He had finally captured it. He was no longer the dilettante fool with dreams but no real traction. He had found his weapon of love, his pleasure wand, his manhood. It took plenty of reaching, rearranging, and grunting but his hand was now making real contact, confirming the existence, disproving years of him demurring it. His long determination was punctuated with victory.
He was quite busy for a good hour, almost afraid to let it go for fear it would cease to be, but then the sweat build up from the full hour of unadjusted skin to skin contact of his arm and his gut became too much. He had to quit the position of discovery and bliss and make a visit to the bathroom for the gold bond powder. Upon finding himself in the mirror, he saw a very smiley face quickly pushed aside to obtain the powder in the medicine cabinet. After the areas of issue were sufficiently dusted, he exited to his closet to dress himself for the first time in a week. All the while he was giddy and singing shitty doggerel of pop culture twenty years past.
The denizen of the apartment left that afternoon around 4:30, wearing a tuxedo T-Shirt and some very tatty black jeans embraced by a navy canvas belt. He entered The Pink Drink at around 5:00 and made his way to the bar. He sat next to a gruff looking man of similar age. They opened their conversation with an interest in what the other was drinking. The gruff man quickly proved dogmatic, telling him that a nice glass of wine was “pussy shit” and that real men drink whiskey. However, the more the gruff man drank his “manly” whiskey, the more obvious the distention of his personality became. Our protagonist soon realized that the drunk man was hardly conversing anymore, but he was feeding his own pity in some sort of whimpering dirge.
Our protagonist carried himself and his fourth glass of shiraz and slipped away unnoticed to find new company in The Pink Drink. He bumped a sultry brunette in passing and stopped to buy her a drink and apologize. His slight intoxication fogged his ability to notice that she was hardly receptive to his companionship. She delivered a didactic comment: My boyfriend is going to be here any minute, please go away. He was unfazed by this because he was ordering a bottle of very expensive wine from the bar waitress. Her uninterested quickly unfolded into contempt. He gainsaid her knitted eyebrows and pursed lips and insisted that he owed her one. He poured her a glass of the freshly opened bottle of wine and whispered to her that he had found something that day that might make her feel better. He grabbed her hand and placed it on the giant mass that was his thigh, The woman screamed and removed her hand to slap him in the face. He was swiftly escorted out of The Pink Drink and asked never to come back.
He, ashamed and disoriented, found his way home. He shed all of his clothes and lay on his bed. He would never be able to bring himself to exculpate that thing he found, that talisman of trouble.