I didn't think making love to my socks would have any negative ramifications, but it has had many
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NSFW WARNING
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Hi, I'm David.
My wife died six years ago after coming first place in a competitive breath holding tournament.
Ever since her great victory the only tender touch I've known is that of my own pale, flabby hand courted by my manly, navy-blue socks. That's just how it is. I didn't see anything wrong with that. Some people maybe use tissues, but reusable socks feel like a more environmentally friendly option. I do my business, and I stick 'em in the washer.
One day I got home from a jog and pulled off my long sweaty sport sock. Feeling amorous from the exercise, I immediately got down to business and started making love to it. Despite the coarse nature of the sock, it felt good. However, something odd happened.
"David, are you using protection? We don't want any unfortunate accidents, do we?" Said the sock.
"Excuse me?" I replied.
"I don't want to be making love with you if you are not wearing a condom, David. I would have thought that was pretty obvious."
"You've never mentioned this before."
"No. And you've never asked for my consent before, and yet, here we are."
I stopped making love to my sports sock and threw it in the wash basket. Not wishing to let it spoil my day however, I went to my sock drawer and retrieved one of my old navy-blue faithfuls. I'd be down a sock for work this week, but I'd figure something out.
As I was pounding away, the sock turns around and says to me:
"David, there's something I have to tell you."
"What is it now?"
"I have an STD. I have chlamydia."
"Ah, for fucks sake."
"If you've been seeing anyone else you should probably let them know."
"Seeing anyone else?! I've fucked every one of your buddies right there in the drawer!"
I pulled the sock away and chucked it in the wash basket.
"Fuck this shit." I said, and went on Amazon looking for a fresh pack of socks to brighten my day. I found a cheap set of mens socks, alternate patterns, same day delivery. Reviews were all pretty good. "Perfect fit." "No chatback." "Naughty little socks. Great BuY!!". I whacked buy, and sat patiently with my shorts round my ankles until they arrived.
Once the delivery guy had left I again began trying to enjoy myself. Everything was going good. My wife had died six years ago. She'd come first place in a breath holding competition with a final record of 6 minutes 20 seconds. I had argued at the time, and every year since the event, that, since she had died in the endeavor, then she was still technically holding her breath and forever would be. No one could ever take her place. The adjudicators disagreed, saying it would make any future contests boring by removing all competition.
Anyway, just as I was about to reach my peak, the heal splits on the sock and I poke right through.
"Help, I can't breathe!" Says the sock.
"You're a fucking sock!" I reply.
It didn't say anything more, just some gurgling noises and choked breath.
I resumed. I'd had enough for that day and just wanted it done. It was a long hard struggle but I climaxed, so to speak, and then could get on with some of the other shit I had to do that day.
But of course, now I never hear the end of it. "Murderer." "Rapist!" Every time I put on a sock they've got something to say. At the gym is the worst, like whenever I have to get changed it's all:
"You fucked it to death, you pig!"
"We're gonna give you athlete's foot."
"You fuck socks."
But what's the alternative? Wear the same socks I've had on all day at work when I'm playing badminton? I don't think so.
Credited to koalazeus
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