The internet of things

It must have been the weed last night or the undefinable powder that went with it, but I was not feeling myself that morning. And believe me, I am a man who was usually feeling himself in the morning….I stood naked in the bathroom, gazing at the wan, grey face in the mirror. God, I looked terrible.

I really needed to brush my teeth. Picking up the sleek new toothbrush my mother had given me, I squeezed a blob onto the head. Not really inspiring, a new toothbrush, but I was attracted by the phrase ‘Extra Head’ on the box. Not an offer I would ever turn down. Suddenly there was a ping on my phone, Whatsapp! I could never resist an early morning message.

You should be washing your mouth out with bleach, not Colgate. After where your tongue got to in that poor wee boy last night.

I squinted at the name at the end of the message, but as usual the poppers and weed were affecting my sight. Brian? Braun? Brawn? Hard to tell. Finishing my teeth, I headed for the kitchen. I flicked the switch on the kettle, dying for a brew and a couple of Paracetamol. Again a message flashed up on my Whatsapp.

You’ll have to do better than that, if you want to get me hot and bubbling the way that boy was last night. I saw the videos you posted. Work my switch the way that boy worked yours last night , go on, work it!

Beko, Beto? God knows. I looked down at the kettle and pressed the protruding switch down again. Nothing. I started to toggle it up and down slowly at first and then quicker and quicker. Suddenly there seemed to be a faint gasp, and the glass cylinder was lit by a blue glow and started to heat. It must have been stronger than I thought I mused, sliding a couple of slices of bread into my new red toaster. Again the Whatsapp pinged.

White bread? I don’t think so, You weren’t that vanilla last night. How about a couple of hot-cross buns, rich and fruity and dripping with butter. I know you like buns, cute little buns in particular. And you certainly were half way to crucifying that wee laddie last night, your 9 inches and 14 stone firing into him. Half your age and half your weight. Fresh juicy hot-cross buns slid into each of my slits. That's what I expect after last night. Get the Aldi ones. they’re so plump you have to push really hard to get them into the slits. Feels great!

I looked down at the toaster. The white slices were fully down, but they sure as hell weren’t toasting. I filled the mug with hot water and watched the tea bag drown, soiling the water. It was a week after Easter and I had a packet of hot-cross buns next to the breadbin. I opened them and tried to force one into a slit on the toaster. Again my Whatsapp pinged.

Cut in down the middle. What do you think I am? I’m not that type of toaster, for God's sake!

I slit it down the middle and slid a half in each slot and slit the knob down.

That's better? Do you like crumpets? There's nothing that turns a toaster on more than crumpets, all those holes to fill and all that butter. A friend of mine told me his owner used to toast them, take them out, butter them up and then re-toast them. The hot butter dripping on his elements drove him wild.

I really couldn’t cope with much more of this, that white powder had been stronger than anything I'd ever had before. I’d never had this type of thing happen.The whatsapp pinged again. I wondered if I should turn the phone off, but I looked.

Have you ever thought of going trans, male to female? Keep the cock, but join the trans big boys and the toasters of this world. Two slits, double the pleasure. Ask any toaster, nothing better than having something large, hot and dripping in each slit.

That was it. I was going back to bed and throwing a sicky. There was no way I was going to start fingering a computer keyboard that morning.