Manboy Jenkins

Deep in the night. Deep in the fight. Trevor stood there whispering to himself.
“Manboy. Manboy. Manboy.”
He had never seen anything like the grotesque being that stood in front of him. The creature was actually quite tranquil looking. A peaceful boy on a Sunday morning. The content you feel after you finish blowing a load. That wave of accomplishment that comes crashing over everything else. That’s what this “boy” reminded Trevor of. His features were so soft that he just wanted to touch him. Run his hand along his face just for a taste. It seems silly, I know, but that’s the kind of power Manboy has. It’s a perpetual radiation of euphoria. If you can see his pupils dilate, you’re too close. Get back. You won’t be the same if you stay too close to him. His mind is a fine piece of chivalry. That kind of brotherhood doesn’t come in an airtight bag. You need much more than a vacuum to live with someone like Manboy. I don’t know about you, but I can’t fathom that kind of power. Mind of a man. Buxom of a boy. Teeth of a walrus and the fight of a middle-aged North Korean woman. They just don’t make them like that anymore. If they did, I’d buy a baker’s dozen. That’s all.