The friendly 7 eleven


I was at the Friendly 7 Eleven on Maryland Parkway in Las Vegas.

There are in fact two 7 Elevens on Maryland Parkway—one Evil, one Friendly. By way of further digression, I was, as I said, at the Friendly one, and for that much I breathed a huge sigh of relief. On the video screen in front of me, whirring shapes of playing cards came and went. I knew something awfully good was going to happen, because of the smooth muscle warmth in my tight belly, and the way miss Marisa Tomei, seated at the poker machine to my left, kept smiling at me, and tenderly caressing my thigh. Not like at the Evil 7 Eleven, down the street, where all the women are Fem Bot Fatales, who reveal their faces to be nothing more than printed circuit boards, as they pick your pockets, and tease your cock, with slathery, gleaming-white sharp teeth.

Now, at the Friendly 7 Eleven, on the poker screen in front of me, the hearts were lining up. And they were High Cards. It was beautiful.

"I have hit a Royal Flush!" I cried out, to Marisa Tomei.

She squeezed my thigh.

"Well, silly boy," said Marisa, "go collect your money, and take me to a Magic Show, where I may just blow you in the wings, with applause from the audience as cover for your orgiastic cries…"

The warmth in my belly got bigger. I had a hard on, a true rocket in my pocket that was prepared to stay that way. I was glad.

I went and got my fat wad of crispy bills from the Friendly 7 Eleven platinum blond cashier. Then I half-swooned, in the wake of Marisa's perfume, and arm in arm we strolled out into the stinging pink Las Vegas dawn.