Here's how it all started.
Let me set the scene for you.
Me and the wife in the bedroom. Going at it hammer and tongs. The bed's squeaking louder than Mickey Mouse in a makeup testing lab and the headboard's beating off the wall like, well, me in the shower that morning as it happens. In reality I'm actually trying to drown out her bleating instructions at me every two seconds. “Do it harder”, “Take the mask off” and “Is it in yet?” and so forth.
Anyhoo, finally get there. I reach the so called nirvana and cum. One of those blink and you'll miss it orgasms if truth be told, but that's one of the drawbacks to being forced into regimental sex by your child-hungry wife all the time.
I knew something was wrong immediately. At first I thought I'd maybe slipped one out accidentally and shit the bed (been there, done that, got the dry cleaning bill to prove it) Rather than ask the ball and chain to rummage around like last time, I had a fumble about below myself. My fingers touched on something warm and round. Yup, definitely a shit, I thought. How wrong I was.
I don't know if I was more shocked or horrified when I pulled out that egg from between the sheets. Just a run of the mill egg. No different to the peely-wally battery hen ones from down the shops. Could I have just laid it? No, it was impossible. But the burning feeling round my ring told me otherwise. This alien object had definitely come from within.
I didn’t sleep a wink that night. I racked my brain for hours trying to figure out how this could have happened. Had I accidentally rammed a hard boiled egg up my arse and somehow forgotten all about it? Surely not. I wouldn't have had the time any ways. What with me staring at a blank screen every day for hours on end, ahem, I mean working hard on my new screenplay, I barely had time to scratch my own bollocks never mind anything else. No, the only possible and plausible conclusion had to be - I'd given birth.
Nesting
The wife, Deborah, had been clucky for a while now. Her biological clock had turned into a ticking bloody timebomb. In fact, it wasn't so much a ticking clock as that annoying bleep that the microwave gives when it's demanding you retrieve your pot noodle. Anyhoo, can't say I was much fussed about spawning a screaming meatball. I'm the kind of guy who'll pretend to like kids only when around desperate single mothers but'll be the first to use said child as a human shield when the next Raoul Moat gets his shotgun out.
Suffice to say, I did have plenty of enthusiasm for all the dirty spontaneous sex it would take to produce one though. Unfortunately that enthusiasm was quickly curbed by the military precision timetable Debs drew up, eliminating all forms of depraved fetishes I may have had and instead opting for a quick wham-bam-thank you mam routine. Still, a shag's a shag eh, so shouldn't really complain.
So basically, I was the last kind of guy you'd expect to give two hoots about the prospect of becoming a father. But when that egg ejected itself from between my cheeks, something inside me changed. I'm not referring to my now slack sphincter, I'm talking about an uncontrollable urge to nurture and protect.
I was going to hatch that egg come Hell or high water. But how to do it? I'd be buggered if I was going to start foraging about for sticks and twigs to build a thorn filled nest to sit in. I needed to get myself one of them electrical incubators. That would do the job right?
Suffice to say, I did have plenty of enthusiasm for all the dirty spontaneous sex it would take to produce one though. Unfortunately that enthusiasm was quickly curbed by the military precision timetable Debs drew up, eliminating all forms of depraved fetishes I may have had and instead opting for a quick wham-bam-thank you mam routine. Still, a shag's a shag eh, so shouldn't really complain.
So basically, I was the last kind of guy you'd expect to give two hoots about the prospect of becoming a father. But when that egg ejected itself from between my cheeks, something inside me changed. I'm not referring to my now slack sphincter, I'm talking about an uncontrollable urge to nurture and protect.
I was going to hatch that egg come Hell or high water. But how to do it? I'd be buggered if I was going to start foraging about for sticks and twigs to build a thorn filled nest to sit in. I needed to get myself one of them electrical incubators. That would do the job right?
Incubation
So it turns out you can buy an incubator off the internet from £75 upwards but I figured it was gonna take way too long to come in the post and time was of the essence. My bun was no longer in the oven so I needed to act fast. I turned to the one thing that I knew was guaranteed to keep my own chicken nuggets warm - my thermal kecks. I suffered the chill and went commando for I happened to be wearing my only pair at the time but it was well worth it to see wee Wayne, as he had now become known, wrapped up snugly in my raggedy old breeks. The guilt factor crept in though when I noticed Wayne was doing more than touching cloth. He was touching a greasy wet skidmark too. Time to call in a favour.
I turned to my mate Barry. He’d help me build my own incubator. Now my knowledge of electrics stops at knowing how to change the batteries on an Xbox controller, so Barry is a relative nuclear engineer next to me. Well he did techy in high school, I know that much. I got him to bring his old infrared heat lamp across. I remembered he had it from the time he tried to rig up his own kebab machine but it got consigned to the garden shed while he showed off his third degree burns to the other guys down at Robot Wars Fight Club. Oops, forgot the first rule of RWFC there.
I found a hamster cage in our neighbours back porch to use as the chamber and fed the stray cat that sometimes comes round at the same time. Me and Barry set too and it wasn't long before we had a rather impressive looking home for my egg, if I do say so myself. It's amazing what two men and a screwdriver can do. The merriment was short lived though as Deborah returned home from work. There was something I had forgotten to do.
I turned to my mate Barry. He’d help me build my own incubator. Now my knowledge of electrics stops at knowing how to change the batteries on an Xbox controller, so Barry is a relative nuclear engineer next to me. Well he did techy in high school, I know that much. I got him to bring his old infrared heat lamp across. I remembered he had it from the time he tried to rig up his own kebab machine but it got consigned to the garden shed while he showed off his third degree burns to the other guys down at Robot Wars Fight Club. Oops, forgot the first rule of RWFC there.
I found a hamster cage in our neighbours back porch to use as the chamber and fed the stray cat that sometimes comes round at the same time. Me and Barry set too and it wasn't long before we had a rather impressive looking home for my egg, if I do say so myself. It's amazing what two men and a screwdriver can do. The merriment was short lived though as Deborah returned home from work. There was something I had forgotten to do.
What Came First?
Debs had somehow gotten it into her head that the reason she was still having the painters round every month was that my plumbing was somehow in the same state as one of those thick twats off ‘Cowboy Builders’. She must know something about Dominic Littlewood that I don’t. Anyways, I’m not sure how she came to this conclusion as I’m actually gifted with the amazing ability to produce copious amounts of spunk. You could feed a starving African family of four for weeks with one of my bucket loads. And without dragging my mother into it, not literally of course, she’d happily tell you and the rest of the neighbours about one particularly horrific camping trip and the inability to roll my sleeping bag back up cos it was so rock solid.
Anyways, Deborah insisted I get myself checked out. To which I agreed, as I was no where near the point of suggesting that it could possibly be her that had the problem and not me. I’d take a doctors rigid anal probe over the hard fisted nut shattering she’d give me any day. Course with me getting all excited about building the incubator, I’d forgotten all about the appointment I was supposed to have made.
So a new date with the chocolate starfish inspector was made. Actually it wasn’t all that bad. The doctor had a bit of a fumble about and we both had a good laugh at the size of my penis. Brought a tear to my eye it did, but it was most likely the finger up my arse. I got handed a wee tub at the end and was asked to provide a sample. I did try to explain that I could fill that thing ten times over but they guy insisted that a small amount would be enough to give an accurate measurement. I didn’t mind. I was getting to have a wank. This wasn’t just any old dishonourable discharge. This was in aid of medical science.
As I stood there in that small cubicle which smelt like a combination of tramp, Domestos and tuna. Plastic cup in one hand, soiled porn mag in the other. Something crossed my mind. My basic understanding of biology and from what Deborah had told me, that to make a baby, there had to be an egg and a sperm. So question was, had Lil Wayne been fertilized?
Anyways, Deborah insisted I get myself checked out. To which I agreed, as I was no where near the point of suggesting that it could possibly be her that had the problem and not me. I’d take a doctors rigid anal probe over the hard fisted nut shattering she’d give me any day. Course with me getting all excited about building the incubator, I’d forgotten all about the appointment I was supposed to have made.
So a new date with the chocolate starfish inspector was made. Actually it wasn’t all that bad. The doctor had a bit of a fumble about and we both had a good laugh at the size of my penis. Brought a tear to my eye it did, but it was most likely the finger up my arse. I got handed a wee tub at the end and was asked to provide a sample. I did try to explain that I could fill that thing ten times over but they guy insisted that a small amount would be enough to give an accurate measurement. I didn’t mind. I was getting to have a wank. This wasn’t just any old dishonourable discharge. This was in aid of medical science.
As I stood there in that small cubicle which smelt like a combination of tramp, Domestos and tuna. Plastic cup in one hand, soiled porn mag in the other. Something crossed my mind. My basic understanding of biology and from what Deborah had told me, that to make a baby, there had to be an egg and a sperm. So question was, had Lil Wayne been fertilized?
Don't count your chickens
I won’t go into whether I rolled Wayne around in my own porridge or not. Some things should remain private between a man and his unhatched pandas eye projectile. And so my story continues.
The incubator was looking great. I’d covered the walls with egg cartons so that Wayne could have his music on as loud as he wanted without it disturbing the neighbours. I’d heard Deb going on about how music was good for developing babies so I’d started him off on some easy listening like Cannibal Corpse and Suffocation before introducing him to the heavier stuff. He also seemed to be soothed by the sound of me playing Call of Duty on the Xbox. The machine gun must be like the sound of a mothers beating heart or something. But try explaining that to Deborah.
She was ill-nittered like never before. I’d be trying to maintain a constant temperature for the little fellow and she’d be like “Martin, can’t you help me build this crib?”, “Martin, I shouldn’t be lifting this car engine in my condition” and “I’m eating for two now you inconsiderate bastard so I’ll eat as many deep fried pizzas as I like”. Anybody would think that she was up the duff or something the way she was carrying on. All I know is that she didn’t seem to give two hoots about Wayne. In fact she was damn right hostile towards him.
There was an incident. I don’t want to start throwing accusations around but the words ‘attempted murder’ spring to mind. She claims otherwise. I woke up one morning to find Wayne missing from his nest. In blind panic I run into the kitchen just in time to see her smashing in the top of a boiled egg, happy as Larry. I near baulked when she dipped her soldiers into it. God there was yolk everywhere. I’ve never been so repulsed and yet mind cravingly hungry at the same time. The good news was that it wasn’t Wayne she was digging into. Bad news was she’d put him in the frickin’ fridge along with the normal shop bought ones! She had the nerve to accuse me of not caring about her and her so called baby. Said I was obsessed with that stupid egg. Said there was nothing special about it and she’d put it in the fridge to prove it. I looked into that fridge helplessly. It was like trying to pick Michael out of the Jackson Five. They all looked the same.
This is where my motherly instinct kicked in. I don’t know how or why, perhaps the lingering odour from my old pants or indeed my own arse, but somehow I was able to differentiate between them by smell. I guess it was a bit like how everybody likes the smell of their own feet but hates everyone else’s. But he wasn’t out of the woods just yet. God knows how long he’d been in that ice box. I had to make sure he was okay. Sticking him into the microwave for a quick warm up did cross my mind but I decided that getting him back into the familiar setting of his incubator was for the best. I had to make sure he was still alive so I held that little egg up to the light and waited for what seemed like an eternity. Then at last. Movement!
The incubator was looking great. I’d covered the walls with egg cartons so that Wayne could have his music on as loud as he wanted without it disturbing the neighbours. I’d heard Deb going on about how music was good for developing babies so I’d started him off on some easy listening like Cannibal Corpse and Suffocation before introducing him to the heavier stuff. He also seemed to be soothed by the sound of me playing Call of Duty on the Xbox. The machine gun must be like the sound of a mothers beating heart or something. But try explaining that to Deborah.
She was ill-nittered like never before. I’d be trying to maintain a constant temperature for the little fellow and she’d be like “Martin, can’t you help me build this crib?”, “Martin, I shouldn’t be lifting this car engine in my condition” and “I’m eating for two now you inconsiderate bastard so I’ll eat as many deep fried pizzas as I like”. Anybody would think that she was up the duff or something the way she was carrying on. All I know is that she didn’t seem to give two hoots about Wayne. In fact she was damn right hostile towards him.
There was an incident. I don’t want to start throwing accusations around but the words ‘attempted murder’ spring to mind. She claims otherwise. I woke up one morning to find Wayne missing from his nest. In blind panic I run into the kitchen just in time to see her smashing in the top of a boiled egg, happy as Larry. I near baulked when she dipped her soldiers into it. God there was yolk everywhere. I’ve never been so repulsed and yet mind cravingly hungry at the same time. The good news was that it wasn’t Wayne she was digging into. Bad news was she’d put him in the frickin’ fridge along with the normal shop bought ones! She had the nerve to accuse me of not caring about her and her so called baby. Said I was obsessed with that stupid egg. Said there was nothing special about it and she’d put it in the fridge to prove it. I looked into that fridge helplessly. It was like trying to pick Michael out of the Jackson Five. They all looked the same.
This is where my motherly instinct kicked in. I don’t know how or why, perhaps the lingering odour from my old pants or indeed my own arse, but somehow I was able to differentiate between them by smell. I guess it was a bit like how everybody likes the smell of their own feet but hates everyone else’s. But he wasn’t out of the woods just yet. God knows how long he’d been in that ice box. I had to make sure he was okay. Sticking him into the microwave for a quick warm up did cross my mind but I decided that getting him back into the familiar setting of his incubator was for the best. I had to make sure he was still alive so I held that little egg up to the light and waited for what seemed like an eternity. Then at last. Movement!
Getting Clucky
You ever heard about that thing where the dad to be starts to suffer the same symptoms as the mother? Morning sickness, decreased intelligence, laziness, stuff like that. Well a similar thing happened to me. I found myself puking my guts up regularly. Specially on a Saturday and Sunday morning, occasionally on a Thursday. It was weird. Usually I’m fine after ten pints. And it wasn’t just me singing a rainbow either. It was coming out of both ends. I’ll never mock a woman for having a vagina like Mary Poppins carpet bag after having kids for after laying Wayne, I had an arse like a wind sock.
Something was happening to my man boobs too. I swear they seemed to be growing bigger! And sometimes I could see four of them. Possibly a side effect of the gin & tonics I was throwing back to combat morning sickness. Medicinal purposes you understand. Whatever it was all about, I’d definitely be up shit creek if I was going to have to breast feed. I’m lactose intolerant.
Not that Debs was experiencing any of these adverse effects btw. No sympathetic foot rubs, no relaxing baths run, no neck massages. She was doing very little to help me. In fact Barry was more of a help on that front. I suppose things were still on tender hooks between me and her. She did offer up a bit of an apology one night in the form of opening her legs and showing me her bacon strips. Actually, I hadn’t realized just how long I’d gone without sex. Who’d have thought? What with the excitement of having Wayne taking up most of my time, the prospect of ripping out the fireplace hadn’t even entered my mind.
I never got round to accepting her apology that night. My mini me was mid way to standing to attention when I heard something downstairs. Something was unsettling Wayne.
Something was happening to my man boobs too. I swear they seemed to be growing bigger! And sometimes I could see four of them. Possibly a side effect of the gin & tonics I was throwing back to combat morning sickness. Medicinal purposes you understand. Whatever it was all about, I’d definitely be up shit creek if I was going to have to breast feed. I’m lactose intolerant.
Not that Debs was experiencing any of these adverse effects btw. No sympathetic foot rubs, no relaxing baths run, no neck massages. She was doing very little to help me. In fact Barry was more of a help on that front. I suppose things were still on tender hooks between me and her. She did offer up a bit of an apology one night in the form of opening her legs and showing me her bacon strips. Actually, I hadn’t realized just how long I’d gone without sex. Who’d have thought? What with the excitement of having Wayne taking up most of my time, the prospect of ripping out the fireplace hadn’t even entered my mind.
I never got round to accepting her apology that night. My mini me was mid way to standing to attention when I heard something downstairs. Something was unsettling Wayne.
Rotten Eggs
I wasn’t sure how long the incubation period was going to be. The internet said it took exactly twenty one days for a chicken. I figured Wayne would take roughly the same. We were coming up for day seventeen so I thought his restlessness might have something to do with his impending hatching. I’d bought some cigars to celebrate on the big day which was daft really, I normally only ever smoke heroin.
We even started to get congratulation cards from friends and family through the post. I was deeply touched until Deborah began insisting that they were for her “real” pregnancy and not for a “fucking hard boiled egg in a hamster cage”. She said I needed to have a reality check and accept that she was with child. I put her irrational behaviour and pitbull like aggression down to hormones. I put my incontrollable bladder weakness and compulsive internet porn visits down to hormones also.
I suppose it wasn’t a big surprise to find out that I’d eventually knocked her up. I was so potently virile I’d lain a bleedin’ egg hadn’t I. Not many men could claim that. In fact, I was probably the only one. God, I should be on a channel five documentary or something. Where can I find Piers Morgan’s phone number? Those were my exact wandering thoughts as I ripped open a letter from the health centre. The fertility results letter, that is.
These are the kind of letters that should come with a disclaimer or warning on the envelope. “Caution: Life shattering news inside. Before opening, please have a warm sponge to hand in order to pack your innards back up inside after your rectum prolapses.” I slumped onto the sofa, crushed. I couldn’t have fathered Deborah’s baby. I was as sterile as a bottle of bloody Dettol.
I felt a lump. I fumbled about, double checking for any anal spillage. But what was causing my discomfort wasn’t my partially dry breeks. It was someone else’s. I pulled out a large pebble dashed pair of y-fronts from underneath the cushion. The unmistakeable smell of pork scratchings confirmed my worst fears. They were Barrys!
We even started to get congratulation cards from friends and family through the post. I was deeply touched until Deborah began insisting that they were for her “real” pregnancy and not for a “fucking hard boiled egg in a hamster cage”. She said I needed to have a reality check and accept that she was with child. I put her irrational behaviour and pitbull like aggression down to hormones. I put my incontrollable bladder weakness and compulsive internet porn visits down to hormones also.
I suppose it wasn’t a big surprise to find out that I’d eventually knocked her up. I was so potently virile I’d lain a bleedin’ egg hadn’t I. Not many men could claim that. In fact, I was probably the only one. God, I should be on a channel five documentary or something. Where can I find Piers Morgan’s phone number? Those were my exact wandering thoughts as I ripped open a letter from the health centre. The fertility results letter, that is.
These are the kind of letters that should come with a disclaimer or warning on the envelope. “Caution: Life shattering news inside. Before opening, please have a warm sponge to hand in order to pack your innards back up inside after your rectum prolapses.” I slumped onto the sofa, crushed. I couldn’t have fathered Deborah’s baby. I was as sterile as a bottle of bloody Dettol.
I felt a lump. I fumbled about, double checking for any anal spillage. But what was causing my discomfort wasn’t my partially dry breeks. It was someone else’s. I pulled out a large pebble dashed pair of y-fronts from underneath the cushion. The unmistakeable smell of pork scratchings confirmed my worst fears. They were Barrys!
You can’t make an omelette without…
So that was a right kick in the bollocks. You’d have to meet Barry to know what an insult that was. Don’t get me wrong, the puss-filled cheating little dog shit was my best mate. He’d never bail on you in a fight. If you’re ever flanked by Russian snipers in ‘Call of Duty: Modern Warfare’, he’d have your back, know what I mean. He’s the type of fella that’ll support you no matter what. That won’t hold you back once you’ve decide to set light to your pubes as a party trick at your nephews fifth birthday or anything like that. A real salt of the earth kind of bloke now that I come to think of it. Wouldn’t shag your wife in a million…hold on. That cuntard!
Naturally, she denied it. I produced the evidence, Barry's briefs, and threw them back in her face. That's when the waterworks started. Once the plumber had come round and fixed the taps, we sat down and had it out. On hindsight I should have tucked Wayne back into his cosy wee house instead of allowing him to hear cross words between us. He was used to the soothing tones of ‘Butchered at Birth’ and ‘Hate Eternal’ not two people screaming at each other like banshees.
Now I’m not normally a violent guy but she’d pushed me to the limit this time. I slyly lifted one arse cheek and ejected a silent jet through my nether throat while I sat at there innocently finishing my pop tart. Bet you thought they’d stopped making them didn’t you. Suffice to say I’d delivered a classic room clearer and Deb looked like she’d been hit by a ton of bricks. Victory was mine, or so I thought.
Unfortunately, she recovered enough to blurt out that she wasn’t even pregnant just as I finally admitted I’d been firing blanks all along. That bombshell hung in the air a lot longer than my air biscuit. It all happened so fast that time seemed to actually slow down. Me, mouth agape, jam running down my chin. Her, trying to muffle the smell with Barry's pants. And Wayne, rolling out of my hand and towards the edge of the table. Then OVER!
Naturally, she denied it. I produced the evidence, Barry's briefs, and threw them back in her face. That's when the waterworks started. Once the plumber had come round and fixed the taps, we sat down and had it out. On hindsight I should have tucked Wayne back into his cosy wee house instead of allowing him to hear cross words between us. He was used to the soothing tones of ‘Butchered at Birth’ and ‘Hate Eternal’ not two people screaming at each other like banshees.
Now I’m not normally a violent guy but she’d pushed me to the limit this time. I slyly lifted one arse cheek and ejected a silent jet through my nether throat while I sat at there innocently finishing my pop tart. Bet you thought they’d stopped making them didn’t you. Suffice to say I’d delivered a classic room clearer and Deb looked like she’d been hit by a ton of bricks. Victory was mine, or so I thought.
Unfortunately, she recovered enough to blurt out that she wasn’t even pregnant just as I finally admitted I’d been firing blanks all along. That bombshell hung in the air a lot longer than my air biscuit. It all happened so fast that time seemed to actually slow down. Me, mouth agape, jam running down my chin. Her, trying to muffle the smell with Barry's pants. And Wayne, rolling out of my hand and towards the edge of the table. Then OVER!
Home to Roost
Funny the way things turn out isn’t it. I’d woken up that morning the expectant father of two. Although technically, one of them didn’t actually exist plus theoretically belonged to another man. I guess I was glad that one didn’t turn out. I wouldn’t wish a ginger step child on my worst enemy, who at the time was Barry, and who’d have had the double embarrassment of being the real father too. Anyways, one hour later I was the expectant father of none.
I’d never get to experience any of those important milestones that every father looks forward to. Me and Wayne down the park playing footie. My bitter disappointment when he becomes a Man City supporter just to spite me. Buying his first pint in the pub on his thirteenth birthday. Or helping him build his own incubator when he came to lay his own little egg. All these precious moments gone.
We never got to have a funeral for Wayne thanks to spontaneous combustion, the stray cat I mentioned earlier. It had sneaked in the back door and lapped him off the kitchen floor for breakfast. I couldn’t help think that somehow, that’s the way he would have wanted to go, as I stood listening to spontaneous crunching on what sounded like bone and gristle.
That tender last moment was rudely interrupted by the appearance of Barry. The git had just wandered in off the street. Deborah looked as irritated as I was to see him but I could tell that she secretly just wanted to run over, rip his shell suit off and give him a blow job right in front of me. The “You look worse than Cliff Richard’s scrotum“ which she barked at him didn’t fool me one bit. Mind, he did look rough. I kind of felt sorry for him. There was something about that glazed look and the way he kept yanking down at his arse that was vaguely familiar to me. It all made sense the moment he held out his hand. In his palm – an EGG!
So there you go. That’s my story. Take from it what you will, though I hasten to add this is all well copyright protected so keep your thieving mitts off it. How it’ll all work out in the end, who knows? In other words I haven’t thought the sequel up yet.
Oh, you’ll never guess the latest btw. Some daft mare wants to turn my story into a film. I offered to play myself but she said my facial deformity would put off audiences. Turns out what she meant was my huge cock would put audiences off. That would make more sense at least. Anyhoo, come back sometime and I'll give you an update about it.
I’d never get to experience any of those important milestones that every father looks forward to. Me and Wayne down the park playing footie. My bitter disappointment when he becomes a Man City supporter just to spite me. Buying his first pint in the pub on his thirteenth birthday. Or helping him build his own incubator when he came to lay his own little egg. All these precious moments gone.
We never got to have a funeral for Wayne thanks to spontaneous combustion, the stray cat I mentioned earlier. It had sneaked in the back door and lapped him off the kitchen floor for breakfast. I couldn’t help think that somehow, that’s the way he would have wanted to go, as I stood listening to spontaneous crunching on what sounded like bone and gristle.
That tender last moment was rudely interrupted by the appearance of Barry. The git had just wandered in off the street. Deborah looked as irritated as I was to see him but I could tell that she secretly just wanted to run over, rip his shell suit off and give him a blow job right in front of me. The “You look worse than Cliff Richard’s scrotum“ which she barked at him didn’t fool me one bit. Mind, he did look rough. I kind of felt sorry for him. There was something about that glazed look and the way he kept yanking down at his arse that was vaguely familiar to me. It all made sense the moment he held out his hand. In his palm – an EGG!
So there you go. That’s my story. Take from it what you will, though I hasten to add this is all well copyright protected so keep your thieving mitts off it. How it’ll all work out in the end, who knows? In other words I haven’t thought the sequel up yet.
Oh, you’ll never guess the latest btw. Some daft mare wants to turn my story into a film. I offered to play myself but she said my facial deformity would put off audiences. Turns out what she meant was my huge cock would put audiences off. That would make more sense at least. Anyhoo, come back sometime and I'll give you an update about it.
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