?”
“The Chillah is,” I said as I positioned my ball cap at just the right angle over my bandana. “He’ll be here any minute.”
As if speaking his name summoned him, just like the devil, there was a knock on the door. His bling chattering, Mac-Dog went to the door and let Chillah in.
“Yo, Mac-Dog!” Chillah’s voice boomed.
“Wassup, Chillah!”
They each formed a T with the first three fingers on each hand. Together, they said, “Triple Threat!” You see, Triple Threat is the name of our exclusive gang. We’re the only three people bad enough to belong to it.
Satisfied with my hat, I grabbed a box of condoms and rolled them up in the sleeve of my T-shirt.
“Hey, Chillah,” I said.
“Hey, Playah,” Chillah—aka John G. Chilliwak—said. We flashed each other the Triple Threat salute and punched our fists together.
“How many senoritas are you gonna bang tonight?” Chillah asked.
I shrugged. “Six or seven. Can we go already? I haven’t had sex in three days!”
We left the house that Mac-Dog and I shared and went out to Chillah’s car. We had stolen the house last year from a family of five. Chillah’s car was a pimped out stolen police car. The cop he had stolen it from was dead. Chillah had killed him for giving him a jaywalking ticket. There were still lights on the roof, but instead of blue and red, they were neon green and pink.
Chillah got behind the wheel, Mac-Dog got in the passenger seat, and I got in the back with the subwoofer.
We arrived at the bar in a sea of swirling pink and green while Eminem blasted out of the siren, which Chillah had hooked up to the stereo.
The three of us strutted in the front door, Chillah in the middle.
“Triple Threat is in the hizouse!” Mac-Dog yelled and held his arms up, three fingers extended from each hand.
I was immediately on scan mode. So many hot mamas! “Who’s the first lucky ho to play with The Playah?” I yelled. The ladies looked at me. I could see the hunger in their eyes. Hunger for my man meat.
The three of us split up to sniff out some honeys. I quickly found the hottest piece of tail in the bar. She was a blonde vixen in a tight, low-cut sweater and a miniskirt. I danced towards her. It was my irresistible Do-Me dance. I was a hunky hurricane of hips and hands. She couldn’t keep her eyes off of me.
When I was close to her, I said, “Knock-knock.”
“Who’s there?” she asked.
“Richard.”
“Richard who?”
“Sir Richard Screwsalot, but you can call me Dick.” On that last word, I thrust my hips at her.
The mamacita laughed in delight. “Hi,” she said. “My name’s…”
“Shh,” I said and put my finger to her lips. “It doesn’t matter.” I took her hand and kissed it.
“You’re cute,” she said.
“Puppies are cute,” I disagreed. “I’m a stallion. And if you’re bad, I’ll let you ride me bareback.” I pantomimed riding a horse, whipping it with an invisible whip.
The vixen laughed. “Oh, I can be bad.” She jumped on my back and smacked my butt. “Giddy-up, horsey!”
I galloped out the back door into an alley. My tractor was revving; I was ready to plow her soil.
She kissed me deep as I slipped my hand under her sweater, up her back. We ripped each other’s clothes off in a frenzy of lust. In the rush to get naked, my box of condoms flew off into the dark.
“My condoms!” I mumbled around her tongue. I looked over her shoulder to see if I could spot them.
“Forget the condoms,” she said and wrestled me to the ground.
I forgot the condoms.
* * *
“So how many?” Chillah asked the next morning.
“Eight!” I announced.
“Daaaaaamn!” Mac-Dog exclaimed and slapped my back. “You truly are The Playah! I only scored once, but it was with two chicks.”
“How did your night go, Chillah?” I asked.
Chillah shrugged. “I killed four people. Not my best night. I was feeling generous.”
“How’d you do ‘em?” Mac-Dog asked.
Chillah counted on his fingers as he listed them off: “Shot one in the heart, stabbed on in the ear, curb-stomped one, and ran over one in my car.”
“Sweet!” Mac-Dog said.
* * *
“I’m pregnant.” The blonde girl who said this to me looked like she could’ve been hot, but she looked tired, unkempt, and unfashionable.
“Do I know you?” I asked.
“Three weeks ago at the end-of-semester party.”
“Oh, right,” I said. “The girl who lost my condoms.” I reached into my wallet and pulled out a card. “This is a good abortion clinic.”
“I don’t want to go here!” She pinched the card between her thumb and index finger as if it were diseased.
“Ah, you’re a do-it-yourselfer, are ya?” I reached into my car and pulled out a red purse. “When you’re done, put it in here,” I instructed. “Then leave it up on the mountainside or something.”
“Oh,” she said and took the purse. “O-okay.”
I’m The Playah, yo. Triple Threat, dawg!
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