It’s 2047…

It’s 2047…

I’ve just turned one hundred, live in the same house in Fort Lauderdale l have for the last forty three years, thanks to Terry, my handsome, hairy twenty year old attendant who takes care of me, including telling me at least half a dozen times a day how great l still look.

I’ve just been awarded, via Skype, the Oldest Promiscuous Homosexual Award by our second transgender (this time man-to-woman) President before an inter-galactic audience of billions. I had Terry touch up my hair, that is what’s left of it, and shot some fillers in my face so I’m not too saggy looking. After all, I  have all my fans to keep happy.

It’s the proudest moment of my life next to snarling Hank, the handsomest guy l ever had in my life, over thirty years ago when l was a spry 65. Sadly he and everybody else l know including my long time ex, G, my sister, and an endless string of fuck buddies and

Me at 100?

Me at 100?

romantic encounters are all gone. But l have Terry to bring a smile to my face – at least as long as my lifetime annuity lasts and he hangs around to inherit my rather modest house l’ve willed to him, now worth around five million bucks. That’s enough, given inflation over the years, to buy a used 2034 Cooper, a year’s worth of groceries and a weekend trip to NYC which includes a tour of the Seedy Gay West Village of Old Museum.

In gratitude to my handsome attendant being with me as l achieve this milestone in my life, l present him with a framed picture of my proud erect cock, circa 2012, to hang in his bedroom.

He gives me a befuddled look.

“What’s that, Daddy Ray?” he asks trying not to sound stupid.

“My dick when l was still in demand and Viagra wasn’t so expensive.”

“Your dick?? But it looks so – so BIG!”

“You’re a sweet boy, but l was only considered slightly above average for my time.” (You don’t have to patronize me, kid. You know you’re getting my house, provided of course, I die a natural death.)

Terry looks down at the pouch of his jockstrap, the only piece of clothing l allow him to wear while he’s in the house, pulls out the sock l demand he stuff it with, and drops his jock to the floor.

“You mean this?” he asks holding up a limp piece of skin the size of a single strand of cooked spaghetti that hangs between his humpy, hairy legs.

“Well, those were the days guys actually used their pensises to have sex with.”

“You mean Zing!, that app on my super phone? You know the one that releases wicked thoughts in my brain followed by a burst of endorphins?”

“Kinda,” l respond, “though we used THAT,” pointing to my picture, “for real.”

“Whatya mean for real?”

“We stuck THAT in our mouths and up our asses to give one another pleasure ten times better than Zing.”

“Sorry, Daddy Ray, sounds kinda gross to me.”

“Different strokes for different folks,” l reply.

Poor befuddled Terry gives me a vacant stare.

“You’ve heard about the theory of evolution, haven’t you?” I ask.

Terry, who with an IQ of 120 is no dummy thanks to four smartchips embedded in his brain, nods.

“After the internet and phones started to be used to get off with without having actual physical contact with another man, the penis began to atrophy, you know, waste away from disuse, to a point men now sit on a toilet to take a piss just like women.”

You mean it wasn’t always that way?” asks Terry, really confused by this point.

It’s time for show and tell I think.

“Well, if you go to the bottom drawer of that old bureau in the spare room and pull out that jar marked “Elbow Grease” and a handful of those little blue pills, l’ll show you. Or at least I’ll try.”

“Wow, “says Terry, “can l cam my buddies while you – you do it? There’s one guy stationed on Mars who keeps telling me he’d love to meet you.”

“Sure,” says the old exhibitionist in me.

As he almost runs to the spare room, l stare fondly at his furry, bare ass.

That’s my boy.

It’s true. Money will buy you almost anything.

Even enthusiasm from a twenty year hunk, old enough to be my great great grandson.

A happy and healthy 2017 – talk to you Monday…

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