A Stormy Night

As I got dressed this morning, I noticed a drop of dried blood and a small scratch on my right shin. How did that happen? It wasn't there seven hours earlier, when I got out of my pants and into bed. "Must have scratched it during the night," I thought. But, how? There was nothing to scratch it on. Perhaps I had an itch and scratched it. Perhaps. Given my lack of agility, though, the effort required to reach my lower leg while lying in bed is unlikely to be forgotten in a hour or two.

Wait. There was that kiss. A few minutes after midnight, I was awakened by a gentle kiss on the cheek.

"Who are you?" I asked the lady seated on the edge of the bed.

"Stormy," she said.

"Stormy?"

"Stormy Daniels. My name has been all over the TV news and the Internet."

"You're not that Trumpian trollop everyone is talking about, are you?"

"Yes. Yes I am," she said.

"What are you doing here? Why are you in my apartment?"

"Let me show you," she said, getting out of her clothes and closer and closer to me.

And for the next two hours, Stormy did show me. A lingering kiss left me ready to bask in the afterglow. But Stormy couldn't stay.

"I guess you've heard, The Donald gave me a check in the six figures after our little tete-a-tete."

"Well, I can give you a check in the three figures, as long as two of them are to the right of the decimal," I said.

"That won't be necessary. I feel like I should pay you."

"Huh?"

"You ever look at The Donald's hands? How small they are? Well, they say a man with small hands is small somewhere else, too."

"Are they?"

"It's always been the case with the men I've known, And I've known more than a few men," Stormy said.

"Where do I rank among the men you've known?"

"There might be one or two as good as you. But in my experience there are none better than you."

Obviously, my leg was scratched when Stormy and I were passionately rolling around on the bed. That's my story, anyway, and I'm sticking to it.