A short transcript of a conversation follows, wherein elusive billionaire Bruce Wayne takes an attractive, young lady to his bedroom.
Girl: Mister Wayne. How about we get these constricting clothes off.
Bruce: I was just about to suggest the same thing, young lady.
Girl: Oh, Mister Wayne, what a fine… wa – wait…
Bruce: What?
Girl: All those… scars. What the fuck?
Bruce: Oh, it’s just…
Girl: What the fuck!?
Bruce: I play polo, that’s all. It’s ra-
Girl: Jesus, fucking Jesus!
Bruce: -rather a dangerous sport. That’s all, don’t worry. Now, where were we…
Girl: Woah, woah. Polo? I’m not an idiot. I’m not a – a – a fucking idiot! Oh, god… you…
Bruce: I… what?
Girl: Oh, for fuck’s sake. You’re the fucking Batman, aren’t you.
After months of waiting in the lonely mire of medieval England, the elated young Duke finally received word from his distant beloved. A letter; a reply, no doubt, to the words he’d sent out many moons before, delivered via carrier pigeon. He opened it with haste. ‘Mmm… then what, baby?’
To pee, or not to pee? Well, not to pee; would be the short answer. Seriously guys, that’s a little messed up.
Still, I know people with far stranger paraphillias, so it would be inconsistent to dismiss this one. Anyway, I’m not going to examine the potential psychological reasons, or the subconscious motivations, or even the difficulty associated with brining a new partner into your deep, secret fetishes. No, I just have one niggling, little thought that bugs me about it.
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