A shorts story

Why the hell was I wearing shorts in the middle of February after a snowstorm?

I didn’t know and I didn’t care. I didn’t care for Trump, I didn’t care for “the resistance”, I didn’t care for Claudio Ranieri, I didn’t care for anything. I mean, for a start I was British and still am. Trump would never my direct leader unless he took over Britain by force. I was neutral as neutral could be.

I finished my pint of water and went to the gents. I was the delightful grey covering the walls, the scrubbed-out graffiti saying Don’t Trust Anyone. I whipped my cock out. 3.5 inches flaccid. I didn’t particularly want it to be 35 unlike some of the men talking at the urinals about how their wives were shit in bed. I shook, zipped my shorts back up and went out to laughter.

I turned around. “How fucking DARE you insult my shorts!” I slammed the door.

More laughter.

Still stand by what I say.

The shorts are my god.

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