It's better to
pretend that they do believe my story - as I hurriedly button my open
fly - that I was merely sorting out my clothes. They hasten to avert
their eyes from the dark stain that encompasses my squirting manhood.
A beautiful woman is another matter altogether.
If she happens to detect me, it has the makings of pornography. Being
the right type, this can be the beginning of a great, blue passion.
I am not sure what is the legal status of my actions. Unobserved, in
the absence of a gasping public - my exposure is not indecent. So what
is it? An obscenity? Damage to public property? A corruption of the
morals? Is there an offence in the codex thus described: "Exposing
one's penis to the breeze while standing over a black and brown and
yellow plant?"
I bet there isn't - though one can never be too sure. We are,
therefore, left with the phenomenology of my exploits. Put less
genteelly: we can describe the act but are very far from comprehending
it.
I also notice that I resort to flowerpots before I browse a book, or
while I do it, or after. I use my lower culvert to expunge my upper
sewer of all manner of read cerebral effluence.
My learned piss, my highbrow vinegar.
While immersed in reading, sometimes I forget to drink for many hours.
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