Charley by Phil Cummings


As we leaned over the coffee table and figured it out Charley made his move. By the time I turned to push him off he had gotten his rocks off on my pants. His tongue was rolling out of his wide-open mouth and his eyes were rolling back in his head as he splooged me.
“Charlie Clemmons!” yelled Dora, who was scandalized by this breech of etiquette; she angrily pointed her cigarette at Charley’s odiferous dog bed on the other side of the room. “You go lay down you bad dog!” Charlie was happy to comply and go have a short nap on his musky palette. He would have smoked a cigarette if he had had one.