Congratulations on Masking Yourself in Her Scent!

She’ll come in the door suddenly, in a rush of air, fifteen minutes early. She won’t say a word because she’ll assume the apartment is empty. Why wouldn’t it be? Why would her mentally deranged ex-boyfriend be in her bathroom,going through her things and trying his very best to clean his “lady traps,” which he uses to collect samples of her genetic material which he hopes to one use in an elaborate cloning experiment of some sort?

Because that deranged boyfriend is you. And you won’t want to be caught, because getting caught would make the kind of high level science you plan on doing absolutely impossible. So you will, in the spirit of all great scientists, make a split second decision to sacrifice dignity for the ability to continue your work. You’ll open the toilet bowl and, sure enough, there will be a big old puddle of hippy dippy cold urine in there. Real stanky first pee of the morning stuff that she won’t flush for the sake of the environment or some bullshit like that. And you, being the good man you are, will shove your head right in there. Then you’ll spread it all around on yourself and let it drip down your shoulders and clothes, coating your thoroughly in her scent. Well, one of her scents. Specifically the scent of her urine.

Then you’ll leap into her shower and focus on being as quiet as you can, just like you did when you were a kid. When she opens the door she’ll be assaulted by the smell of her own urine, freshly stirred up by your efforts. She’ll hold her nose as she peers around, looking to see if something went terribly wrong.

“Jesus Christ,” she’ll mumble. “Did the toilet blow up while I was at work?”

You’ll chuckle at this – you won’t be able to stop yourself. She always was so funny. But the chuckle will give you away and she’ll rip open the shower curtain to expose you there, pants around your ankles, with ziplock bags of her hair clutched in each hand.

You’ll manage to say “Hey Sara,” before the mace takes you and annihilates your capacity for speech. Later, you’ll relate this story to the police. They won’t find nearly as funny as you (and we) do.

Congratulations on Masking Yourself in Her Scent!

Congratulations Fetishist/Podiatrist!

Sometimes people find the perfect job for themselves. Sometimes someone who loves kids becomes a teacher, or someone obsessed with engines becomes a mechanic. Dipshits can become lawyers, shut-ins can become mathematicians, idiots can become economists. There are perfect fits in the world.

Today you’re going to find yours backwards.

While finishing up the second week of your residency as a podiatrist you’re going to be working on a fifty year old patient with some serious bone injuries in her foot. You’re going to recommend surgery, following a lengthy and thorough exam where you touch her delicate, supple, perfectly formed foot. During the exam you’re also going to come. Quietly.

When you’re done with your appointment and all of the relevant paperwork for your patient’s surgery you’re going to clean yourself up. But, while cleaning up your jizz soaked boxers you’re going to think about your patient’s foot again, look at her x-ray and BAM. You’ll come again.

At this moment you’ll realize, for the first time, that you’re super into feet. Specifically women’s feet.

Enjoy the realization. This cosmic coincidence eludes most people in their lives, and you’re going to get to enjoy it for a good forty years before a patient notices that you came while looking at their feet. At that point you’ll be forced to resign in disgrace.

Congratulations Fetishist/Podiatrist!

Congratulations Very Vocal Pervert!

“Unhook her bra!” you’ll shout at the young couple walking hand in hand in the park. You’ll be crouched behind a bush, your pants around your ankles, watching them walk on the breezy fall evening. “Or at least cup her titty!”

The young man will look at the young woman, who will shrug. “New York, right?” she’ll say, and he’ll laugh.

“I guess so,” he’ll say back before grabbing her titty and massaging it. She’ll beam back at him and it’ll be obvious that they’re a young couple in love with a private, secure romance that you can’t touch. Or so they’ll think.

“Awwwww yeahhhh,” you’ll say as you rub your erection, still covered by your briefs, against the bush. “That’s the stuff.”

The young couple will look at you and finally realize just what you’re doing. They’ll shake their heads and trudge off into the night, ashamed that they were party to your peeping.

When they get home they’ll sleep on opposite ends of the bed from one another. They won’t touch, or even consider touching, during the night. Instead they’ll just lay there and stare at the ceiling, wondering if you’ve somehow corrupted their love.

The next day they’ll forgo their normal sex shower. They’ll skip right to eggs, which will be good, but not as good. The young woman’s smile will be a little weaker, the young man’s gait a little less confident.

You, you’ll just go back to the underpass you use for sleeping and pee all over yourself. Then you’ll rub your pee into your own skin, groaning as you do so. The homeless people around you will know better than to ask you to stop. They know that if they respond they’ll just encourage you, and that’s no good for anyone.

Congratulations Very Vocal Pervert!