I staggered groggily into the DC Thursday morning about thirty minutes before my 9:00 A.M. Psyc. Class, the seductive stank of the angry omelet man’s griddle ushering me comfortingly inside. My mind was already wandering in ecstatic release at the thought of the feast which awaited me as I made my way through the majestic, oak paneled doors and towards the DC employee (oh, the Woman!) standing expectantly behind the register, a voluptuous smile glistening upon her chocolate brown lips. I advanced forward eagerly and presented my VCard with the usual, passionate thrust of my pulsing appendage, but, to my breathless wonderment, it was received this time, not with the passive resignation I had come to expect from my daily DC explorations, but rather, on this magical morning, by an enticing and sensual caress delivered to my throbbing palm as her hand brushed mine for, oh, but an instant. She snatched my VCard away as I stood before her with my breath hot in my throat, my arm still erect in longing. She plunged it down into the slot, and then twice more before handing it back with a disinterested shrug as I, lip trembling, sensations ablaze, slid mechanically into the DC and away from her. In all it took only eighteen minutes to satisfy the angry rumbling in my stomach with a heavenly combination of cinnamon rolls and laxative stuffed eggs, but the unplacated longing in my loins had just begun.
PapaTropicana
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