The Night I Got Picked Up

First let me tell you, there was this fellow I worked with. Let's call him Tommy. Nice fellow with a distinctive mid-Atlantic accent.

Okay then. So I was at this party one night and, at this party, was a fellow who looked very much like Tommy. Very much. As the evening progressed, eye contact was made, glances exchanged, smiles traded.

Finally he walks up. "Hi," he says, in a very distinctive mid-Atlantic accent, "I'm Tommy."

I had enough to drink to find myself suddenly in a panic, afraid that I had, in fact, spent part of the evening cruising the fellow I worked with. But no; a few moments conversation made it clear it was just a coincedence.

Suddenly, and completely out of the blue as regards the conversation we were having, the Party-Tommy picked me up. I mean physically. I mean in his arms. I am not a small fellow. I am not a light fellow. I was rather taken by surprise.

He then carried me from one side of the kitchen to the other, where he deposited me on the counter and began to explain, in explicit detail, what acts he would like to perform upon my private parts. He had, I must say, quite an imagination. Sadly, he never hit on one that caught my fancy.