The Game Keeps Moving So I Get Around
The local sporting goods store was a fucking playground for has-been and never-was professional athletes—it amused me. I was reminded of my days in high school when I put the baseball bat down and, instead, stumbled upon pussy and the need to play with it. It was an easy transition… hang out with 10-13 dudes everyday or 1 to 3 hot chicks a night—a no brainer for those who don’t like to neglect their cock.
When I pulled up to the tennis courts, there she was with her nicely tanned legs and tight little ass cheeks seeping through the bottom of her one size too small blue cotton shorts—little slut. She had a gray sports bra holding up her soon to be sucked round tits that was easily visible through her plain white tank top. Her stroke (she was warming up on a wall) was pretty damn sexy and she had caught the attention of the local pervs. This bitch was with me—envy me motherfuckers.
Holy shit this sport was not as easy as it looked. After about seven minutes of trying to rally, I began to see the look of frustration across her face. The tennis ball had a fucking mind of its own and must have contained helium in it because it sailed as if gravity didn’t exist every time I struck it. I tried to joke with her a bit to lighten up the mood, but this “diva” wasn’t having it. The bitch cut our tennis session short and stormed off of the court straight into her car with an aggravated departure. Fuck her…
I tossed my tennis racket out the window as I drove down the Pacific Coast Highway and lit up a roach I found in the ashtray. When I got home, I hopped on TrashyToons.com as it calmed my ass down and allowed my imagination to run wild. Rejuvenation was a must as sometimes when you cast your line out there bitches will bite, and sometimes they’ll just bite the dust. It’s all a fuckin numbers game—the game keeps moving so I get around.