I think I might have found a new line of work.
"Listen here, bitch," he said, in that dreamy accent of his, "this is a motherfucking Dremel."
I paused, and stared at him like I was confused. I was.
"I'm not surprised you don't know what this is. Something about women, they just fear power tools, unless they're some kind of lesbian or some shit. Then they're all over it like syrup on pancakes. Tuna pancakes. Fucking dykes." His command of metaphors left something to be desired. Or was it a simile? I get those two confused a lot.
"Bitch, are you paying attention?" He said, demonstrating an eery preternatural proficiency. It's like he just knows what I'm thinking sometimes.
"Pfft. There you go again. Anyway, you got a dildo collection, right?"
"No", I replied. "I don't have a ... uh... 'collection', as it were."
"Are you fucking serious?", he spat. I was hurt. "You mean to tell me you don't have any dildos?"
"Well I have a dildo -" I started, before he cut me off.
"Then why are you bullshittin' me? Get your fucking dildo and bring your ass back here! I'm about to make some magic happen. And hurry the fuck up!"
I ran to my dresser drawer as fast as I could, dodging the empty beer bottle he lobbed at my head when he told me to hurry up. I dug past my underwear and reached in to pull out a locked box. It looked old and kind of moldy.
"Man, what the fuck is taking so long?" I felt rushed, but also slightly more aroused than I previously was. There's just something about the neighbors hearing him yell at me, through the paper-thin walls of our apartment complex, that really got my engine, uh, whatever engines do.
"I can't find the key, sweetie!"
"You can't find the key? What the fuck? How fucking big is this dildo anyway? What do you use a fucking lawnmower and shit? You going to cut some *grass* in this motherfucker? Do I have to go to the store to get some damn gas or what? Maaaan I'm the fuck out of here."