Funny how that when Jorge fights it’s “interesting” but when I watch it it’s “barbaric”. What’s he even doing here? He’s irrelevant. Fuckin’ meathead should be back in Mexico with a gimp mask on sodomizing a donkey or swatting away flies from tourists Coronas. I never liked Mexicans and had my hatred validated furthermore when I visited Tijuana last summer. It’s so hard to distinguish the rich from the poor (or the poor from the less poor)
when everyone looks the same. Same stupid grin, same faggot mustache, and same dirty leather skin. No wonder they all wear those stupid sombreros to hide their shame, or down tequila to absolve themselves from it. Still, at least Mexicans have a level of self-awareness to showcase shame or mimic it which is more than can be said for any filthy Dumbinican. Mexicans wouldn’t have the balls or audacity to flaunt their poverty like they do. No one does. Only at a Dumbinican parade could you possibly witness a pregnant girl slug from a bottle of Brahma light to avoid weight gain. I feel a tap on my shoulder and when I turn around Tori’s holding out a paper cup for me.
“Thought you could do with this.”
I take the cup from her, glad of the reprieve and ask what brings her to the house. She tells me that she split from her boyfriend (pimp?) of six years and that she needed a clean break (boyfriend buried in the Nevada desert?) with an intensity usually reserved for victim single moms. She continues her monologue as I carefully process her and conclude that she could be worth a shot.
“So do you enjoy modeling?” I say watching on contently over her shoulder as Cass struggles not to stare. I know what she’s thinking because it’s the exact same thing I’m thinking-what a slut.
Yeah I love…” Tori says but I’m lost in the hypnotic power of her jiggling breasts. What’s that you say? You want me to motorboat you?
By the time I snap out of my blissful trance she’s smiling (obviously I’ve missed my cue) so I settle on “cool” to save face, which seems to do the trick as she continues on. Who needs subtlety when you’ve got a pair of tits like that? Shit if I had an 18” inch dong I’d probably greet people and count my bus fare with it. You want subtly or refinement? Use a metaphor or hit a museum, but to deny the world a gift like that is to slap the face of humanity.
Tori continues to talk about various photo shoots she’s been involved in and I’d be amazed if any actually involved keeping her clothes on. Models these days are all glorified skateboards with a kind of irregular shooting gallery type edge and beauty – glam crackwhore I call it. Tori’s far too hot to be a “real” model. She has the winning combination of a face that says butter wouldn’t melt but a pout that constantly suggests she’s about to reveal a dirty secret. Although I’m probably biased because I’ve always had a thing for dark haired brunettes with big blue eyes…and even bigger tits.
“So what do you think of all the other housemates?” I say.
“Yeah everyone seems cool. Michael seems really funny.”
“Which one’s he again?”
“The Irish guy.”
Not exactly surprising considering the whole Irish race is a punch line to a joke nobody made. Well I guess when you’re that pasty you’ve gotta have something, which in their case is usually another drink.
“How bout the girls?”
“Yeah Kelly’s cool-we’re bunking together. I tried speaking to Leanne but she didn’t wanna know. I reckon she’s just so country she probably has trouble relating to anything she can’t eat or milk.” and the way Tori smiles makes me wonder if I missed an entendre.
I look over at Leanne whose sitting quite guarded on one of the couches, and our eyes accidentally meet before she retreats back into her inner sanctuary. I suppose I’d let her milk me although I can’t help thinking after the event she’d either cry or expect me to marry her.
“I doubt she’ll she out the week.”
“Well if she doesn’t I’m calling her bed,” Tori says before deliberately pausing, “I forgot you still haven’t seen the bedrooms-fancy a tour?”
I clock the devilish glint in her eyes straight away as if they were an extension of my own inner thoughts, and am about to pounce on her and her proposition until I clock a cameraman. Jesus I’m not even in the house a day yet and already I’m forgetting about ‘em.
“Sure. I’ll just see if Cass is ready.”
I walk over to Cass to shake off my sexual frustration and find she’s still drooling over that greasy jerkoff and his MMA bullshit. Who the fuck cares about a grown man’s homoerotic hoop dreams?
“It’s all about endurance.” Jorge says.
Yeah, endurance and a love of cock.
“You really learn a lot about yourself.”
What like that you’re a closet queer? Rolling around on a syphilis ridden gym mat ball-to-mouth trying to make another man submit.
“The whole experience is so enlightening.”
So that’s where Buddha’s been going wrong all these years! Instead of peacefully meditating in a temple he should have been gouging eyes and mounting ass in the octagon. You want enlightenment then why don’t you try submitting to the truth you fag.
“That sounds totally amazing,” Cassidy says wagging her head like a gormless puppy, “maybe you should give it a try?”
And who said you can’t teach an old dog new tricks…bow, sniff, lick, suck…
“Sounds awesome,” I say with a level of genuine enthusiasm as I mull over the idea of learning some new choke holds, and the fun that could be had applying them…, “wanna see the bedrooms?”

Previous chapter.

From the beginning.

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