Someone stole my underwear at the gym.
It’s a West Hollywood gym, where lots of huge gay muscle studs work out. So someone stole them to sniff them and jack off, I think. That was the first place my mind went, after I fruitlessly searched through my fucking bag for them like Tel Aviv airport security going through some Palestinian college kid’s backpack. Someone stole my underwear to sniff ‘em and jerk off.
I can feel no moral outrage about this, because a warehouse full of underwear would have to be stolen from me, sniffed, and jacked off into before the cosmic scales are balanced. I used to do this same shit all the fucking time. When I did coke, getting down to my last couple bumps, I knew I would be up for several more hours with no drugs left and a crazy desire to beat the meat, and I would go to my building’s laundry room and raid the lost and found shelf. Nine times out of ten there would be a pair of panties there. If I was lucky, it would have been one that tumbled out of the laundry basket before even going in the washer and they would still have a good head of cuntmusk on ‘em. This was when I was living on a floor full of aspiring actresses so the odds were good that I would be sniffing the vagina residue of someone hot. Continue reading