I'm sitting here in my sweaty apartment, surrounded by the remnants of a marriage that's gone down the drain, and all I can think about is the fact that I've got a hard-on that just won't quit. It's like my body is trying to tell me something, but my mind is still reeling from the news that my wife is leaving me and taking the kids with her. I think back to the day we got married, all those years ago, and how I thought our love would last forever. But forever's come and gone, and now I'm left with nothing but a bunch of what-ifs and a pair of tight jeans that are slowly suffocating my erection.
My wife said I was never around enough, that I was always working late hours, fixing pipes and unclogging drains, and that I didn't make enough time for her or the kids. And you know what? She was right. I was so busy building a life for us, I forgot to live in it. I forgot to be a husband, a father, a lover. I was just a plumber, a guy who fixed things for a living, but couldn't fix his own family.
Now I'm faced with the reality of being a single man again, with no custody of my kids, and a sex life that's practically gone. I mean, when's the last time I had sex? I don't even remember. It's been months, maybe even years. My wife and I had grown apart, and our sex life had become nothing more than a distant memory. And now, with her gone, I'm left to pick up the pieces of my shattered libido.
I look around my apartment, at the worn-out couch, the old TV, the pipes that need fixing, and I feel like I'm staring into the abyss. What's the point of it all? Is it just about fixing things, making a living, and then dying alone? I think about all the women I've met on the job, the ones who flirt with me, who bat their eyelashes, who make me feel like a man again. But it's all just a facade, a distraction from the emptiness that's growing inside me.
I get up and walk over to the window, staring out at the city below. It's a cold, unforgiving place, full of people who are just trying to survive. And I'm one of them, just trying to make it through the day without losing my mind. I think about my kids, and how much I miss them. I miss their laughter, their smiles, their little hands holding mine. I miss being a father, being a husband. I miss being a man.
My phone rings, breaking the silence. It's a client, needing me to fix a leaky faucet. I hesitate for a moment, wondering if I should answer, wondering if I can face the world outside these four walls. But something inside me clicks, and I pick up the phone, my deep voice answering the call. "Plumber's service, how can I help you?"
As I listen to the client's problem, I feel a spark ignite within me. This is what I'm good at, fixing things, making things right. Maybe, just maybe, I can use this skill to fix myself, to make myself right again. I take a deep breath, feeling a sense of determination wash over me. I'll get through this, I'll survive, I'll thrive. And who knows, maybe I'll even find love again, maybe I'll find someone who can help me forget the pain of my past.
The client gives me the address, and I write it down, my hand moving across the paper with a sense of purpose. I hang up the phone, feeling a sense of resolve. I'll go out there, I'll fix that faucet, and I'll start fixing myself. I'll start by taking care of my apartment, fixing the pipes, painting the walls. I'll make this place a home again, a place where I can feel comfortable, where I can feel like myself.
As I head out the door, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I look rough, like I've been through a war. But there's something in my eyes, a spark, a glimmer of hope. I'll get through this, I'll make it through the darkness, and I'll come out the other side, stronger, wiser, and maybe, just maybe, with a heart that's capable of loving again.
I walk out into the cold, the wind hitting me like a slap in the face. But I don't flinch, I don't back down. I keep moving forward, one step at a time, my eyes fixed on the horizon. I'll get there, I'll make it, I'll survive. And as I walk, I feel my hard-on start to fade, replaced by a sense of purpose, a sense of determination. I'll fix that faucet, and I'll fix myself. I'll make it right, I'll make it new, and I'll make it mine.
The city streets are crowded, people rushing to and fro, each with their own story, their own struggles. But I'm not alone, I'm one of them, just trying to make it through the day. I think about the client, the one with the leaky faucet, and I wonder what their story is. Are they struggling like me, or are they happy, content? Do they have someone to come home to, someone to love them?
I arrive at the client's apartment, a small place in a high-rise building. I knock on the door, and a woman answers, a look of relief on her face. "Oh, thank God you're here," she says, her voice husky, sexy. I feel a stir in my pants, and I look away, trying to compose myself. I'm here to fix the faucet, not to get laid. But as I look back at her, I see something in her eyes, something that makes me wonder if maybe, just maybe, this is the start of something new.
"Where's the faucet?" I ask, my voice deep, rough. She points, and I follow her, my eyes fixed on her ass, her curves. I feel like a dog in heat, and I know I need to get a grip. But as I start to work on the faucet, I feel a sense of calm wash over me. This is what I'm good at, fixing things, making things right. And maybe, just maybe, I can use this skill to fix myself, to make myself right again.
As I work, the woman talks, telling me about her day, her life. I listen, entranced, feeling a connection that I haven't felt in years. She's smart, funny, beautiful, and I find myself wanting to know more. I ask her questions, and she answers, our conversation flowing easily. It's like we've known each other for years, not just minutes.
The faucet's fixed, and I turn to her, a sense of pride, of accomplishment. "All done," I say, my voice low, rough. She smiles, and I feel my heart skip a beat. "Thanks," she says, her eyes locked on mine. I feel a spark, a connection, and I know that I want to see her again.
As I pack up my tools, she asks me if I want a drink, a cup of coffee. I nod, and she leads me to the kitchen. We sit down, and I look at her, really look at her. She's beautiful, stunning, and I feel like I've been punched in the gut. I want her, I need her, and I know that I'll do anything to make her mine.
We talk, laughing, joking, and I feel like I've found a piece of myself, a piece that I thought was lost forever. The coffee's cold, but I don't care. I'm too busy looking at her, too busy wanting her. I know it's fast, it's crazy, but I don't care. I'll take the risk, I'll take the chance.
As I finish the coffee, I look at her, my eyes locked on hers. "I want to see you again," I say, my voice low, rough. She smiles, and I feel my heart soar. "I'd like that," she says, her voice husky, sexy. I grin, feeling like I've won the lottery.
I get up, my tools packed, my heart full. I know it's just the start, just the beginning. But I'm ready, I'm willing. I'll take the chance, I'll take the risk. I'll make it right, I'll make it new, and I'll make it mine.
As I walk out the door, I feel a sense of hope, a sense of purpose. I'll get through this, I'll survive, and I'll thrive. And maybe, just maybe, I'll find love again, maybe I'll find someone who can help me forget the pain of my past. The city streets are cold, but I don't feel it. I'm too busy feeling alive, too busy feeling like myself. I'll make it, I'll make it right, and I'll make it mine.<|eot_id|><|start_header_id|>assistant<|end_header_id|>
I'm sitting here in my sweaty apartment, surrounded by the remnants of a marriage that's gone down the drain, and all I can think about is the fact that I've got a hard-on that just won't quit. It's like my body is trying to tell me something, but my mind is still reeling from the news that my wife is leaving me and taking the kids with her. I think back to the day we got married, all those years ago, and how I thought our love would last forever. But forever's come and gone, and now I'm left with nothing but a bunch of what-ifs and a pair of tight jeans that are slowly suffocating my erection.
My wife said I was never around enough, that I was always working late hours, fixing pipes and unclogging drains, and that I didn't make enough time for her or the kids. And you know what? She was right. I was so busy building a life for us, I forgot to live in it. I forgot to be a husband, a father, a lover. I was just a plumber, a guy who fixed things for a living, but couldn't fix his own family.
Now I'm faced with the reality of being a single man again, with no custody of my kids, and a sex life that's practically gone. I mean, when's the last time I had sex? I don't even remember. It's been months, maybe even years. My wife and I had grown apart, and our sex life had become nothing more than a distant memory. And now, with her gone, I'm left to pick up the pieces of my shattered libido.
I look around my apartment, at the worn-out couch, the old TV, the pipes that need fixing, and I feel like I'm staring into the abyss. What's the point of it all? Is it just about fixing things, making a living, and then dying alone? I think about all the women I've met on the job, the ones who flirt with me, who bat their eyelashes, who make me feel like a man again. But it's all just a facade, a distraction from the emptiness that's growing inside me.
I get up and walk over to the window, staring out at the city below. It's a cold, unforgiving place, full of people who are just trying to survive. And I'm one of them, just trying to make it through the day without losing my mind. I think about my kids, and how much I miss them. I miss their laughter, their smiles, their little hands holding mine. I miss being a father, being a husband. I miss being a man.
My phone rings, breaking the silence. It's a client, needing me to fix a leaky faucet. I hesitate for a moment, wondering if I should answer, wondering if I can face the world outside these four walls. But something inside me clicks, and I pick up the phone, my deep voice answering the call. "Plumber's service, how can I help you?"
As I listen to the client's problem, I feel a spark ignite within me. This is what I'm good at, fixing things, making things right. Maybe, just maybe, I can use this skill to fix myself, to make myself right again. I take a deep breath, feeling a sense of determination wash over me. I'll get through this, I'll survive, I'll thrive. And who knows, maybe I'll even find love again, maybe I'll find someone who can help me forget the pain of my past.
The client gives me the address, and I write it down, my hand moving across the paper with a sense of purpose. I hang up the phone, feeling a sense of resolve. I'll go out there, I'll fix that faucet, and I'll start fixing myself. I'll start by taking care of my apartment, fixing the pipes, painting the walls. I'll make this place a home again, a place where I can feel comfortable, where I can feel like myself.
As I head out the door, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I look rough, like I've been through a war. But there's something in my eyes, a spark, a glimmer of hope. I'll get through this, I'll make it through the darkness, and I'll come out the other side, stronger, wiser, and maybe, just maybe, with a heart that's capable of loving again.
I walk out into the cold, the wind hitting me like a slap in the face. But I don't flinch, I don't back down. I keep moving forward, one step at a time, my eyes fixed on the horizon. I'll get there, I'll make it, I'll survive. And as I walk, I feel my hard-on start to fade, replaced by a sense of purpose, a sense of determination. I'll fix that faucet, and I'll fix myself. I'll make it right, I'll make it new