So I'm drunk...

...Let's see where this goes.
 "Erotica for the elderly?"
 Max was still here, sitting on my fridge, talking about his job. His dream job, in fact. Me, I was looking for a job myself. I'll admit, my last job seemed perfect: Professional alcohol finisher: Basically, I'd hide under a table, and finish other people's drinks, so they wouldn't lose face in front of the lads, or whatever. Essentially, this had gone badly wrong: After a week of drinking from a straw, I realised it wasn't linked to alcohol. In fact, it was a catheter.
 "How does the the whole thing work then?"
 "Well." Max began, "I get an erotic work, and read it to the old people, obviously. I mean, usually, they can't really hear me, so they have no idea what's going on. But I think they like it. Well, I have no idea what they think, but I slip them a few Viagra pills, so they think they enjoyed it."
 No, it was no use. I didn't care for Max's stories at the best of times, and this was just ridiculous. I'd subconsciously blanked out Max's words, but he was still talking. In fact, he was reliving his erotic tales - many of which featured the high seas - and using expressive, disturbing hand motions.
 Worried, I edged towards the fridge. There was a cucumber in there, and I wanted to destroy it before Max found the bloody thing...