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…
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?’
Sex, like money, colours your pursuit of happiness from the moment it enters your life. You can alway have more money for better possessions, and you can always have more sex with ‘better‘ partners. It leaves us incapable of true fulfilment, a never ending cycle of the greener grass mentality. It becomes how we define ourselves; all that we do being to impress, and better ourselves in the eyes of others.
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.