Damn girl, this night has been magical. Looking at you now has me breaking out into a cold sweat. Like a concerning amount of sweat. But I’ll tell you the truth, while you were in the bathroom earlier I took a little “enhancement” to spice things up. Red Bulls weren’t the only thing I picked up at the Shell station.
Now listen, I hope you don’t find this to be crass or too forward when I tell you that it might be these gas station boner pills talking, but baby, I think my internal organs are shutting down.
I know I’m supposed to call a doctor for an erection lasting longer than four hours, but what’s the protocol on your intestines trying to eject themselves out of your butthole? Seriously though, don’t let my impending anal prolapse prevent us from making sweet, sweet love.
Wait, don’t go! I promise I’ll follow through on everything I said I’d do to you when we were texting. I just need a minute until it feels like my stomach isn’t trying to burst through my chest like in “Alien.”
Now I don’t want to ruin the mood but you also see the walls melting, right? No it’s fine, we can still do this! I’ll just hold out my hands and you can place your boobs into them. I don’t need eyesight for what we’re gonna do. Was your dress always made of snakes? I think now would be a good time for you to push me onto the bed because it also feels like my calves are shriveling up into dust.
I assumed the fact that I didn’t recognize a single ingredient or chemical on the packaging meant that it was filled with the good shit, like those cold medicines in Japan that actually make you feel better. I’m now realizing these were likely a mix of PCP and Clorox. When the hell did they switch up the boner pill recipe from good old-fashioned meth and ground-up rhinoceros horn?
The important thing is that, despite the fact I may need my stomach pumped in the next five minutes, that I have a raging boner. So I guess the pills did work! Provided I don’t ejaculate my spleen—yes, of course I’ll wear a condom—I’m writing a strongly worded letter to the folks at whatever sketchy Eastern European warehouse these things are made at.