I pad along the street of Angels, my Soloflex®ed muscles rippling 'neath my sleek, taut dermis.
My eyes dart left. Then right. Then straight. Then up. Then right. Then down. Then right. Then right again.
My pupils tighten to the circumference of a pinhead.
My hamstrings coil like a freshly chromed Slinky®.
My wheezer twitters like a terrified wren.
The particles of Toppik® spritz into the night air from my pomaded head like bits of road kill off a Mack®'s mud flap.
I'm a panther in black Speedo®s.
I'm a Jew® on the run.
I'm sex without strings, pulleys or ointment.
Can you smell it?
Take a quick whiff, 'cause I move. And so does My Perfume®.
You ain't never gettin' it out.
Like a splinter in your scrotum. Like a whisper in your ear. My Perfume® is there.
For you. To smell.