Sleep, and go to the airport

You take a taxi home. The stars are obscured by clouds, but some light manages to poke through. The driver just looks forward, as equally uninterested as talking as you. Normally, you would like to hear this stranger start ranting about politics, but your relaxed, tired body refuses. You get out, walking slowly to your apartment. A shitheap, filled with garbage. Not much you really want to take with you, aside from your laptop.

You fall down on the bed, and sleep. Your dreams are of the black women, the beauties you will meet. Their faces, their smiles. Then, more carnal images race through your head. Marvelous black breasts. Thick asses, bouncing in your face. Their dark skinned pussies. So beautiful.

You wake up. Hard as a rock. Still stinking, wearing the same clothes as yesterday. Your tattoos, reflecting your schizoid opinions are all covered up.

You start rubbing your cock. Thinking of those beautiful women from last night. Thinking of the chubby woman who made you cum so hard yesterday. Of Luciana and Irina, their toned bodies. Of Sheila. Of the woman who found you.

You grunt loudly as you cum. Your primal shout expressing an ancient, biological pleasure. The cum shoots into the garbage, filling it. So much of your cum has been wasted over the years, expelled just for pleasure. Now you'll be wasting even more of it. Somewhere, someone with infertility cries out.

"Shut the fuck up" someone shouts through the wall.

In the past, you would have used your martial arts to break this man. But unfortunately, you are crippled. You call the taxi, well-rested and ready to talk about completely insane, incomprehensible nonsense.

The yellow cab pulls up. You slowly march in, carrying a few changes of dirty clothes and your laptop.

"Meter's running" the driver says. Dipshit. He looks like you, but taller and blonde. Generally more handsome, and more physically fit. You shove your bag inside the trunk, your weakened muscles struggling.

"Nice one" he says. You see his nametag. Richards.

You climb into the back seat. This won't be half as interesting as talking to the old men from other countries. But you have to try.