As I was walking home this evening- yes, I walk home- it was just down the street and cars have that smell to them. That sort of enclosed, meringue smell. I was walking home, down the glass boulevard where I spied a couple making love in the alleyway. The man took out a notepad, and I heard: "Let's begin this negotiation." The woman, in her red dress and diamond-glass earrings said: "I believe this will last for twenty minutes." The man said "Yes, but could we make it another 5? My sexual organs are out-performing expectations today." The woman lent against the wall, like a starlet on cyanide- she pursed her thin lips, eventually saying "Hm. I suppose that would be acceptable, however efficiency is key." For a moment I was confused- lovemaking has changed a lot since my day, I was thinking. Then another thought passed my mind: "Ah, we are witnessing prostitution. How interesting." I called to one of my ninja-floral-pants-assistants, who was hiding under a pothole. I scolded him for the cliche of his hiding place, and asked him to get a chair. I sat outside the opening of the alleyway, watching this act of lovemaking. It was all very efficient and mechanistic. I eagerly awaited the transaction of the money- wondering Just How Much it costs for a prostitute these days (and which one is the prostitute, hmm? I believe that's what BRAD'S GONE INTO YOU DESERTER. Brad who?)
Yet there was no transaction made. I went up to the woman afterwards*, as I helped her zip up- in all honesty, she could lose a kilogram or two. Not too bad, though- not a model, either. I asked the woman: "Did he pay by credit card?"
"Non Karl" (because everybody knows who I am), "we were making Modern Love."
"Ah.." said I, remembering why I went into asexuality.
*Frankly, I prefer to be surrounded by women. (Hi Belle, Tavi, Lady Amanda, etc). Men want to be me; women simply envy me. It's terrible when somebody wants to be you- especially if they're not paying for the privilege. Imagine if somebody created a fake me? Mon dieu! Mon Coco! Mon Chanel!