Brad Thought About Getting Guards For His Nipples But He Was Nearly Certain They Only Bled If You Were

Brad thought about getting guards for his nipples but he was nearly certain they only bled if you were running in a marathon. That whole notion was just downright freaky.

Well, he’d ask Chris later just to be sure. Right now his ass was looking really hot.

It was then Brad realized between his fine ass and mirrored sunglasses, the two shirtless boys that bladed by not two minutes ago prolly didn’t see him wink.

Hmmmm… well. Notated for next time. Certainly, another round will come. That’s when Chris tapped Brad on the shoulder scaring the Bejesus out of him. Yikes!

Well, the hot boys may have skated by, but at the end of the day, the possession was over. Chris and Brad were both thankful for that.

Buh-bye Bejesus.

Jim the Gym Owner slept funny but not the haha funny. More like awkward funny.

Brad and Chris kept staring. Something wasn't working out.

Chris argued Jim had to work out, he owned a gym. Brad said, maybe Jim had some work done. Both agreed sleeping looked hard for him and so did his muscles.

Chris then suggested maybe Jim the Gym Owner did one too many pumps.

Brad didn't see any high heels. It would not surprise Brad if Jim the Gym Owner did drag. In an era of acceptance and rampant capitalism, it would only surprise if he did not.

That reminded Brad, “Was Lisa popping by?” He needed to brainstorm a new name for Aqua Marine to pitch to Crayola. Lisa came up with seven viable alternatives for Burnt Sienna just last week and, “wholly gay men who are high,” Aqua Marine def needed to go.

Amen.

“Jim was sleeping, right?” Chris then asked if Brad, if he had ad a tiny mirror. “You know what, 69 that. Lisa would have one on her person for sure.”

Brad agreed also stating Lisa was coming by in a half hour. Chris then suggested to Brad they 69 in the meantime. Staring at all this muscle was making him hot, and he didn’t want to touch anything that might be dead. Brad was also pretty sure the number was 86 but despite the enormous stretch would continue to look it over for obvious reasons.

Chris had a problem with the word ‘manufacturer’. It didn’t roll off the tongue like Becky’s ‘Namibia.’

What was he going to do now anyway? The photo shoot was in full swing. It was indeed a nasty word though. The only thing more on the nasty was the plural, ‘manufacturers.’

Despite the distractions, as a professional gay model, Chris was expected to somehow make it WERK, WURQ and WORK not to mention WORKOUT and everything between with a bend and snap of the finger.

It was A LOT and Chris realized he had taken every version of the word on. He never expected the Inuit people to live up up to every term ever created for snow. Why did he put all this expectation around the gays? Was he putting all this pressure on himself?

Chris needed to get a grasp on his performance. How was he doing? What was he doing? Was he making this photo shoot look easy?

If so, Chris was either putting in too much effort, too into it or possibly Inuit himself. He never did water the family tree to find out, but only because he didn’t know how. He tried tho. Oh how he tried.

Chris stopped himself there. He really needed to stop trying. How could he do that? He didn’t know any other way.

Chris decided to bring himself back to the present tense. Whatever that was had to be better than this brand of timeless self torture. One deep breath in and…

Admittedly the now was hot. The better half of nasty if you know what that means. The jockstrap on his head smelled a little like his boyfriend Brad too.

He worked out.

Wait. Was this his?

(Click!)

That’s when the photographer ran out of memory and yelled, “what the hell was going on?!

Chris said he wasn’t too sure as he kept getting distracted himself. He did though suspect the jockstrap on his head was his boyfriends so wasn’t overly concerned as to what they may snap out of and into. Brad was around somewhere. The jockstrap was still fresh.

Chris’ stomach then rumbled. “Was Cher just here? I feel like pizza.”

That’s when Chris realized the photographer was their neighbor Luke. Apparently he brought over some new weed to watch Mystic Pizza. It was good stuff.

Of course Brad backed it up. He backed like no one. Helloooo! What gay wouldn’t die without a phone?

Chris then informed his boyfriend he was referring to their VW Cabriolet in their driveway.

Brad paused for a moment to soak it all in. “Chris, did you want to stick it in?”

He did.

The view was fine. More than fine actually. Brad and Chris would need to upgrade their hotel rooms more often.

About an hour later while all three laid in bed, their new friend, Chad would note the room key Brad and Chris had was for 909. They were in 606. How did they get inside?

Chris asked which time then notated the plant on the dresser was blinking. Brad said he had the same question and saw the little red light as well. At one point, he did think ‘reindeer’ and that now made sense. Such a thing never presented itself in the situation before.

Brad went on to say it would help if Chad was more specific as to this inside job. There was a lot of funky business going on in a relatively short period of time. Most of it was questionable. That was the fun.

Brad’s eyes went wide. He abruptly sat up and turned to Chad. “Streaming or recording?”

Chad flipped for a moment before realizing Brad and Chris didn’t care about being recorded. They cared to see it. Unfortunately, for them, he was streaming.

It was then and there Brad and Chris each got a text from their neighbor Luke. He happened to be on BBC and screenshot the whole thing. He would make a few quick gifs and shoot them over. To that, he couldn’t believe Chris’ hit the opposite wall.

Sure enough, it was true. All three were wondering where that pool of seaman landed. No one thought to look over AND up.

Luke said that made sense. When and where everyone and everything is going down it was understandable ‘up’ didn’t jump on the radar. The up part happened up front as it does.

True dat.

Brad got it at Ross.