He leans on an office chair: louche, tired, old and ugly at one and the same time, talking to a woman far too young for him. This makes him feel better about himself. This is what men do.
He makes flirty chitchat regarding what the colour of your car says about your sexuality, the young woman explains that her car is black; his eyebrow arches high and he says that black means you like S&M and other kinky stuff. While he says this, he licks his lips and thinks about what she would look like with him in her. She doesn’t ask him what colour his car is so he volunteers the fact his car is blue.
“What does that mean?” As soon as she says it she regrets it, what harassment will be unleashed now? What a burden it is being the only pretty woman in the office to sate the demands of the old hounds.
“It means that I’m a good, attentive and passionate lover.” The spittle is nearly falling out of his floppy, sloppy gob and his mind steps up the depravity of his fantasy and I can stand it no longer so I speak up:
“I think you’ll find that a blue car means that you like to be fisted…Hard…In all of your available holes.”