Swat

So there I am in an airplane bathroom furiously masturbating to the last great thing I had done, a bait and switch at the airport McDonald's where I ordered a small fries and took an entire family's order instead, the grease acting as a putrid, industrial lube, fresh with old stink, the garbage pail variety of foodstuff that best resembles an alien's guess at what human food should be; and I'm still here, masturbating with ardor, pumping my little Tony the Tiger, named after the stripe in the middle, that odd orangeish circle that I swear is from the time I jerked off with a Doritos bag back when I was fourteen and didn't know that Bugles were not only greasier but left a pleasant corn odor and didn't stain my cock orange permanently, causing a pet name Tony the Tiger to be given by my second wife, who had a vagina that looked like a snake's discarded skin; and I'm still masturbating fervently, starting to run out of adverbs, a classic overthink, thinking about myself thinking instead of trying to get off on my heroic McDonald's deed and a history of cock nicknames, there are others, but I need not list them here, lest I delay this any longer, lest we find ourselves careening into a dark hole of dirty dead-end prostitutes who promise a clean orgasm for $30, who swear they normally don't do this type of thing, they are in trade school, they are in town visiting their parents, they have hospital bills that need paying off; no need for them to be here, instead there's me, masturbating with fury, not overthinking it, masturbating to my own masturbation, climbing up my limbic system, waltzing into the medulla; I'm fucking my brain, I'm fucking my brain, and then, like a fly getting swatted against a wall, there is a heartbreaking noise followed by a tiny sense of shame and a stain on the wall that someone else will have to deal with.