Oh, God, what the fuck, she hasn’t responded since I sent my last text three-and-a-half minutes ago. Something’s up and this isn’t sitting right. Where is she that she wouldn’t have service, or does she just not care? This just doesn’t add up. I thought we had a good time last week and now this? Three-and-a-half, four minutes now? Jesus, do you think? I mean, she’s could be with some other dude and is just now finishing up banging him. If he’s anything like me, four minutes is more than enough time.
Four-and-a-half minutes and she still hasn’t texted me back. This guy is clearly better at sex than I am. Should I call her? Maybe I should call her. What would I even say? Uh, hey, you hadn’t texted me back yet, so yeah, about that. What’s even the point, I’m sure she won’t be able to hear her cell phone ring over the clatter of her breasts and her screams of ecstasy.
Five minutes, okay he’s beyond satisfying her; he’s going for the high score at this point. This pleasure-bot she’s with is undoubtedly a contemporary John Henry: seemingly part machine, an expert at driving hard steel, and of course, clearly black and packing something like thirteen inches of ferocity in his pants. There’s no way I can compete with that. Everything was going so well and now it’s all being washed away in what I can only imagine is a fast and furious display that has everything on the Paul Walls of her apartment shaking as she orgasms over and over at a Ludacris level of volume from the penetration of his (The) Rock-hard dick.
Six-almost-seven minutes now, I’m sure time is standing still as her life is flashing before her eyes. Her brain literally overloaded with endorphins that an aneurysm is a possibility. She is going to be pleasured to death. It will make national news and bored housewives everywhere will touch themselves to it. Honestly, she’s going to be a different person after this. Winning the lottery, writing the next great American novel, eating a piece of bacon wrapped in cheese and dipped in ranch dressing, it doesn’t matter, they will all pale in comparison to this voyage she’s taking on the bang bus to Climax City.
She’s literally going to need to smoke a carton of cigarettes after this onslaught is over.
Eight minutes, okay, this makes sense now, of course she hasn’t texted me back; she probably can’t even remember her own name, let alone what a phone is or how to text someone on one. She’s going to have to acclimate to real life again. This could be the premise for The Miracle Worker 2. I’m sure her vocal chords are strained beyond belief and the police have been summoned to investigate what the neighbors are figuring is a murder. Boy, will that guy’s hand be sore from all the high-fives he gets from cops and neighbors after they sort all of this out!
Nearly ten minutes now, this is unbearable. Let me just look at my phone and try to pick up the pieces of my emasculated existence. I’ll try information and see if they have a therapist I can get a hold of. If that doesn’t work it’ll be on to the suicide hotlines until they all eventually block my number.
Wait; hold on, my last message to her didn’t send! Oh, that means she’s probably just been waiting for me to text her back. Let me find service and try again. Sorry for freaking out, everybody!