I’m baffled. First of all, no one knows what the “thing” she has to tell is, we can only conjecture. Paris Hilton being mostly known for... sucking cock... well oral sex is the first thing that comes to mind. She adds that it’s something that “you just might like”. Emphasis on “might”; given the tone, I think this is ironic. Unless Paris thinks the guy isn’t into oral sex. Then she says that “no, it’s not the same thing,” not the same thing as what? As oral sex? Is she reading minds? And then she goes “yeah, you’ll learn I’m not too shy,” and I wonder where that comes from. Notice it’s like the dude is actually talking with her, but we don’t hear what he says. As to learning you’re not too shy, I think we all know that. And she ends the song on saying that dude and her can do this “thing” tonight. I’m thinking some super complex kama-sutra position. What “thing” for fuck’s sake? A kiss? Bad use of obscurity, Paris.
“I gotta tell you something,” she said, looking down in obvious embarrassment.
“Yes? What is it baby?” he replied, feeling the beginnings of a hardon.
“It’s something that you just might like...” she continued. Her eyes rose to his.
“...” he couldn’t speak, he was wordless, and the blood pumped faster into his member.
Then she moved closer to him and said, “Yeah, you’ll learn that I’m not too shy,” and he almost faltered.
“You and I, we can do this thing tonight,” she concluded, firmly holding his gaze. He pondered for a second, and his expression changed.
“Er, excuse me but... What the fuck are you talking about?”
“What?”
“I said, what the fuck are you talking about? What is this thing you and I can do tonight? What is it?” he said in growing anger.
“Uhhh.... I don’t know?”
“What?”
“Sorry?”
“Paris?!?! What are you talking about! You don’t know what you mean when you talk about that thing? Is that right?”
“I’m sorry, I don’t understand much of anything of what’s going on right now. Words, ideas, that’s not really my thing. Could you stop asking me questions please?”
“No, I’m sorry too, but this is nonsense, and nonsense isn’t sexy,” he uttered and got up from the bed where they were sitting. He then meant to leave, but as he opened the door, Paris called to him.
“Dude! Whatever your name is, and it’s not like I care, come back here, you know that most guys would die, so don’t miss out on this unique occasion.”
“No, Paris, I’m not a horny pack of meat for you to use at your heart’s desire.”
“No?”
“No.”
“Could it be that I’ve been wrong about guys for so long?”
“If it were only that.”
“Oh, what did you say?”
“Nevermind.”
“Well, anyway, here’s the camera, and that’s hot.”
“I’m not filming anything.”
“I want you to.”
“That’s hardly enough to convince me.”
“I’ll snort railroads of cocaine on your hard cock.”
“That’s better, but that’s still not good enough. Give it up, you won’t convince me.”
At that point Paris got mad and shouted incomprehensible babble where bits of actual meaning could be picked out. From those bits, our nameless hero gathered that Paris was in withdrawal from both cocaine and ego-worshipping. Forthwith, he mustered all the pictures of her he had in his shameful collection, proceeded to grind them down to a thin powder, and made Paris inhale herself right up to complete bliss. For 20 minutes she remained calm and seemingly high, but then she awoke. And uttered those fateful words:
“I need to fuck.”
Considering the vaginal venture a tad too dangerous for his own health, our nameless hero immediately walked over to his wall, where a giant Paris Hilton poster was hanging. He took it off the wall, rolled it, added a sock to one of the extremities, and I let you imagine the rest of this narcissistic sex scene with the simple help of that hint: Paris Hilton is indeed full of herself.
The End
©Nicolas
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