Neurotic Erotica (Neurotica) Presents: Chest Thrustington in “Dude, you probably shouldn’t say that. Like, For real.” Part 1.

To his mind, the image before him was of such grandeur that using mere words to describe it could only lessen its splendor if not insult it outright. Her naked legs were a silken recital of romance and fantasy with prose that would drive him mad if his eyes were to linger on them too long. The length of her barely covered torso reminded him of an endless breadth of curved yet captivatingly smooth Saharan sand dunes with the twin symmetrical arches of her breasts on the horizon, distinctly perched upon her chest as if it were the last salvation you would need before you left this mortal coil. So enthralled was he with the enchanting framework she possessed that he failed to notice he lost his erection.

She didn’t fail to notice, though. No, she noticed almost immediately and had worn the expression of confused annoyance for the last two minutes as they both stared at each other in silence.

“Dude,” said the sultry goddess who could solve the Greek government-debt crisis using only a series of sexually suggestive hand motions. “What happened to your dick? It looks…somber? Melancholy? Fucking depressed?” She squinted her eyes as if she were concentrating on the image in front of her.

“It looks like a sad Peyton Manning.”

Chest Thrustington, broken from his trance, looked down towards his member and discovered that, undeniably, his manhood had indeed resembled the former Indianapolis Colts player, however, a deeply troubled and borderline suicidal version.

“Well,” Chest Thrustington said with hollow confidence. “it’s sad because this room is about to turn into a crime scene.” He energetically twisted his hips from side to side with enough force to make his unenthusiastic package hit either side of his pelvis with a meaty thwack.

“Cause I’m about to murder that vagina like Jon Benet, girl.” Chest said with more than a bit of desperation in his voice.

Suddenly, the ethereal beauty with eyes so piercing it can actually make the metaphysical concept of your soul blush, looked slightly offended and somewhat embarrassed.

“Pause.” She remarked.

“Shit, sorry.” Chest said contritely.

“Yeah.” The divine feminine before him added awkwardly.

“I was saying it-like, I was speaking the words, and I was thinking to myself ‘there is no scenario in which this ends with me inside of you.’” He said

“I agree. Dryer than sandpaper in the Sahara down here.” concurred the woman so beauteous she once ended a civil war in Tanzania just by agreeing to let the rebel leaders watch her eat a Subway Chicken Parmesan sandwich.

“Is the mood-” He stammered “Fuck, is the mood, like, gone? Did I fuck it up? I fucked it up didn’t I?” He said with a tone as deflated as his flaccid staff.

“Nah, I mean, yeah the whole dead kid thing kind of ‘drained the pool’ so to speak,” Said the subject for Beyonce’s inspiration board, using her fingers in air quotes, “but don’t worry. Just stay away from mentioning unsolved child murders while making unblinking eye contact with my vagina and we’re cool.”

“Yeah?” Chest said hopefully.

“Why not.” spoke the woman once described as “if Jesus and fresh cinnamon toast had a baby and that baby, in turn, had an orgasm.”

Chest breathed a slight sigh of relief upon hearing her reassuring if somewhat cavalier statement. He closed his eyes as he straightened his posture and began thinking about one of the most cherished memories he refers to in times like these. That memory being the episode of Saved By the Bell where Kelly Kapowski had used Zack’s zit cream and underwent the hilarious consequence of having her entire face turn beet red due to a chemical reaction between her skin and the dubious components within the cream.

Needless to say, he was harder than an Ikea desk assembly printout within seconds.

“Now,” Chest Thrustington said with a renewed confidence. “I know I’ll never forget…”

“We just talked about this…” grumbled the woman who either can, will, or has yet to be the centerpiece for every unspeakably depraved, uninhibited, and marginally sacrilegious fantasy your wife has ever had.

“…how I flew this 747 of dick into your twin towers of- and your phone is out. You calling Uber? You’re calling Uber. Understood.” Chest said with matter of factly.

One clap, two clap, three clap, forty?

By clapping more or less, you can signal to us which stories really stand out.