Ryan Gosling and the Lap of Luxury

April 13, 2012

“Whose lap is this?”

Ryan Gosling flopped heavily down onto me, spilling a little of the peaty Scotch from my tumbler and carelessly crushing my copy of Zoo.


“It’s mine, Mr Gosling. And if you don’t get up soon I fear my legs may fuse to this chair”. My voice was tight and the pitch was rising as his pressure upon my lower body built.


“Whose…lap…is…this?” He repeated, punctuating each pause with a peck on my whiskered cheek.


“It’s yours, sir.” I relented. He took a fistful of cream from a passing child’s sundae and held it aloft lazily, letting it run in rivulets down his wrist and into the sleeve of his freshly ironed cotton smock.


“Fuckin’ A it’s mine. I am the marquis of your lap, am I not?” Without waiting for an answer, he palmed the sloppy cream onto my face where it became matted and sticky.

“Now you have two beards!”


“Look, can you just move, please sir? I’m too old to be treated like furniture.” I dashed the remaining whisky in my face in an attempt to wash at least some of the cream away. I smelled glorious.


“Okay, Grumplestiltskin, I’ll move, after I’ve done just one more thing.” he said, affecting the voice of a precocious teenage opium dealer.


Gosling paused, his eyes roving sightlessly behind a pair of medically prescribed patches which barely masked a fretwork of scarring that splashed grotesquely out at the sides. Then he farted super hard right onto my dick.


by Sean Connery


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