It’s the Sexy Football Christmas Special!
The football team’s Christmas party has two things going for it. Both of them are being used to transport the glamorous waitress serving drinks, and are legs. Her skirt sashays liquidly atop pins that have clearly seen a bicycle or zero-gravity treadmill or two in their time. I watch her and can barely contain my excitement, ignoring the cracker-pulling and novelty paper hat wearing that occurs around me.
My thick, hard, football playing glans throbs like a bulging bag of icing sugar, such as one might use to decorate a Christmas cake or mince pie. My boiling hot spaff surges free in search of the cool December air, only to ruin the fancy new pants I was given by a team-mate as an early gift. I can barely stifle grunts that squeeze out from me arhythmically, like so much manky water from a freshly bled radiator. My smell is everywhere.
I make my excuses and leave. I tell everyone I have diarrhoea again, but I need to stop doing this.