Listen! If you’re reading this, let me warn you this isn’t going to be your typical romantic love story, not going to be the kind of story to get you wet between your legs. Mind you, this isn't fictitious at all. Yes of course! I could’ve written a love story, but you know you don’t deserve one. You probably are a slut or a gigolo who can’t handle true white smoldering love, you possibly are the kind to sleep around, to get tossed behind your partners back. You know the kind to drool over the size of a dick or the tightness of the pussy. I despise your kind, but have a special place for. My cabin has its floor littered with empty vodka bottles and sticky, slimy tissues. Now I know when I say sticky, slimy tissues, your brain could decipher it within two possibilities; 1. Semen wiped paper tissue; 2. Actual sordid lump of meat tissue. No points for guessing here. It’s both! The seat where she’d settled her ass in is still warm and there is no air conditioner chasing away her smell. There is a mini freezer, though, at the corner of the room to chill my drinks. She won’t be back here for at least an hour. This means I have an hour, more or less. Frank had just called me to let me know that he won’t be able to do it. What a pussy! He’s always been a little bitch. I remember once as a teen I had decided to take on a bully who was twice my size and had asked Frank for his help. He backed out, and I was left with a black eye, broken arm and bruised ribs. Two years later, the bully, Sam, was found floating face down on The Black Lake, two miles away from the city, with his eyes gouged out and his genitalia missing. Police blamed the residents of the lake for the mutilation and registered the case, an accidental drowning, against the protest of his family. Now, I’m not in any way a genius or a chemical expert, but I’ve managed to preserve his eyes and penis. They sit on my table in a glass jar submerged in alcohol, along with many of such mementos.