David Cross was a Jewish looking man, too Jewish if you asked some people, and was quite obviously balding. Both of these, however, were part of his charm. The final third of his charm consisted of Arrested Development's inability to afford a steady cam, or perhaps a tripod. Though, in retrospect that's more part of Arrested Development's charm, rather than David Cross'. One must suppose, then, that half of David Cross' charm consisted of his good Jewish looks, the other half of the baldness, and, if three halves could make a whole, the third half would be reserved for those glasses of his.
Onward, then, to the story . . .
To the barkeep said David Cross, "Get me gin and tonic—and hold the tonic," and the barkeep supplied this with him.
David Cross thought for a moment that he was being clever. Then, after nearly vomiting at the thought of being clever, he retracted the it.
David Cross sat alone at the bar on a barstool that rocked from one leg to its diagonal opposite and back to the first leg and so on, sipping his gin and tonic (hold the tonic) through a small straw that, he supposed, was meant to be a stirrer of sorts. Nevertheless, he used it as a straw.
This was no ordinary bar, for you see, the barkeep the author had just described was no ordinary barkeep. He was, in fact, a homo-sexual barkeep; this bar was, in fact, a homo-sexual bar.
David Cross knew not how he had ended up in such a place, for he was not a homo-sexual, nor was he a bi-sexual, nor was he bi-curious, nor was he trans-gendered, nor was he anything but heterosexual, or so he has been known to tell the general public. The author has his or her doubts, just as all of Los Angeles has no doubts that Tom Cruise is a homo-sexual, despite Katie Holmes and the whole Scientology thing.
However, after a few gin and tonics (hold the tonic) David Cross remembered his reasoning for coming to such a place. He had always had the desire to be anal-fisted. The author does not know why David Cross wanted to do such a thing; the author images that it would hurt the rectum with quite some vigor. But what David Cross wants, David Cross gets, and David Cross wanted that totally ripped man in the black biker shorts and the hot pink fishnet top to pound his fist into David Cross' ass-hole, so David Cross moseyed on down to the dance floor in order to impress this mysterious stranger with three or four pelvic thrusts into the air—a mating dance, if you will.
The song was a good one, with a four-four untz-untz-untz-untz with some stellar synthesizers in the background. David Cross thrusted his hips like he had like he had never thrursted before in his life, and his bald, shiny head reflected the light from the disco ball ten feet above the dance floor.
David Cross caught the eye of his mysterious stranger, and several others to boot. During his final and most vigorous thrust, he dropped his funny-looking, Harry-Potter-esque glasses to the ground, and, for fear that someone might step on them, quickly bent to retrieve them, leaving his ass high in the air. David Cross was prime for the picking.
David Cross' mysterious stranger spotted this beautiful opportunity, and before David Cross could know what has happening, his button-up-the-leg track pants were ripped from his legs, and soon following, his matching button-up-the-upper-thigh boxers. His mysterious stranger went first, pounding his fist into David Cross' ass-hole like a cock penetrating a vagina, only it was different: it was more like a fist pounding into an ass-hole.
