That's how Brad Pitt fits in. Mr. Pitt (OK, Brad, I'm not calling anyone younger than me "Mr.") had written a book on fly fishing in the wake of "A River Runs Through It," and we'd met a couple years before. I got up the nerve to call him and he agreed to fly in on his way to New York for a book-signing event. After we'd finished for the day I suggested stopping at a bar for a few drinks. He demurred, in keeping with his desire not to be mobbed and maintain some semblance of privacy. So we (Brad, me and his bodyguard Barney) walked from the bookstore and I went into the bar, leaving Brad and Barney outside talking with a few normal people like normal people. Barney, by the way, is the size of the other one, but is neither as upbeat nor as unnervingly obnoxious as the purple dinosaur.I noticed her almost as soon as I walked through the front door. She was a regular in the bookstore, looking charmingly clunky but also with an unmistakable concentration of intelligence. She bought and. They came several times, growing excited all over again, with every crisis Mark seemed to endure. He wanted to cry out for help, beg them to take him down, but he knew it was too late, and they'd never help him even if it weren't. His struggles had all but ended by now, anyway: he was almost there. It would be stupid to turn back now.In spite of his effort to hold back, Mark's bladder suddenly released. The loss of control stunned the dying sissy. Hot urine splashed over his smooth thighs, soaked his white dress, and dripped off his already cold, curled toes. From somewhere, through the crackling congestion thickening inside his head, he could hear Diane barking with laughter. He closed his eyes and felt a series of involuntary seizures shake his body. In spite of the fact that his penis had been gaffed backwards, he felt himself cum in short, truncated bursts. This must be the end, he thought, the end of him.Lights sparked and flashed behind Mark's closed eyelids. His whole body.
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