Good help is so very hard to find these days. Case in point: I received a strange email rife with misspellings and odd formatting. The gist of the message was that the sender somehow hacked my phone, recorded a video of me stroking off while watching adult-themed entertainment, and is going to send it to everyone in my contacts list.
Neat! “Thank you ol’ chap!” I thought to myself upon reading the missive. But the days and nights have passed. I occasionally ask my wife Gwendolyn or my cousin Cornelius if they’ve, ya know, heard or seen anything interesting. And there’s been nothing; not a peep! I’m starting to lose faith that the mystery sender will ever follow through with their grand promise.
Your word used to mean something. A promise; a contract. But it seems that nowadays, a pact is meaningless. I was excited for days! To be honest, I’ve worked very hard on improving my self-pleasuring form. My technique is top-notch. Distributing my accumulated knowledge in the carnal solo arts may be my ultimate lasting legacy.
I had planned to produce and record a very comparable piece of media for similar distribution, but the sheer cost of it all proved daunting. I had envisioned more of a Wes Anderson style of framing and editing, but something about the guerrilla handheld format of a hacked iPhone would lend its own indie edge.
The email did contain a little note at the bottom that if I paid $457.69 worth of Bitcoin that the sender would no longer share my life’s work. I’m fairly sure I didn’t make that payment because I don’t know what Bitcoin is.
So I continue to wait in agonizing anticipation. Every time my bedroom door opens, I hope it will be Gwendolyn with a look of amazement and wonder on her face. Oh, how long it’s been since I’ve seen a dazzle in her eyes.
Please, sir. If you’re out there. Please send her the video of me masturbating.