by Johnny Le Cad, dream boat
Did you see the way that girl looked at me just then? I'm telling you - she wants me. Bad. Practically drooling at the sight of me. I think it's this new deoderant I'm wearing. Have you seen the ads? One whiff of the stuff and women are rendered slaves to my Arctic Ice-scented whim. It even comes with a complimentary condom, which is a nice gesture, if grossly inadequate. Spray this stuff on your pits, and you'll need more than one love balloon to get you through the day!
I've got to say I'm pleased. All my life I've been searching for that special scent, that mythical philtre, that would enable me to snare the woman of my dreams. I've tried them all: tiger penis, owl jowl, cock's cock. None of them worked. Once - and I'm telling you this in the strictest confidence - once I hung a sprig of mistletoe from my belt buckle. Did it work? Did it hell! Got me plenty of strange looks on the bus, but nothing in the way of "kiss beneath the mistletoe" action.
Not that I need artificial enhancement. The deoderant and all the rest is merely a nod to convention. If I didn't wear it, there'd be chaos. What can I say? The ladies can't get enough of me. Look, see that girl there. No, the brunette. I slept with her yesterday. I'd say hello, but she might be embarrassed to see me. Sometimes girls don't like to be reminded of the things they've done in the sack, and I respect that. What happens in the bedroom stays in the bedroom. Like with your sister. I'm not going to tell you all the sick shit I got up to with her. Not that you want to know. Do you?
I know things are a bit slow for you right now. You're probably used to it, though, so I guess it's not such an ordeal. My advice? Get yourself some deoderant. Just because my raw pheremones'll give a lady the feral moans doesn't mean yours will. And those sweat stains aren't attractive. Other than that, a new shirt and decent shave wouldn't hurt. And stay well away from me. There's no way you can compete with my magical leg-opening smile, so why try?