I was in bed reading the news on my phone last January when suddenly I sat up, my heart pounding. Australia was on fire! That’s where Russell Crowe lives! With shaking hands, I examined maps of the wildfires. There was Adelaide, where I had distant cousins who owned an RV dealership. And, ten hours along the coast, was Copp’s Harbour. Russell’s home. Right in the path of the fires.
Russell had been my first and only love ever since I’d seen him pissing on a wall in an alley outside an illegal vegan restaurant in Chicago. He spoke just one word before he turned and ran into the night. “Oi!” he said, and to this day the echo of it makes me wet. I made a quick decision. I would go to Australia. I would save Russell Crowe.
There was so much to do. But first, I needed to come. Fast. Thinking about Russell Crowe made my clit throb like a 70s disco. I grabbed my Hitachi out of the mess of wires leading to my nightstand, put it on the bed, and mounted it like a horse. Its high pitched motor nearly drowned out my squeals as I rode the vibrator to five quick but satisfying orgasms.