As I caught a sidways look at myself in the mirror I thought, "Christ . . . am I common?
There I was in all my naked glory. Cock at full staff, jammed through the back end of some unknown female's shoe. She, passed out on the bed, unaware of the fornication her footwear was enjoying in her absence. I thought, "what am I doing. I'm getting too old for this shit. I need some proper internet friends, but am I too common?"
Why would anyone like me? Why would anyone want to like me? Perhaps if I reinvented myself . . . maybe if I looked like Bobo Vieri or Wayne Newton or that fat fellow who likes to say that he invented the question mark.
What if nobody knew of my love for ladies footwear, what if I wasn't so goddamn common? What if I told my putative internet colleagues that I was descended from the House of Savoy, some Italian royalty, would they like me then? Or would I still be just a lying wopper?
And what if I found a little girlfriend, a bit of a Londoner, and I could meet her at Gatwick and destroy her rectum on holidays and three-day weekends. And what if she took me to meet her real friends and bought me drugs and I loved her for it. And what if we got messed up and found some weather geek and beat him with sticks until he died and then scribbled racist manifesto on the walls of his college dorm to put off the coppers?
Now, that would be uncommon.