08-30-2015, 03:24 PM
"Loverboy" - Sowing The Seeds Of Love (Pt. 1) -->
The sunlight peeks from between the heavy curtains and creeps across the floor of the messy hotel room, tracing a path of light over various articles of discarded clothing and other detritus.
The sun finds a pair of black vinyl pants. A sodden Whitesnake tee shirt with chunks of last night’s dinner cradled in the middle like a makeshift soup bowl. A single fishnet stocking. A dirty pair of tube socks.
Empty whisky bottles act as prisms, shooting rainbows of color onto the white carpeting like blossoms in a mud puddle.
Plotting a course over the wine-stained carpet, the sunbeam encounters a variety of different-sized brassieres before finally spilling onto the duvet hanging off of the bed, then struggling upward like an fortitudinous mountain climber to reach the bare leg of “Loverboy†Vinnie Lane as he lies, snoring deeply, on top of the linens wearing nothing but the CCWF/IWGP Universal Championship belt across his palpating waist.
The belt twitches and moves around on his groin in what could only be best described as a pattern of Rapid Cock Movement from an apparently exciting dream Loverboy is enjoying.
Eventually, the bright arc of daylight carves its way through the sleepy shadows of Loverboy’s prostrate body and gently, but firmly, caresses his face. Loverboy struggles to keep his closed eyelids free from the intrepid but unwelcome intruder, throwing his forearm across his face before rolling a thick pillow on top of his head. The bright light of day is not so easily denied, however, and eventually the rock n’ roll megastar has no choice but to rejoin the world of the waking.
“Fuck.â€
Wiping frustration as well as the remnants of sleep from his eyes, Loverboy sits up and yawns, wondering out loud why he is doomed to always miss out on the elusive ten more minutes of sleep he feels he is deserving of.
“God damn… what fuckin’ time is it, anyway? I always wake up right before the best parts of the dreams, man. Shit.â€
Loverboy stretches, and the vertebrae of his neck and pack pop in rhythmic harmony. Reaching over to the nightstand and finding one half-full tumbler of whisky among a few empties, he grabs the promise of respite from the hangover he’s awoken to and chases it away with a little hair of the dog.
Loverboy smacks his lips and sighs in relief as the surcease of headache washes over him like a calming wave breaking on the beach. He places the now-empty glass back on the nightstand and notices for the first time a folded piece of note paper standing on end amid the forest of liquor glasses.
Taking the note, Loverboy opens it and looks it over with a folded arm behind his head and a somewhat churlish and suggestive grin spreading across his face. Just like anyone who is to any degree in love with himself, he reads the note out loud.
“Had a great time last night, Champ. Thanks for all the fun. XOXO.â€
Loverboy tosses the note back towards the nightstand, missing completely. There’s a reason he didn’t pursue a career in the NBA, after all. Arching his back, he smiles smugly begins to reminisce over the bits and pieces of the previous night that haven’t been washes away in a deluge of drugs and alcohol.
Like the old phone book advertisements, Loverboy lets his fingers do the walking as they make their way from wiping the remnants of whisky from his five o’clock shadow to moving down his nubile torso and riding the crest of the quickening breath as his abdomen rises and falls.
Eventually, Loverboy’s hand disappears beneath the faceplate of the title belt. As is common with most men, Loverboy had awoken with a certain debilitating condition that wad only been exacerbated by his not-so-vivid recollection of the prior night’s debauchery. The megastar champion was now seeking a different kind of relief.
“Hey there big fella. Top o’ the morning to ya!â€
Loverboy laughs at his own wit as he continues to talk to his engorged member as if it were a sentient being.
“Now, just sit back and relax while Big Daddy makes it all better, okay dude? Theeeeeeere we go…â€
Loverboy’s eyelids flutter closed and he bites into his lower lip as he begins to squeeze his hand closed around his mini megastar. As the muscles in his forearm tense up and he settles in for a few moments of early morning onanism, he suddenly bolts straight upright in bed and snaps his eyes open while his mouth forms a rudimentary silent scream.
Followed by a completely not so silent scream.
In a panic, the champion leaps from the bed and takes two sprinting steps across the room to come nose to glass with the large mirror on the opposite wall. Spinning the title belt around so the plate covers his pert bottom, Loverboy unsnaps the belt and holds it open as he stares down into his own reflection, the look on his face morphing into one of amazement and fear.
“Holy fuck! Holy fucking fuck! My dick! I think I broke my dick!â€
In a hurricane rush, Loverboy spins in a panic vortex, gathering various items of clothing from the room and pulling them onto his person. Discarding the belt, he yanks the vinyl pants onto his legs and then jams his feet into the first footwear he comes across – his lucky silver wrestling boots. Finally defeated in his search for a clean shirt, he settles instead for a silken robe adorned with various Egyptian symbols left behind by his CCWF compatriot before she bolted from the room like an illegal immigrant at an INS checkpoint.
“Fuck it. Desperate times, man.â€
He throws the robe on, creating an ensemble that could most generously be described as “rock star geisha,†then heads for the door. But then stops.
How could he forget? Loverboy spins back around and grabs the Universal Championship belt, fastening it around his waist and making sure it sat perfectly straight across his midsection. He wouldn’t want to look foolish in public, after all.
After a sudden burst of crippling dick pain tears through him like the hand of a demon from below, Loverboy straightens up and runs out the hotel room door.
It feels really good to know that even worthless wannabes with chronic cock stink on their tongues like Ginger Snaps are apparently waiting with bated breath on my every word, thinking they can just jump in and try to separate subject from predicate in some dumb fuck attempt to prove something wrong about my thoughts.
I decide to acknowledge the little princess and she almost immediately has two more episodes from her boring fucking life to throw at the masses in the shittiest attempt to bottom out the ratings of XWF programming since Mastermind was crying in front of his haunted mirror. What are you, just sitting at your little computer in the dark, your zitty face illuminated by nothing but the tiny screen, your fingers hovering over the “send†button until you finally see I’ve given you the cursory acknowledgement your fragile ego craves? I can see it now: Ginger holds her breath until she turns blue, waiting for the most popular boy in school to say “sup†as he walks past her to talk to the pretty girls. Loverboy finally gets around to making time in his busy schedule to drop ten minutes of painful truth on the unpopular newbie, and Ginger immediately dials up the most recent home movie she and her own personal Hugh Grant made together.
Don't worry, three imaginary people who want to see Ginger Snaps do things, in about five to ten minutes I'm sure you'll get another opportunity to watch your favorite ambulatory sleeping pill as she does mundane things like bake brownies or brush her hair. She has an unlimited supply of mindless, by-the-numbers episodes waiting JUST FOR YOU, and she hates to let even an hour go by between my voice and hers since she needs the added attention of my massive fanbase who might accidentally click on her uploads in hopes of hearing what my name sounds like when spoken by a highlander in drag.
Let's see, Ginger, what kind of excitng adventures have you been treating the public to lately? You watched old High School tapes before. Now you went to the zoo and some other inane horse shit that I’ve already forgotten. Seriously, cunt, your promos are nothing but empty calories. It’s like trying to nourish yourself by eating Styrofoam. Jesus, Ginger, promos like yours make me wish homosexuality and gay marriage had been legal in Great Britain back in the day so your father could have followed his heart and not forced an unenthusiastic teaspoon of man goo into your mother’s cavernous gash. Then the world would have been spared yet another glimpse into the chronicles of a sad redhead’s ennui. We get it. You’re boring. Save us the trouble and just finish the bottle of Xanax your boyfriend is hiding in the bathroom so he can tolerate repeated conversations with you on the daily.
I know you’re desperately clawing at a way to feel like you belong in the same class as yours truly, but you’re going about the whole thing wrong, sister. Trying to poke holes into my logic is about as pointless as a practice needle. You can’t refute an argument that exists solely on the notion of being a wise ass. Let me save you the trouble of fighting back, sweet tits. You may not have noticed, since you’re either the most naïve little girl walking around today since that THOT that apparently went to Mike Tyson’s hotel room “just to hang out,†either that or you’re just way too good at acting that way – which would be giving you much more credit as an actress than your little high school play warrants – but regardless, we in the CCWF would be what you cherubic, starry-eyed XWF fan favorites would consider “bad guys.†You know what a key attribute of being a “bad guy†is, sugar puss? It’s that we don’t always speak the truth.
“Oh, Vinnie Lane says I’m ugly but here he is suggesting I blow him.†Yeah, exactly, dipshit. I’m a hypocrite. I lack a moral compass. I DO think you’re wretched and unattractive, I just also don’t mind stuffing my dick into less-than-attractive mouths from time to time. Holes is holes, bitch. I figure with as much as you talk, you must have a pretty overactive salivary system in place, so it’s probably warm and moist in there. Perfect environment for my member, don’t you think? And the fact that you’d be hating it doesn’t exactly make it worse for me, dude. I might be a little hesitant to unload in your marmite-sticky mouth just out of fear of you being the sort of crazy stage five clinger who might spit it into your hang and vigorously try to palm-fuck yourself a free child support check and five minutes of fame on Maury.
“Oh, Vinnie Lane didn’t see my pregnancy test.†Yeah. Did I mention how catatonically boring you are? I started watching Worldstar videos on my cell halfway through your conversation with that Downton Abbey boyfriend of yours about jerking off rhinos in Africa. I didn’t give a fuck. However, as any refined cocksmith will tell you, when some slut says the word “pregnant†it registers. So yeah, I got a little worried about the possibility of literally kicking a stillborn fetus out of your ratchet-ass snatch this Wednesday. Guess you’re right, I should pay more attention, even if it puts me back into a fucking coma because your life is so dull. At least if you were knocked up you’d have something interesting about you. Now you’re back to just being a homely second choice for British men who can’t hook up with anything rated a five or higher.
Oh, right, the whole England vs. Scotland thing. Yeah, I don’t give a shit. That’s pretty much the same. So you suck on gannet as much as you suck on disappointed penis, big deal. It explains why when you tried to throw a hurricanrana on me your crotch stank like haggis, at least. So you’re just a skinnier, uglier version of the dumb twat from Brave. Duly noted. I still don’t care, and I’ll still make fun of you for being English because fuck you, that’s why. Accept it and move on, you dribbling cooze.
What else you got? Nothing? Really? Just a trip to the zoo and the failed assertion that I’m somehow going to lose to you because I jump to conclusions about your pregnancy before taking the time to rummage through your trash and verify the amount of lines on your piss stick? You’re as worthless as the fucking baboons in the monkey house you saw, Ginger. At least they throw shit that sticks.
Here’s what matters. Me talking. See? Look at the page view count while you’re desperately poring over my grammar and syntax waiting for some grade school slip up so you can try to grab me in some poorly executed “aha!†That last sentence alone probably got me 137 likes on Twitter. Who follows you? Other than the neighborhood pedophile who’s about to get the worst surprise of his life? When my mouth opens, people pay attention. When your mouth opens, you get mistaken for a urinal. When I speak, people listen. When you speak, people change the fucking channel.
Yeah Ginger, you totally deserve the honor of competing with the greatest athlete in the world today. You’ve totally earned that. With the amount of effort and natural ability you’ve displayed in your career thus far, I’m amazed you didn’t strangle on your own umbilical cord in the womb. Some of us are just born winners, I guess. Then there’s you who just latches on to a pity fuck and calls it a relationship. Well, we’re breaking up, Ginger. In the real world I’d have never called you the next morning, dude, and I’d definitely not tell my friends about bagging the plain Jane who washes the dishes at the local pub.
That was all a metaphor, Ginger. Did you understand? Our last match basically equates to accidentally fuckin a fat girl and being ashamed in the morning. Get it now?
Anyway Ginger, look, I’m running low on time right now. I’ve got three personal appearances that I’m gonna make a few thousand dollars from as well as a local TV ad with a daytime news anchor that I’m pretty sure wants to get on my dick afterwards. Don’t get jealous, sweetness, she means nothing to me. She’s a solid seven though, so, you can see why I’d rather be talking to her right now.
Later twat. Get yourself ready for the cunt punting of a lifetime on Wednesday. Please do something interesting in the meantime, though. Please. Your promos have been excruciatingly difficult to jerk off to.
"Loverboy" - Sowing The Seeds Of Love (Pt. 1) -->
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