I stood frozen in the hallway, trying to regain some semblance of composure. My erection strained painfully against my pants, demanding attention it wasn't going to get. Deep breaths. Think about gross things.
Mystery meat Monday at the orphanage, the gray-brown slop that smelled like wet dog and stuck to the roof of your mouth like congealed despair.
Intestinal parasites squirming through diseased intestines, their pale bodies writhing in necrotic tissue like maggots in month-old meat.
Zeus in a neon yellow thong, hairy ass cheeks jiggling as he twerked on Apollo's throne, sweat glistening in every fold and crevice of his immortal body.
That last one definitely did the trick. Nothing kills arousal quite like divine ass-clapping.
