Call me Ishmael. Ishmael Sexmier…P.I.

I’ve walked these streets for ten plus years, ragging out every piece of trap that looks my way. But the closer I get to retirement, the less this job is about wrecking super-tight kooze, and the more it becomes about going home alive.

In this line of work, you learn that ninety-percent of all woman who put out are Russian spies, so when I decided to play it safe, I picked up a for-serious masturbation habit.

The problem with jerking off in your car all the time is finding places to dump the nut. I put myself in a lot of tough jams, tugging into unfinished soft drinks, sweaters left by unsuspecting friends, birdhouses, gas station toilets, and every sort of jar you can imagine. But the story I’m here to tell you is about a wholly uninteresting, unassuming receptacle that changed my life.

To be continued…