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Nope. Nope. I’m just plain wrong on this one. Instead of something nice and refreshing, I get this really humid breeze that has me sweating more than I want to be.
I can feel beads of sweat forming and sliding down my temples. I can feel each individual droplet sliding down my pecks and in between my toned abs. One particular droplet actually tickles a bit as it trickles down the groove of my Adonis belt.
I’m sweaty, sticky, naked, and glistening in the sun like some Greek god.
I’ve got massage girls calling out to me. Trying to entice me into their shops so that they can help me relax.
It’s a tempting offer. Like, really fucking tempting. When you’ve had your heart snapped in two, it’s easy to take the closest pretty girl near you and let her reel you in.
And the looks I’m getting from these ladies is making my cock twitch more than a bit.
Considering I’m as naked as a newborn, that’s quite a dangerous plight.
They don’t matter, though. Not a single one of them would be able to hold a candle to the woman of my dreams.
None of them ever do.
I’ve tried. Alot.
In the end, the only one who remains relevant to me is Sammi.
It blows my mind how someone like Eggsy ever managed to land her—let alone get her to agree to marry him.
Fucking seriously. How did he swing that?
Don’t get me wrong. I love Eggsy like a brother. And as such, I’m entitled to acknowledge that he is absolute fucking wanker of a man.
And Sammi?
She’s a fucking head case a good chunk of the time. She’s a combative, uptight, prissy cunt, really. But I’ll be damned if she isn’t the most brilliant and determined woman on the planet.
She is also oh-so-fucking gorgeous, and she absolutely knows it. Her hair looks and feels like satin. Her green eyes are as vibrant and as full of life as the Amazon. Her lips feel as soft as rose petals. And her skin is as flawless as the morning sun.
How Eggsy is somehow more memorable of a man than I am is beyond me. And he took that beautiful prize that she is and shattered it. He fucked up.
It frustrates and angers me beyond what words can describe.
It was like he had the power of the sun in the palm of his hand and chucked it out the fucking window for a couple Ritz crackers.
Now what kind of fucked up shit is that?
I sigh as I pass a boat with a couple just getting engaged. All it does is make me think of Sammi.
I want to dwell longer on the thought of her in my arms, of her in my bed, snuggled up to me. Forget the sex. I hadeverythingwith her just hours ago.
Instead of having a nice brunch with my new wife, I’m yowling at the bludgeoning force of something spiky against my ass.
I turn around and see a durian rolling about on the ground. I look up and around for the source.
A man with his fist in the air is yelling at me in Thai and gesturing at my dick. From what I can gather, I’m scaring away his customers.
Around me, I can see an entourage of followers that I’ve amassed and not even realized. Some are tourists, mostly women, snapping away with their cameras at my muscled frame.
Some are even tracing out individual beads of sweat that sliding over my chiseled body with their fingers. Most, though, are pointing at my cock, which has gotten more than a bit stiff while I was thinking of Sammi.
If there’s one part of my body that I am exceptionally proud of, it’s my cock. I may or may not have been asked why I don’t do porn from more than a couple partners.
So I’m not at all surprised to see these women—and some men—taking pictures focused on one certain part of anatomy over everything else.
