The other day, Big Bob tagged me for the lamest meme ever. I’m supposed pick up the closest book I have to hand; turn to page 123 and copy out the 6th, 7th and 8th sentence. I’m not sure I understand the point of it, but, I don’t want to be called a bad sport.
There are many books where I am sitting now, all within approximately the same range. I shall pick the one that catches my eye….
Aha! An old Penguin Classic, looking deep and meaningful with its orange, black and white cover. It’s a bit tattered. The pages are yellowed and there are pencil notations in the margin — Robert et Roget by J. Moquerie. It’s in French, but I can do a loose translation. (Coincidently, it only has 123 pages and the 6th, 7th and 8th sentences are almost the end of the book, so I’ll take the liberty of carrying on to the end).
“Oh, Bob! Bob!” groaned Roget, and as his breathing slowed, he slowly raised his tanned, muscular body, glistening with aromatic oils, from the make-shift massage table.
“No one can work the agonizing tension from my tight, lithe extremities like you can my special friend,” whispered Roget, pressing a crisp new twenty dollar bill into Bob’s hands, allowing his grasp to linger.
Bob quivered with equal amounts of shame and desire under Roget’s piercing gaze and gentle, yet firmly insisting touch. Reluctantly, Bob reclaimed his hand and hurriedly tucked the money into the front pocket of his tiny shorts.
“I wish you would allow me to do something for you,” murmured Roget, his dark, penetrating eyes staring hungrily at Bob’s pocket as if seeing right through the thin, flexible fabric of the Bob’s shorts to the twenty dollar bill resting snugly against Bob’s moist, rigid thigh.