I milk myself nightly into my tub. My nightly emissions pool in my bath, glistening with a spectral opalescent shimmer. A month or so into the process, I dip my toe in the tub: the semen is room temperature. I step in, and before I know it, I’m ankle-deep in cumsludge. Perfect.
I take my favorite suit off its hanger and place it gently on the puddle of nut. I step on the suit and hear the wet squelch of jism underfoot. Picking up speed, I stamp down on the wool fabric, like I’m making wine, until each fiber is permeated with my seed. Once I’m satisfied, I step out, dry myself off, and turn the lights off in my bathroom. I wait.
After a few weeks in the fetid dark, fungi of all sorts begin to sprout on my navy merino double-breasted. I remove the suit from the bath and, careful not to sever any of the mushrooms I have fathered, drape it over my body. Giddy with excitement, I make my way to the offices of Morgan Stanley, where I am to compete with hundreds of aspiring analysts for one of twenty-three job openings in their LatAm banking team. The fabric gurgles wetly as I shake my interviewer’s hand. He looks me up and down a couple of times and flashes a wry smile.
It’s only a matter of time before I’m CEO.
