Of course they were excited to represent their country. It was, after all, the first time Slovenia would enter a volleyball team in the Summer Olympics, regardless of the fact that there were just three of them.
Yet as proud as they were, Aleks, Oskar, and Leopold were also nervous, not so much for the fact that their team comprised just half the number of players as their opponents, but for their shared understanding that as soon as they reached the Olympic village they would get the living shit kicked out of them for their faggy team uniforms.
For the first time in his 27 years, Nelson felt free. Finally free! It was as if a heavy weight had been lifted off his chest, and now he could breathe—really breathe. All this time, he thought, I wasn’t being true to myself. I was conforming. I took the easy way out rather than listening to my heart and honoring the person I was born to be.
And to think, all it took was a late night run one particularly steamy July evening to Dapper Dan’s All-Night Leather Boutique for Nelson Kraft to discover the look he knew was meant to be his from the very start—the look that would finally secure him his first girlfriend.
It just didn’t make sense. Despite her perfect hourglass figure (and willingness to show it off in scant bikinis), her Hollywood looks, her brains, style, and overall pleasant demeanor, Charlotte just couldn’t seem to keep a man.
Then again, perhaps it made all the sense in the world. Perhaps (and this was merely a theory, first posited by Millie, the voice in Charlott’es head that all too often commanded her to kill) it had something to do with the fact that she had a habit of waving at every plane that passed overhead, morning, noon, and night, convinced that each of their passengers was waving back at her, sporting the same shit-eating grin as her own.
Some call it arrogance. Others say it’s a show of disrespect. Those close to him label it “extreme confidence.”
Hank doesn’t care much for labels and can’t, quite frankly, be bothered with what others think of him. They could call him the King of Siam, and it wouldn’t make any difference in the end. Because, fact is, Hank Lillibridge knows for shit sure that he’s the best damn bowler in the Torville South Bowling League, and if he wants to point his index finger and thrust his tongue upon the release of each ball from his steely grip, then he damn well will.
It’s 8:41 and Doug had already been on the road nearly 45 minutes, for what’s normally a 25-minute commute. And with traffic as it was, he couldn’t see making the office before 9:10, maybe 9:15. Maybe later.
On most any other day the accident, the rubber-necking, the roadwork—none of it would have been that big a deal. On any other day it would have been annoying—sure. An inconvenience—certainly. But today, of all days, it could well end up calamitous for Douglas Croton.
All this shit had to happen today, didn’t it? Had to be the day we’re closing the goddamn Collins deal!!! he thought to himself, as the pocket-sized goats pranced along his arm, from shoulder to fingers, and back again.
“Oh Honeeeeeyyy…I’m home! And I found this fantastic robe at T.J. Maxx! Isn’t it just darling?! And doesn’t it make me look so slim and sexy? And guess how much it was! No guess…”
Charlotte zoned out of the conversation, as that unsettling feeling welled up within her once again. Maybe it was nothing, she half-heartedly hoped against hope. Maybe I’m wrong! Maybe I’m wrong, and my mom, sister and all of my girlfriends are right about Christopher.
Yet, no matter how hard she tried to focus on him as he giddily told of his new favorite color of nailpolish while curling his golden locks around his index finger, the thought overtook her once again: Might my husband be gay?!
Calling all ladies. Yeah, that means you, dollface! As of right about…NOW…Chuck Ivory is a free man! Free to roam the sexy singles scene once again, and roam he shall. Grrrrr…
Check the hair. Check the glasses. Check the lollipop. Now check this: I’m a wildcat on the prowl, and you, my dear, are lookin’ like one savory piece of female flesh to me right about now. Hot stuff! Mee-owww!!
So, if you don’t mind cleaning up after a guy who has little or no control over his bowels, and are longing for the kind of tender touch that will make your toes curl, then don’t walk—run—on over here, pronto. Capice? Just be careful not to slip on my shit.