I ran with the CEO.
“How long until your MBA is finished?” I asked the CEO.
“Another year, it’s part-time, like yours.”
Her body was very tight for a woman of about 55. She wore spandex shorts.
“Listen you little tart. If you have a hot little ass I’m going to tell you about it, you filthy little tramp. I’m not blind or dead. You think you can stick that perky little ass in my face and I’m not going to say anything? I’m not a f@&king monk.”
She had a blonde ponytail. She was an arrogant little thing.
“You know you want it bad, don’t you, Yon’ Botendaddy?” She said bending over and stretching in front of me. A black man walked by. A black man… a black man… a black man. It was Raoul from the gas station. He always repeated things three times.
“That’s a bad melonfarmer up in this mess, Botendaddy check out that ass, that ass, that ass, that’s your lady, Blay?”
“Sure, that’s my lady, Raoul.” I gave him the 47 part ghetto handshake, like every week for the past so many years.
The CEO and I ran down the long tree-lined avenue towards the ancient mansion district where once long ago, top-hatted Monopoly Kapitalists ruled the smoky city.
Our first mile was good – 8:47, the second mile 19:11 good enough for the old man APFT. But it was a staggering 87 degrees.
“It’s awfully hot to be running in that massive del.ic.io.us adult diaper. Ah the smell of it! Botendaddy, let’s not beat around the bush. I am madly, passionately, romantically in love with you. I always have been. You are not like my first three husbands. They all died, you know. You have a much nicer body and you aren’t incredibly old, like them. But I inherited tens of millions. I had my own money though.”
We ran to the far end and we turned around. It was hot as sweaty, hairy, fetid, shit-covered, scrotile balls. It was so hot that I could smell the CEO’s rancid, del.ic.io.us, reeking, red-hot, urine-soaked, sweaty, malodorous, yeasty vagina.
Three miles, we hit a weak 30:19, at the imaginary 5k mark – 31:13. Then around the 3.5 mile mark, I had a total power outage from the heat. I missed the Adirondacks in February. Who doesn’t want to be on Mt. Marcy in February?
“You’re running like Mr. Burns. Old Botendaddy.”
We stopped at 4.10 miles.
“Lets go back to your office and f&$k, Dear Botendaddy.”
OK readers, I f@&ked her. There. I said it. I f@&ked her for hours in every way imaginable. My office reeked of ancient love. Ah the smell of it!
“Iced Mocha with Nutmeg?”
Peace be the Botendaddy