Dare you experience my superior version of man on woman sensuality?

Nobody mockworthy today. Oh well, yet another Mark Leyner inspired post. Red meat for the ladies of craigslist...

Since my current projects are coming to an end, I’m updating my resume and preparing for an afternoon interview. I’m in my Carla Behrle leather pants. No shirt. My medallion of a Buddha Vitarka Mudra flanked by a couple of Bodhisattvas bounces off my rock hard pecs as I type. My head bouncing in rhythm to music that only I can hear. I was in the gym earlier today. Day 89 of my new fitness regime. My SuperFreak Workout for Juiced-Up Psychos. I can still feel the pump. I can still feel the burn. I’m contemplating what I want to eat for dinner. I’m thinking, Piccola Scimmia con Vino Rosso. Spider monkey is best served con Aceto, braised in vinegar and maybe rosemary, but our cafeteria is a bit limited.

My commute this morning was quite dull. I got up later than normal. Apparently of PUMP TECH™ washed down with ISS Effervescent Creatine Orange and mojitos was not a good mix. Anyway, I was late and there were fewer lovelies on red line from Dupont Circle than usual. I soldiered on and gave a flex wink point with a trigger-finger to a few and gave them a series of poses that drove them nuts: Front Double Biceps, Front Lat Spread, Side Chest, Back Double Biceps, and signature Back Lat Spread. They are impressed with my physique and mien -- muscle mass, density, ripped definition, intensity, mental focus, dignity, flair, humility.

A few want me to sign their breasts. I graciously accede to their requests with my Mr. Sharpie. Then I settle into my magazine. An article on very expensive yachts. I should get one of those, I’m thinking.

Me you ask? Job seeking. Looking good. Working out. Signing women’s breasts with a Mr. Sharpie. That is what I am about. And if you want to experience my superior version of man on woman sensuality, you know where to write.

He gets letters:

"Pleeeeeeeeassssse sign mine"