Hard-working men don’t jerk off. Their satisfaction comes with a mild complacency, inaction – nods, approvals, apathetic sentencing from the confines of near-unconsciousness.
Hard-working men are Pharaohs at home, god-like in the still of their minds once the long day eases on beyond politics they’re only half awake to evaluate.
Beyond running on fumes that barely get them home for honey dinner’s ready, I’ll bring it to the recliner (slippers and paper? Not even the stamina for traditions of that meager prerequisite), their hands – they’re marked with scars and wrinkles, flaking skin, mysterious embossments and callouses, cavities of infinite circumstance and the like – their hands would make for something of a necrophilic dry-hump, suitable for and imaginable to only the most depraved and bored sickos. Twisted, modern archaeologists, dirt thieves with a vicious appetite for gratification. Those completely insane types. Because everyone knows that even the oldest bodies have some kind of moist, tender once-upon-a-times. Except for the hard-working ones – slaves dry as a tomb in a drought of an Egyptian Summer. Slavery is all they know. And anything else is far too overwhelming. Simple dialogue even – a curse.
When they dig me up, they can have whatever’s there. As long as I don’t have to jerk off with my own hands.