28
Net Carbs Tyler Clay
I don’t think you quite understand my role here. I understand your confusion; honestly, it makes a lot of sense, seeing as I am clothed in the same logo-emblazoned, sweat-wicking sport polo that your executive weight loss physician wears on a daily basis, and yes, the shirt is tucked into a pair of standard grey slacks, which, I understand, give off some semblance of professionalism and knowledge of medically related things despite not having a degree to my name, but the wardrobe I can explain, because as you see I am the only male employed here other than the doctor himself while the rest of the staff, as you and every other power-napping, hypermasculine CEO on my patient list have not-so-discreetly made yourself aware, are women of varying heights but unvarying bust size, made all-the-more obvious by our dress code, which grants me this performance-professional combo while puzzlingly denying even the phlebotomist a reprieve from heels, and your confusion is likely heightened because I am, of course, holding a bright red medical chart with your name on it, and I am, as always, holding two syringes (one testosterone, one vitamin B12, each of which will soon be emptied into your asscheek and stomach fat, respectively); you see the testosterone (that’s the one I give from behind, pants at your ankles, hands supporting your weight on the table because the glute muscles must be relaxed for it to go in without pain, the thick juice of vitality that I silently 18-gauge into your hairy ass—silently of course because I am comparatively young and full of vitality and you personally choose to express embarrassment of your ectopic masculinity with stoicism unlike the others who do so by poking fun at themselves or by droning on about the weather or that one guy who takes his gun out of his back pocket before pulling down his trousers) and the vitamin B12 (that’s the one that you have been told burns fat, and look how gloriously neon red the liquid is, you can almost convincingly smell the
