Mindless Grin

"Where ma whisky at, woman?" he demanded.
She pointed mutely at a cupboard. He opened the cupboard. He had his whisky. He took a long slug. And another. He was feeling pretty good now. Pretty good? Very fucking good. He had a fucking boner on. He wiped his upper lip with the sleeve of his flannel shirt. He grunted.
"Dang woman!" he screamed suddenly and let loose with a hysterical laugh. She smiled nervously and itched the back of her neck.
"Hollywood may be the playground of the rich and famous..." the TV said. Then it said other stuff. He really wasn't listening. He switched it off. Itched his testicles. He grunted. Drank more whisky.
The doorbell rang. He made a grimace. She went off to answer it. It was some photographers and journalists. Here to photograph the famous writer.
He sat at his desk and struck a few poses. Solemn and aloof. He put his spectacles on.
"How do I look, boys?" The photographers nodded fervently and beamed mindless grins. He flexed his muscles. Opened his shirt a little, exposed his nipples. Tweaked 'em. He was having fun.
"Why don't you have my wife, boys?" he suggested amicably. The press exchanged cautious glances and then began hesitantly undressing.

This was good. He was enjoying this this. He was stirring it the hell up and it felt great. He had an insane monstrosity of a boner on. The journalists pawed at his timid wife.
This was great. He was so fucking humiliated. This was fucked up. It was what he wanted.