Monique disappeared into her closet, and closed the door. In a few minutes, out came Rita Hayworth. No, strike that, it was Rita's younger and prettier sister, with better legs! Except for a sultry smile, all she was wearing was a silk negligee - so thin, I couldn't even tell what color it was.
"ZIP-A-DEE-DOO-DAH!!" I howled. Already I had raging blue steel that could have reached over to her from where I was standing.
We made love all night, and I mean ALL NIGHT.
In the morning, I said goodbye to Monique, who returned an awkward wave as she gingerly hobbled down the hall to the bathroom. I then went downstairs to the cantina for breakfast. While I was eating, I got the strange feeling that other girls were pointing and whispering something among themselves. It sounded something like "sep fwa," whatever that means.
For breakfast, I was given a cup of coffee and some bread. The baguette I got was days old, and hard as a baseball bat. What people didn't know was that I had something under the table even harder, and just about as big, too. To suppress it, I tried thinking about the horrors I had seen on the battlefield. My boner wouldn't go down. I tried thinking about the guys, naked and smelly in the shower tent. That didn't help. In fact, it was deeply troubling, because I was not gay. As a last-ditch effort I tried thinking about my mother and sister, but I only managed to feel really sick and guilty about staying hard picturing them.
That was the moment I realized: Si pididu. The Shaman's gift (curse, actually). At last it made sense. I had become permanent, and unfortunately, that included being permanently horny. In itself, that didn't make me very different from every other guy in the world, except that the others could turn it off in dire emergency.
I tried to contact the Shaman, but got news that he had died. His hut burned down. If he hadn't already been dead, I could have just about killed him for dying without giving me an undo spell.
As you might know, we commandos never wore underwear. All that crawling around on my stomach on the battlefield was no fun at all. I'd always leave a deep groove on the ground where I'd been crawling. Every two days, I'd wear a hole into my pants and need to get new ones.
Once, when a grenade landed in our vicinity, we all had to dive and hit the dirt. That really hurt.
Needless to say, I had to quit the Special Forces.
After the war, I had various jobs, but was never able to move up the ladder. Nobody ever respected me, because I looked like some kid who just started. I didn't age. What really ticked me off was when some 30-year-old manager would tell me to work hard and I'd get promoted when I get to be their age. Are you kidding? I was their age when their daddy was in diapers! Once, I tried using bleach to make a few gray hairs for myself, but no one bought it. My skin just looks too young.
I get carded all the time. I have to carry a fake ID that says I'm 22. If I show my real ID, no one ever believes it. The birthdate is September 26, 1924.
Over the years, I've had some girlfriends, but no one ever stayed for very long. They all ended up leaving in disgust, thinking that the only thing on my mind was sex. Well, that may be true, but hey, it's not my fault!
A lot of 20-something girls still seem attracted to me, but to be honest, I'm not interested in them. I feel like such a child molester with anyone under 50. I want someone from my era, or at least close. But women seventy, eighty years of age cringe at the thought of a relationship with me. I must seem like such a gold digger. Maybe what I need is some old cougar who goes for younger boys. [Say, did Demi Moore break up with her boyfriend? I wonder if she's available?]
With all of the things I've learned over the decades, I might make a fair criminal. I know all the weaknesses of the system, and my vast experience with human nature gives me an edge. Thank goodness the criminal life doesn't appeal to me. If I got caught, can you imagine what it would be like for me in the prison showers?
It's a lonely life. I haven't had much luck with team sports. It's not that I'm not athletic or coordinated. The problem is in the locker room afterwards. Most guys tend to move far away from me when I'm changing. So if they're going out for pizza and beer afterwards, I'm usually not invited. Okay, not all guys move away. A few, in my experience, have inched closer, but I've had to tell them no thanks.
I used to go camping a lot more. Then one night I accidentally poked one of my buddies. Can I help it if I roll over in my sleep? Hey, if anything, it was his fault, too, for pointing his butt in my direction. But after that story got around, no one wanted to share a tent with me, anymore, male or female.
This whole business is terribly inconvenient. I can't even ride a crowded bus or subway. Anyone I bump into thinks I'm a pervert, and either slaps me or calls the cops.
Fortunately, I was in top commando shape when I became immortal. I don't even need to exercise. For a while, I tried modeling, but they didn't like the bulge. One director outright told me to go to the bathroom for a few minutes and "get rid of it". I can't. It doesn't go away.
My only remaining career option was porn, but non-gay porn doesn't pay very well, due to the abundance of guys who would do it for free. I can make up for it by working longer hours, though. No other man in the business can do 10 shoots in one day, pardon the pun. :)