Fucking James Franco

My brother, Mikko, regularly passes James Franco,
self-proclaimed intellectual, on his way to class.
Apparently, James is an asshole,
averaging six point seven interruptions per discussion.

But Mikko tells me that James smiles
and nods whenever they cross paths. He played
a gay dude in that movie, right? So Mikko’s pretty sure
that James wants him, bad. He takes pride in these things. 

For example, if you were to ask him whether or not
he is a homosexual, his reply would be: “not straight!” 
Anyway, I have studied videos of James Franco
being interviewed on the internet, and he may 

be an actor, but I don’t think he wants to fuck Mikko. 
In fact, if he ever came over to the house for dinner, 
I’m pretty sure he would graze my inner thigh
under the table with his suede slippers while reaching 

for the bread, or spill his wine on my crotch
and then insist on mopping it up with his napkin.
“Let’s go upstairs and get you out of these ruined corduroys!”
he would surely say. And up we would go.