Sex Education

“We don’t need to ask what the poet means, just what he feels. Better yet, Adam, what do you feel when you read these lines?”

“What lines?”

The guys chuckled; two or three guffawed in that attention-gathering way of hulky jocks. Oh dear; perhaps her admiration for beefy athletes, as well as slender swimmer types, had become too obvious once again. The more serious, academic-minded boys disappeared from her range of vision, although she encouraged their poetic sensibilities because, after all, it was a poetry appreciation class. One or two of the students had literary aspirations, which she, of all people, would be the last to discourage. A poet herself, Mandy understood the creative impulse. She also painted swirling, delicate water colours inspired by dream imagery, took Indonesian dance classes at the Java Institute, and meditated in the lotus position under a print of vulvar flowers by Georgia O’Keefe.

The less physically prepossessing among her students benefited from the presence of athletes who helped to spread good cheer in her class room. Most of the two dozen students consisted of males who belonged to one college sports team or another. Five girls huddled together in a corner, smirking more than smiling, she noted, giving each other pregnant looks. Everyone passed. She awarded marks liberally, if they wrote the way she talked or tried to show their appreciation. She didn’t correct grammar or structure because Mandy believe they inhibited creativity. On their papers, she was certain the students benefitted more from comments like “I enjoyed the soul of your essay.” If one of the jocks had written in muddled prose, she wrote in an exquisite hand: “this is a wonderful and truthful piece of work, Jimmy. Do come see me after class to discuss it.” Jimmy came, and she saw to it that he would come again. No one had ever complained about a high mark.

“Were you paying attention, Adam?”

“Yes, miss. I was following your lines, miss.”

In the library last week before her evening class began at seven, they had found a secluded study carrel. She unwound her batik sarong, purchased in Jakarta where she had taught English as second language to lithesome boys for a few months before too many clucking tongues and that incident of betel juice spat in her face indicated that it was time to leave. During his penetrating embrace of her jasmine-scented body on the carrel desk near the deserted philosophy stacks, Adam had repeated, “Oh, miss, miss, oh God, you’re so hot, miss, I’m coming, fuck, fuck, I’m cummmmming.” They shuddered together beautifully and he loved it when she praised his silky-smooth body and wrapped her sarong around his hunky body.

Unlike many of her female colleagues, she hadn’t repressed sexual allure simply because of the pedagogical imperative. She didn’t believe in the traditional hierarchy of education and the arbitrary barriers it established between students and their teachers who were more or less the same age, give or take six or seven years. Well, that wasn’t as true as it used to be, since time inexorably pushed her further and further away in years, but surely not in desires. She understood the fantasies and natural compulsions of randy boys.

That commune in California had taught her the joys of openness and the role sensuality played in developing the mind. Logic and rationality had corroded the Western spirit. And how gorgeous the boys! The tasty bodies, the curvature, the firm thighs, the long strong legs, the lips and hips, the flat washboard or smoothly hard stomachs, the bright and sensitive eyes awash with healthy lust, and, oh, glory be, their proud and demanding cock, the pride of their beautiful masculinity. Students learned so much better if they were also loved. Occasionally, Mandy experienced a twinge of guilt when she thought about the girls. She always chatted casually with them and tried to persuade them to join in the camaraderie of the classroom and not assume that sulky look of comic book heroines who wondered if their boyfriends really loved them.

Ah, love, love: love was not simply a subject of sonnets or pop songs. It was thrilling physicality like Adam’s provocative chest, his nipples pushing against the tightness of his black T-shirt. Oh, lovely nipples, oh, lovely belly button, oh, lovely lips and tongue. She had licked his sweet-smelling flesh in a deserted section of the library stacks, delighting in its saltiness, her hands almost within reach of Allan Ginsberg’s Howl.

True, times were a-changing, a lesson emphatically made clear at the end of her first teaching year in that Connecticut private school where the headmaster suggested that her methods and their curriculum were irreconcilable. At least, the good man had written a glowing letter of reference to ease the transition and avoid unpleasantness. Here, in this junior college, Mandy believed she had found a permanent home when she was hired three years ago. The college had opened its doors in the heyday of countercultural movements years ago, and still prided itself on innovation in pedagogy and non-traditional teaching techniques. So, it claimed, but definitions of pedagogical technique seemed to be a matter of opinion at times.

In the early years of its existence, several teachers had been hired on the basis of real-life work experience, alternative knowledge gained in the third world, and not upon standard degrees, which they did not all possess. Despite greyness and sagginess, many still wore jeans, and a few of the older male teachers sported ponytails. Yes, she had been born after the fact, but her parents had smoked, toked, chanted, meditated, and protested all over the United States. Her sojourn in the forest commune was the result of an impulse to explore heightened consciousness and liberation shortly after graduating from the university.

In the commune, she absorbed eastern thought in a totally non-structured way, walking through among giant trees with one guru or another, men who had transvalued themselves and emerged, well, elevated above the muck and mire of mere materialism. They had also raised coitus to a platonic ideal without sacrificing the physical. Three gurus had taught her tantric sex, not always at the same time, which she tried to teach to her favourite students, but they got tangled in each other’s limbs. They tended towards impatience and quick thrusts, satisfying in their way, but not entirely spiritual. Oh, blessed boys, oh happy satyrs frolicking in the pools, who had such pleasure in them to give, to whom she could give so much more.

“Jean-Claude, what do you feel about Whitman’s lines? Please read them aloud first, so we can all enjoy them again.”

He did not look at her sitting on the desk in front of the blackboard, one leg crossed and sandaled feet visible beneath below the hemline of her sarong. The finely muscled structure of his shoulders apparent beneath his football jersey, Jean-Claude shifted his legs and leaned forward, hunched over his book, and read the lines:

Are you the new person drawn toward me?
To begin with take warning, I am surely far different from what you suppose;
Do you suppose you will find in me your ideal?
Do you think it so easy to have me become your lover?

Dear heart, he read English with a heavy Québécois accent that made her bones tingle with pleasure, although today his voice had a hurried, hard quality. So demanding when he made love, a bit too rough, and insisting that she always be available to satisfy his aching needs and must never let another guy fuck her. She did not need anyone else, he proclaimed. After the fifth time last month, they had a little tête-à-tête about jealous possessiveness, and not expecting more than the ecstasy they shared in the moment. Embrace the joys of the here and now and don’t try to chain the future, she had tried to teach him. 

He mustn’t think of breaking up with Rachel of the auburn hair and distinctly pouty expression, one of the girls who sat in the back row. Surely, Jean-Claude didn’t believe that Mandy could ever replace his girlfriend, such an intelligent young lady? Despite all her exquisite ministrations and his ejaculations wherever he pleased, he had raged out of her apartment when she’d refused to swear everlasting fidelity to a sweet boy who had his entire future ahead of him. Oh, the sensuous texture of his skin, like shimmering satin. How she loved watching him dive like a demigod into the pool during swim team practise until her presence aroused too much attention. 

Conceivably out of pique, Rachel had spoken to the dean, who in turn requested a meeting. She had always praised the girl and awarded her high marks. The boys were all over 18, well, except for Jean-Claude, who would turn 18 next month, and one or two others, but no one knew about them, she didn’t think. The meeting with the academic dean, her department head, and a union representative was directly after class. Why had the union become involved? A student had complained about her marking methods; that was all she had been told by the chairperson; that, and “other issues” which required consideration. The matter could hardly be a question of labour relations. She taught her classes well, her success rate above average, students contented; indeed, happy. New students, mostly boys, flocked to register in her class at the beginning of each semester. Why would anyone complain about high marks to the dean? 

Perhaps it would be wise not to put Jean-Claude on the spot, so Mandy turned towards, well, a female seemed advisable, but not Rachel. Louise had golden frizzy curls just like hers, although the girl’s body tended towards the Rubenesque, which, great for a painter, didn’t appeal to most randy athletes.

“Thank you, Jean-Claude. Let’s get someone else involved. Louise, what do you feel about the lines Jean-Claude just read?”

Louise mumbled an answer to which Mandy paid scant attention because the class had come to an end. Jean-Claude rushed away. She wanted a word with him. Mandy couldn’t dally with the boys jostling around her like satyrs encircling a nymph in a forest glade. Adam slipped her a note that she read as she sauntered toward the dean’s office on the second floor. Mandy wondered if she should agree to spend the weekend with Adam and a couple of other boys, whom she had personally tutored to improve their performance. He had a heated pool and his parents would be in New York.

When she entered the dean’s office, his secretary was decidedly cool in her greeting. That didn’t surprise Mandy, for the secretary always wore a disapproving scowl on her face, but she was surprised to see Jean-Claude sitting, hunched over as usual, almost panting under an official school portrait. He didn’t reply to her question. Nor did he even bother to look at her, and he turned his body away when she approached, as if to avoid contagion.

The dean opened the door and wordlessly motioned for Jean-Claude and Mandy to enter his office.

The Schlong

~ Inspired by Nickolai Gogol’s “The Nose”

One day when Peter pulled himself to the apex of the rowing machine at the gym, he felt his penis pinched in the mechanism. As he slid backwards, his unattached cock scampered away, squealing, Free! Free!

What the fuck? Peter discretely looked down inside his gym shorts and saw—horrified—only a smooth patch of skin where his manhood used to be. He started chasing the darting dick, weaving in between weight machines and treadmills, only to see it skedaddle out the front door and vanish. 

He finally spotted a red two-seater Porsche that had just finished filling up at the gas station across the street from the gym. The driver was none other than his runaway body part, wearing a snazzy black track suit.

Peter knocked on the side window: Excuse me, but aren’t you my penis?

~Listen, asshole, I have a mind of my own. And I’m horny as hell. I need sex, and I need it now. So—fuck off.

You’ll regret this, Peter said.

~Oh, blow me. And the red Porsche zoomed away.

At wit’s end, Peter drove to Urgent Care. The amazed doctors kept poking the patch of smooth skin. Soon, the entire staff gathered to gawk at Peter’s groin as he lay on his back in bed, wearing only a hospital gown. 

He ran half-dressed to his car, where, looking at his phone, he discovered that his cocky cock, using the screenname “Playa,” had somehow amassed over 10,000 Instagram followers in less than a day and was now considered an “influencer.”

I’ll fix his little red wagon, Peter thought as he complained about his missing prick to the police. They responded, Pranking 9-1-1 is a felony, and hung up on him.

He went to bed early that night with a throbbing migraine. The next morning, half-awake, he stumbled to the toilet as usual and flipped up the seat with a bang.

His hand automatically reached down and grabbed his schlong. It had returned to its normal place and enthusiastically started to pee.

Come to Me

Luna, still fully clothed in the tight jeans and sweater she’d worn when she prowled the bars last tonight, lay upon her bed. Her head swam, then swayed pendulously to the side and she saw the LED numbers of the clock: 7am. With her tongue she licked dry lips. Cotton mouth, she thought. She closed her eyes and felt as though she were treading water over her head. Her eyes flicked open and the room appeared to be spinning. Again, she shut her eyes tight. Luna was still drunk.

***

“C’mon, babe,” said Rita, “let’s get high,” and she mimed bringing a cigarette to her lips. Luna nodded and across the dance floor they threaded their way. Then out the front door and to the back of the tavern, where they climbed a rickety flight of stairs to the venerable old building’s roof. There they joined a half dozen other bar patrons familiar to them. The acrid smell of burning marijuana was thick in the air and a soft wind blew the blue smoke into the distance.

The joint reached the newcomers, who toked avidly, then passed  the reefer on to the next person. “You ought to get closer to Rick,” suggested Rita.

Luna rolled her eyes exaggeratedly, owing to her consumption of THC, and said, “Not a chance.” Rita’s brother was 20 years old, or five years younger than his sister and Luna.

“How come?” asked Rita. “He told me he’d like to get to know you better. He digs you.”

“He digs my chest,” corrected Luna. When Rita gazed at her quizzically, Luna continued, “When I ran into him downstairs, he said to me, ‘Nice rack.’ “

Rita winced. “I know he’s a little crude with women sometimes, but it’s only because he doesn’t understand them. He’s young. I think he really likes you. He was probably only kidding.”

“Sorry, Rita, but I told him to go screw, and that I didn’t want to be a notch on his bedpost,” said Luna.

“Rick’s not a player, Luna,” protested Rita. “He might kid a lot, but basically he’s pretty lonely. He’s got stuff going on and could use another friend.”

“I know he’s your brother, Rita, and you’d like something to happen, but there’s no chemistry. I can’t get excited about a guy — no matter how good-looking, which he is — who obsesses on a woman’s body parts. You know what I mean?” she asked.

Rita shrugged.

“Besides,” continued Luna, “Say we did hook up, dated for a while, and then broke up? He might hate me and then how would you feel about me? I mean, there are millions of guys; why should I date the brother of my very best friend and risk screwing that relationship up? You’re lots more important to me than any guy.”

“But, I’m not saying you need to date him. Rick’s not like that, believe me. He’s no player.”

Luna smiled, took the next joint that had made its way around again, and said, “I’ll toke to that. Best friends don’t grow on trees,” Luna went on. “Guys do, just like nuts and fruits and apes….”

Rita laughed. “So, babe, do you want to start dating me? We already know we’re compatible. And I promise not to fixate on any of your…parts.” She looked, sleepy-eyed and stoned, at Luna.

“Sure thing,” replied Luna. “Just clear it with your old man first, okay? i don’t want to cross any jealous husbands.” 

Rita hugged Luna, who hugged her back. “Deal,” she said.

Some of the other stoners, completely blitzed by now, began to sing, loudly and off key. Lyin Eyes, an ancient song by The Eagles, thought Luna, recognizing the tune.

“C’mon,” suggested Rita. “Let’s beat it before the cops investigate all the racket.” The women descended the flight of stairs and returned to the tavern. “There’s one thing I’d like to say to you, Luna,” said Rita somberly, as they passed through the door of the pub.

“What is it?” asked Luna.

“Woman to woman, babe, and as your best friend….” Luna looked at her. “You do have a nice rack!” 

Luna slugged Rita in the arm and they both laughed.

***

The evening proceeded apace and Luna, who loved to dance and drink beer, danced and drank beer with everyone, male and female. Near the end of the evening, she even danced with Rick, who was still smarting a little from her rejection of him earlier in the evening. He was contrite.

“I apologize for insulting you, Luna,” he said, taking her in his arms for a rare slow dance.

“Forget it, Rick,” she told him, putting her hands round his neck. Luna was drunk and Rick’s strong, sinewy physique felt good to her. Sensual.

“We’re okay then?” he asked, placing his hands round her waist.

“We’re good,” she agreed. Suddenly the DJ spun a record that always affected Luna: How Deep is Your Love, a hit by the Bee Gees nearly half a century ago. For whatever reason, it always made her amorous. As couples softly swayed to the music, Luna reached down and moved Rick’s hands from her waist to her hips. He gently squeezed her cheeks. Ah, she thought, much better. The dancers molded their bodies against the other and moved in time to the beat. Rick almost instantly became aroused.

“Nice junk,” whispered Luna, gently pushing her pelvis into Rick’s.

After the bar closed, Rick went home with Luna.

***

According to the clock/radio on Luna’s bedside table, it was nearly 4am. She and her new lover had been going at it for more than an hour. The boy has stamina, she thought drunkenly. Luna was on her elbows and knees, with Rick, behind her, with his hands clutching her  thighs, was thrusting his cock in and out of her with a beat reminiscent of How Deep is Your Love, the song they’d danced to hours ago. Suddenly he stopped.

“Wh….what is it?” Luna asked, looking back at him over her shoulder.

“I’m getting ready to come,” Rick confessed. He was breathing very hard. A thin bead of sweat ran down his naked chest.

“What’s wrong with that?” she asked.

“I want you to come at the same time,” he said huskily, and withdrew and turned her over on her back.

Most men she knew, thought Luna, weren’t in the least concerned whether she climaxed or not. This was another mark in Rick’s favor, she decided.

With Luna now on her back, Rick gently spread her legs and entered her. Luna gave a little gasp. Rick was huge. He did have nice junk!

Softly caressing and then kissing her breasts, he moved his hips in rhythm to Marvin Gaye’s Sexual Healing, which Luna had put on repeat on her stereo.

Luna’s breaths were coming faster now and she began to move her ass in little circles, affording Rick additional stimulation. Rick reached his hand down and squeezed Luna’s butt, inserting one of his long fingers into her anus. Now she was panting. Next, she was thrusting her pelvis into his and together they came with little groans of ecstacy. Luna grew still, but Rick kept pumping away and in moments he was hard again.

“God, oh God,” cried Luna and together they came a second time. Afterwards, they lay spent, on the bed, which was moist with their perspiration.

Snuggling face to face with her young lover, Luna whispered, “God, Rick, I’ve never come like that before. You know, if you keep practicing, you’re liable to get pretty good at this.” Together, they laughed and held each other tight.

***

When Luna awoke, she glanced at the clock and gasped. 9am! She was late for work, she thought, instantly rattled. Then she remembered: last night was a Saturday and she went out to the bar, which meant that this was only Sunday. With that load off her mind, she sighed and turned over to go back to sleep, but suddenly she was fully awake. Where was Rick? she wondered. She looked around. None of his clothes were there, not the jeans she had peeled off him early this morning, after the tavern, so they could have mind-blowing sex. And the thick leather belt she had pulled out of the loops of his jeans so that he could softly beat her ass. She stared down at herself. When did she get redressed? Where did Rick go? she wondered again. He didn’t even say goodbye.

***

At work on Monday, Luna ran into Rita in the break room and they sat at a table to enjoy a Pepsi. “How’s Rick?” asked Luna, regarding her friend closely. Both women were editors at a prominant literary magazine.

“He’s fine,” replied Rita.

Huh! thought Luna. Maybe Rick hadn’t told his sister of his budding relationship with her best friend. Brother and sister was extraordinarily close, Luna knew.

“I think he might’ve found a new friend,” remarked Rita with a smile.

“Anyone I might know?” asked Luna with a straight face.

Rita shrugged. “He wouldn’t tell me their name.” A pause. “I hope it’s not some low-life from the college, you know, 18 and loose.”

Luna frowned. “I’m sure he wouldn’t date someone like that, Rita. I think your brother has better taste than that.” She glanced at her  friend’s face again, but it was inscrutable.

Rita furrowed her brow. “I thought you thought that he had no taste.”

“I never said that,” her friend protested. “I just said that he maybe focused too much on women’s body parts.”

Rita shrugged, finished her soda and tossed the can in the trash. “Back to the salt mines,” she said, and the women returned to work.

***

The next Saturday, Luna decided to try the tavern again. It had worked out well the last time. She’d had a wonderful time with Rick, but he hadn’t called her. What was that all about? she wondered. Perhaps she’d run into him tonight.

At the tavern, Luna hung around the bar, nursing a beer and looking for Rick. He was nowhere about. At long last, he appeared. By coincidence, the DJ began playing that old Bee Gees tune — their song — at that very moment. Taking this as an auspicious sign, Luna approached Rick, placed her hand on his arm and said, “I think this is our dance.” Rick started, swiftly withdrew his arm.

“I beg your pardon?” he said. He looked confused, distressed — embarrassed.

“Let’s dance, handsome,” said Luna, replacing her hand on his arm and pulling him onto the dance floor.

“Excuse me,” Rick said stiffly. “You told me what you thought of me last week and….frankly, I’m no longer interested, Luna.” And disengaging her hand once more, he walked away.

What the hell? thought Luna. She stood there alone on the dance floor as other couples began the slow dance and she soon felt stupid. Had it been only a dream?  Had she and Rick made passionate love last week or had she only imagined it? A sexual fantasy? Luna was an editor and she would have rejected any fiction which boasted the old meme, “It was all a dream.” But, in real life, did it ever actually happen? What was in the pot she’d smoked last week? Had there been a hallucinogen imbedded in the reefer? Her feelings for Rick, recently stirred… ” She felt lost.

Rita walked up to her, handed her another beer. “Got news, girlfriend.” Luna looked at her quizzically and Rita said, “I found out who Rick’s new lover is.” She grinned a shit-eating grin.

“Who…who is it?” asked Luna, increasingly baffled.

“The name is Amari,” revealed her friend.

“Who is she?”

“Not a she,” said Rita. “It’s a he.”

Luna blinked in astonishment. “Amari is a man?” she asked incredulously.

“He’s a writer, an African American,” explained Rita. “We’ve actually used some of his work at the magazine. In fact, I introduced him to Rick some time ago.”

Luna’s mind was muddled. “Is…is Rick…a”

“The word is gay,” said Rita with an understanding smile.

“But, I thought you wanted me to date your brother. You wanted us to hook up. You said he dug me.”

“I didn’t expect you to bed him, you silly goose. I only wanted you to become friendlier. You know, a platonic friendship. Rick doesn’t have many real friends.”

“How long have you known that Rick is gay?” asked Luna, feeling like she was a character in a movie.

“He’s been queer his whole life, baby. When he was much younger, I tried to convert him, you know, get him to like girls. But that was just my own ignorance acting out. I should have just accepted him as he was. It would’ve said us both a lot of heartache.”

“So Rick is happy with his sexual identity?” Luna wanted to know.

“I think so,” said Rita.

“Has he….ever dated girls?” she asked at last.

“Oh, I guess he might have, you know; but he has zero interest in the female gender. “Why would you ask that, Luna?”

“You don’t suppose he’s maybe, bi-?” she asked.

“Like I said, he has zero interest in the women. He told me recently that he came to terms with his sexuality after some deliberation, and that he had just one more thing to do before he accepted Amari’s proposal, a sort of experiment, he said. But, I guess the experiment was a success, because now he feels he’ll be comfortable in a same sex marriage.”

Now it all began to come together for Luna. “When’s the big day?” she asked weakly.

“In three weeks. You’ll be there, won’t you?”

Luna replied, “I’ll try to come — for Rick.”

Legal Affairs

The attractive client showed up at the prostitute’s motel room at the appointed hour.  Cindy looked at Wally and wondered this guy needs to pay for sex?  Well you can’t tell by looks, maybe his wife denies him or he’s got some kind of kink.

Wally looked at Cindy and thought Unusual – no signs of drug use or abuse and she appears healthy and attractive.

Wally told her “Show me what you got.”

Cindy said “Put the $150 on the table where I can see it first.”

Wally complied, then replied “Your turn.  Undress and get into bed.”

As she got undressed Wally noticed that she was unshaved and that she had erect nipples in her large areolas.  Her appearance and signs of arousal caused his arousal in turn which his pants couldn’t hide. 

While Wally inspected her, Cindy peeped at him and couldn’t help but smile at the effect she had on him. 

After Cindy got into bed, Wally said “You’re under arrest for prostitution” and showed her his badge.

Cindy reached for her blouse on the nightstand, brought out her badge and replied “You are under arrest for soliciting prostitution.”

They looked at each other.  After a long pause, Cindy said “Damn those screw-ups at headquarters.  I’m from the Northeast Precinct.  How about you?”

“Southeast.  Dumb question, but what is a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?”

“My ex-husband hated having a cop for a wife.  After our divorce, I thought that this assignment was the best revenge.  I know, kind of petty.  You?”

“I’ve seen what happens to sex workers and the families that they damage.  I’m happy that we have a diversion program for the women and men we bust.”

“What does your wife think about the work you do?  Does she complain like my husband did?”

“Never married.  Been close.  Mostly went through a series of breakups over stupid things.  The one I thought was the real thing died in a car accident.”

They stared at each other through a long silence until Cindy noted “We have the room for another two hours.”

It only took Wally three minutes to get naked and into bed.  After some mutual manual stimulation, ever the gentleman, Wally asked “What’s your preference?”  Cindy demonstrated by pushing him on his back and straddling him.  That only took them a couple of minutes.  They spent the rest of their limited minutes playing requests.  Licking, rubbing, and probing ensued with a soundtrack of Cindy’s purrs and chirps and Wally’s groans. 

The Beginning Of Their Story

Letters From The Trail

I remember when no one showed up to these things. I kind of miss it, really. Now there are always so many people, so many heads across a sea of heads and bodies. Most times there are so many people I can’t even see the doors. It’s like I’m sealed in and stuck with these people forever. I’ll tell you this, thousand-dollar plates will make even the mealiest-mouthed donors eat you alive.

Keep it together. Smile, dumbass. No, not like that. Show more teeth. No, that’s too much teeth. Try and make that dimple pop out, the one you’ve been wincing in private for months to try and create out of thin air. Keep—it—together. 

Fluorescent lighting works wonders in terms of energy efficiency but does jack shit for my spray tan. The buzz of it makes it too much like a doctor’s office in here. It’s too sterile for my brand of bullshit. I wonder if the kid who served the veal spit in my side salad. I wonder if the girl at check-in would fuck me.

Time for QA. I wish these people would ask me better questions. It’s always, “Can you expand on your ten-point plan to address income inequality and provide support for the homeless?” It’s never, “How are you?” Just once I’d like to tell someone about my day. I’d tell them thirteen stops in one day is too many. I’d tell them this bus is too small. I’d tell them I can’t eat any more fucking ice cream.

Dumb kid in the back of the question line keeps eyeing me weird. Is he a homo? Does he think I’m a homo? No, I’ve got a sterling stance on that particular issue. Everybody knows I’m a traditionalist. Everyone sees me as manly. Is he going to try and corner me on that flub from the Iowa State Fair about the death tax? Note to self: look up what the death tax is. 

I hate these shoes. These shoes are bullshit. They don’t look good. I don’t know why I have to wear them. It’s really only Steven who says I have to wear them, and he’s only been with the campaign a few weeks. We could shit-can Steven.

They say it’s time for the last question. Have I been answering questions all this time? The smiling faces in the front row of tables say I have. They’ve not yet peeled the American Flag stickers from their chests in favor of any communist-looking ones. They’ve not come for me with the prop pitchforks they brought. Are there prop pitchforks? Probably.

They’re playing the song now so I know I can get up and smile one last time. Wave to the people. The cramp in my jaw from trying to get the dimple to pop is making my teeth chatter. If I hold a smile longer than thirty seconds I start to spasm. It doesn’t look pretty in photos. We’ve worked out a system for avoiding this. I start tapping the toe of my weird shoes and Steven comes and whisks me off the stage and out the back door, puts me in a limo. I never get a chance to try and fuck check-in girl. Steven is definitely shit-canned now if he wasn’t before.

The next seven stops are a death loop. I stand on the same marks, watch the same homo weird guys eye me from the back of the question lines, lust after the same plain check-in girls and sniff plate after plate of conflict-enriched dinners for signs of tampering. When we make it to Guernsey County, I make Steven take a Greyhound back home to wherever he’s from and promote Stephanie to Steven’s old job. Stephanie would probably fuck me.

***

I don’t know if I even want this job anymore. I liked the one I had before just fine. Nobody cared then. Everybody cares now.

I have a televised presser today. I’m supposed to sit for makeup soon. Not the faggy kind. Stephanie tells me after we fuck this morning that if I sit for makeup and get through the presser we can fuck again tonight. Girl’s got an eye for career advancement. I probably won’t be bored of Stephanie for at least a few weeks. I agree to get through the presser.

It’s five to airtime and Mr. Interviewer Woman is already getting on my nerves. She’s making small talk like she’s not out to destroy me. She’s asking how the wife is, how the kids are. I know she pals around with Oprah and Kelly Clarkson and that bitch from the View. I know she voted for George McGovern, and I know she voted for Carter—twice. If it were up to me, she wouldn’t have a job. When it’s up to me, she won’t.

The interview goes well. I remember all of my talking points without pausing to ‘go to the restroom’ or adjust my face. I smile with the correct amount of teeth. I kiss several hands and shake several babies out in the parking lot of Big News Media.

Back on the bus, I pull my dogs out from the horrendous leather enclosures Steven calls ‘shoes’ and listen to them bark. This is how I know the everyman. It’s why I’m the favorite of the little guy. I know what it’s like to put in seven, even eight hours straight in cheap Italian heels, and I know what it’s like to be hassled. At least they get paid overtime.

I lie on the oversized bunk in back of the bus and thumb through Thai lady-boy porn on my encrypted iPhone. It’s not homo. It’s a kink. If anyone breaks the story, I’ll sue them out of existence but it’s not homo. I’m not ashamed, but don’t tell anyone. I fall asleep with a hard-on and dream about Michael Dukakis in a purple polka-dot print dress and spiked collar, with Kitty holding the leash and smoking a cigar.

***

Today there’s a big meeting to go over opposition research. I don’t attend, but they fill me in after. They say my opponents are clean. Like, angel’s asshole, eat off the floor, Mr. Clean clean. Well, every one of them except for Mr. Shit Doesn’t Stick To Me. I’m a smarter, more capable man than him, and everyone knows it. I tell them to keep digging until they get dirt on every candidate who isn’t me and make sure that it sticks. I tell them plant a few baggies of cocaine or some dead hookers or forge some passenger flight logs if they have to, because we all know they’re guilty of it. I tell them, “Wait, no—that’s me.” I laugh. No one else laughs. I laugh again, louder. Everyone laughs.

Intern Brad says he’s got photos of Senator Whoever in full blackface. I tell him no good, we’ve all got photos in blackface. Intern Chad says the up-and-coming Representative from New York was busted two years ago with illegal firearms, two of which were linked to various crimes. I tell him try again; it won’t play well with the NRA crowd. Stephanie offers to visit a few known liberal queer bars in DC, as if there are any other kind of queer bar in DC, and I tell her break a leg. I’m getting tired of Stephanie anyway.

***

I’m scheduled to appear on a late-night talk show with Trevor Clarkson tonight. He’s a Poindexter dickhead and no one likes him, but the voters eat him up like day old pizza. I tell the network I’ll give them ten minutes. They haggle for fifteen. I respond with five. They say ten. I tell them seven minutes, and I don’t want any hardball bullshit. I tell them don’t focus on my shoes, keep the shot high. They agree.

Trevor is sitting at the desk when I walk out. He’s shuffling papers and straightening his stupid tie. He offers his hand and I offer mine but pull away when his slippery fingers wrap around my own. His hands are bigger than mine. I make a mental note to never shake his hand again. 

The segment goes fine until Trevor brings up Iowa. Reminds the viewers that a poor showing could lead to an early exit. Mentions Mr. Shit Doesn’t Stick To Me. I forget how much teeth to show and start nervously tapping my foot. Trevor smiles at me and folds his arms, his fingers like snakes protruding from his hands. Steven is gone and can’t rescue me now. I stutter through a half-hearted line about paths to victory and strong support in the Midwest and funnel cakes. I laugh for some reason.

Trevor brings up a map of the country, zooms in on Florida. Points to several counties I’ve never heard of. Starts in on some nerd bullshit about demographic changes and favorability ratings. He asks me if I think I’m the kind of candidate the people would like to have a beer with. Asks me what my beer of choice is. I start to say Coors, but Trevor stops me and says I don’t have to play favorites. My face is on fire. The arches of my feet scream in crampy agony. I show my teeth and close my mouth and show them again. Be normal. Act normal. Make the dimple pop. Where the fuck is Stephanie?

I tell Trevor it was a pleasure. I wave to the camera and say God bless our troops and flee from the set. Intern Gary is all smiles when he comes up to tell me how great I looked on camera. I stomp on Gary’s foot and we both cry out because the force of it probably hurt me more than it hurt Gary. I take off the shoes and hurl them at the crew and feel myself sink to the floor by several inches.

***

On the bus I flip through five-hundred channels of satellite TV and throw the remote at the screen when I see my face a tenth time. I try looking at porn on my encrypted iPhone, but a message keeps showing on the browser. Something about parental locks. I try and jerk off and go to sleep but I can’t keep it up long enough to even beginto feel tired. Stephanie slides into the bunk next to me and tells me nobody watches Trevor Clarkson anyway. I tell her there are literally millions of nobodies that watch Trevor Clarkson. She tells me if it doesn’t work out, she’ll come intern for me back home. Says she can sneak in and out of the mansion when the wife is asleep. Tells me it’ll be fun, like a game of Clue or something. I tell her she doesn’t know shit about Clue, that’s not how it works. She jerks me off and tells me she fucking hates Disney movies and that she doesn’t like tall guys anyway and that she thinks I always show the exact right amount of teeth. I fall asleep in her arms and don’t dream about anything.

Services Rendered

Healthy, muscular, versatile, free to travel, discretion assured: the words appeared in every one of Reinhardt’s online descriptions in selected websites. He’d do anything, he’d do anyone, wear what and play whatever game his clients desired anywhere within the European Union. This morning, he showered and trimmed his pubic hair, admiring his reflection in the full-length mirror. Thinking of getting his hair sheared like a skinhead’s, he slipped into his special outfit of tight leather pants, worn construction boots, Egyptian cotton shirt, and leather bomber jacket. Dressed to play, he got into his Porsche. When he pulled into the street, he remembered that he had promised to meet his parents in the Alexanderplatz for dinner that evening, but he’d be back in time, if there was no traffic jam on the Autobahn between Berlin and Dresden. 

It never ceased to amaze him how many soft-bellied, middle-aged, and older men wanted him to smack them. Take this minister he satisfied yesterday. A nice guy, over 50, balding, glasses, with two children in university, his wife deceased, he had greeted Reinhardt at the door. The first thing Reinhardt did, obeying the minister’s instructions, he slapped the man across the face, not too hard, called him bitch, and commanded him to worship his god. The minister slowly caressed Reinhardt’s muscles through the clothes. Breathing noisily, he removed first the leather jacket and inhaled its aroma, and then he unbuttoned the Egyptian cotton shirt, separating the panels to allow access to Reinhardt’s pectorals, nipples, and washboard abs. Reinhardt only had to stand and tell him what to do and call him names while the minister ran his tongue over the hard pecs and stomach. After he pulled the shirt off, he kissed Reinhardt’s flexed biceps and buried his nose in the armpits. He ran his tongue down the exquisite back and, lowering the tight leather pants, tongued the buttocks and powerful thighs, licking and kissing and mumbling my God, my God, I adore you.

When he could no longer resist Reinhardt’s immortal cock, he practically gobbled it down his throat. The man of God liked to feel it deep in his gullet for 15 minutes without moving, not even sucking. Once he did begin to suck, Reinhardt smacked him across the side of the head, warning him about teeth. When he was ready to shoot, he withdrew from the minister’s mouth and sprayed his blessed juice, to use the minister’s words, all over the man’s face. Afterwards, Reinhardt took a shower while the minister sat on the toilet and prayed, asked the Christian God for forgiveness. In the hallway, Reinhardt found an envelope containing the fee for his services.

After his morning session with the minister, he had an appointment in the afternoon with an old woman, just under 70, who liked Reinhardt to carry, finger her dry cunt and say she was still desirable. €‎300 for a monthly meeting, and that was his fifth time. She wore a Victoria’s Secret negligee and open-crotch, black lace panties, curled herself in his arms against his chest and whimpered: please don’t hurt me, please love me. He was gentle, carrying her about the bedroom, and whispering that he was going to make such beautiful love to her that she’d sleep like a baby afterwards and dream of him forever and ever.

He laid her on her bed covered with a silky, shimmering red duvet, gently fondled her sagging, skimpy breasts, and fingered her dry cunt for a while, applying ointment, making certain she was well lubricated before he softly separated her legs and placed the glans of his cock against her hairless, wrinkled vagina. Gently he pushed in between the labial lips, judging by her moans and body movements how much and how hard he could go. He was careful not to press his full weight against her frail body, fearful that he might break a bone or cause her extreme discomfort, her moans of pleasure turning to cries of pain. At least four, maybe five inches of his nine and one quarter-inched cock never made it all the way in. His spunk spilled out of her ancient cunt, as if there was a blockage preventing it from exploding into her useless womb. He couldn’t tell if she ever climaxed, but she seemed to enjoy whatever sensations thrilled her tired, old body. And she liked to feel his cum with her fingers and lick them.

He chose clients online carefully, people afraid of exposure to their friends and family and who wanted to act out their sexual fantasies in complete secrecy and were willing to pay for the privilege. If they refused an advanced direct deposit in his special account, he dropped negotiations instantly. Only a few had declined. Reinhardt considered his clients unlikely to be infected with STDs. He preferred not to wear condoms, unless clients insisted. After a stint in the porn industry, where his huge German cock was a highly-prized commodity, especially when he dressed in an SS uniform, he had decided to go it alone and keep all his earnings for himself. 

Health was always a consideration, so he never fucked anyone he met in bars or mosh pits, or who were too public about their preferences, too indiscriminate or too stoned to be trusted. He checked his own health monthly with an understanding doctor in Berlin who worked with prostitutes. Reinhardt sometimes skull-fucked him for free because he liked the doctor. He gave such expert and long blowjobs while still wearing his black-rimmed glasses and stethoscope around his neck. Knowing that Reinhardt was healthy, he swallowed the dollops of thick jism without wasting a drop.

Vaccinated against hepatitis, COVID, monkeypox, and whatever else they had a vaccine for, thus far he had escaped STDs of any kind. He did get a bad cold that kept him out of commission for a week. He had contracted it from a university professor in Hamburg, a skinny man with a nasally voice who droned on about Schopenhauer, sniffled and coughed as he sucked Reinhardt’s tongue and lips (Reinhardt charged extra for kissing), balls and cock, before rolling on the floor as Reinhardt whacked him with his leather belt before pissing all over his face and suit. That gave Reinhardt special pleasure as he discovered great joy in satisfying the humiliation fantasies of his clients.

He did not suck cock himself, although he would expertly eat out a woman until she swooned from sheer ecstasy. Nor did he allow anyone to fuck him. He was an alpha stud paid to dominate and humiliate, or simply to fuck a customer like the old lady who couldn’t get it from anyone else. Because he wasn’t judgmental about appearances or age and open to most activities, his client list was lengthy. His calendar of appointments was full, and he had to be careful with his time, on some days agreeing to service three clients, usually one to three hours each, the fee depending upon desires and time allotted. He also didn’t do scat: coprophilia was not to his taste, so to speak, but thus far no one had asked him to do that. Because some clients liked to eat his ass, which was fine by him, he douched it every day.

Occasionally after a beating, a client might bleed from the nose or have a cut lip. There could be some blood after a particularly hard fucking, at the customer’s request, seeping out of the client’s asshole. So far, the clients hadn’t protested. One man, though, a retired judge, wanted Reinhardt to shackle him to a St. Andrew’s cross in his basement and lash him viciously with a cat o’ nine tails until he cried and red welts rose on his skin. No fucking, just a whipping. Reinhardt, who didn’t consider himself a sadist, got no pleasure out of extreme abuse, although he did see the judge again, after increasing his fee, and whipped as hard as the old bitch wanted.

He charged extra for his specialty: breath control. A lawyer paid Reinhardt to choke him with an Italian silk tie, as he got on all fours and Reinhardt hunched over his body and ploughed his ass while pulling the tie around his neck like a dog’s leash, pulling hard until he heard the lawyer cough and gasp. Turning him over, he continued to fuck him while the client struggled to loosen the tie. Then Reinhardt would let go of the tie and place his large hands around the lawyer’s throat and begin to press, feeling the throat muscles and listening for the man’s breath and seeing how the body reacted. He knew how much pressure to apply and for how long. He had practised on himself in the mirror, keeping an eye on a nearby timer. Red in the face did not necessarily mean interior damage, and when the lawyer’s cock exploded with watery cum, Reinhardt knew that he had succeeded. After lying on the floor gasping, wrapping himself around Reinhardt’s legs, the lawyer was happy to pay the extra fee. And, of course, he wanted Reinhardt to piss on him, right there, on the floor, all over his head and face and body. Which Reinhardt gladly agreed to do.

The client he was meeting today wanted to be fucked to death, literally, by a working man with muscles, and had offered Reinhardt €10,000 to do it. The money would be in a satchel on the table by the bed where the customer wanted it to happen. Stricken with a terminal illness, although he seemed healthy enough for a 46-year-old man, he’d soon deteriorate and suffer dreadfully, he had said, and wanted to die from cock rather than cancer. This posed a problem for Reinhardt because he wondered how to perform the action, not just fucking, but fucking a man to death. Sure, he had said it a few times in the throes of passion, I’m going to fuck you to death, cunt, but it was all part of a game.

This particular guy wanted the real thing. It sounded like murder, although the man preferred the term assisted suicide. In any case, Reinhardt’s DNA would be all over the place, on the man’s skin, in his mouth, in his ass, whether Reinhardt used a condom or not. Even though they would meet in an isolated cottage on the outskirts of Dresden, which the man owned and which had escaped the firebombing in WWII, Reinhardt had his doubts.

How long would he have to fuck the guy before the poor man succumbed to the power of a demanding, drilling cock and died? He couldn’t find any information about it on the Internet. He could fuck for an hour, maybe more, before shooting his load, then rise to the occasion a few minutes later. At most, he could fuck four times, maybe five, within three hours, after which his dick needed a rest, and his balls time to collect more semen. That wouldn’t, however, kill the man. Maybe he should have suggested bringing one or two other men to join in the fucking, but his client wanted only one, and he had chosen Reinhardt. Choking him to death while getting fucked would be the most efficient way of doing it. Or have his head covered with a plastic bag. Timing was everything: ideally, the customer wanted hot flesh embracing him at the moment of his simultaneous ejaculation and demise. The very minute. How could Reinhardt time that? Of course, he could just fuck and strangle until the man died, whether the pathetic bitch came or not. But Reinhardt liked to think of himself as an honorable man who respected the terms of a contract.

Great questions arose. What happened to the body afterwards? Had the client made suitable arrangements for disposal? And would he, Reinhardt, get away with it? Given that they had met online and arranged matters accordingly, wouldn’t there be a digital trail connecting the dead man to Reinhardt? He was beginning to have his doubts. Maybe the risk wasn’t worth the money. At last, now stuck in traffic on the Autobahn, unable to drive as fast as he ordinarily did, Reinhardt have enough time?

If the customer took too long to die, Reinhardt could be late for dinner with his parents, who had recently expressed disapproval of his career choices and wanted to have a serious conversation with him.

They knew about his roles in the porn industry, and now believed that he earned a living modelling, which in fact, he did do on a strictly part-time basis. They could see his torso covered with form-fitting cycle outfits on billboards. He had been paid well for that, but he preferred fucking for money. His dad said modelling was a dead-end career; pretty muscle boys were a dime a dozen; his mother was disappointed that he hadn’t pursued his interest in science and become a nuclear physicist. Now 25, Reinhardt figured he had maybe 30 or 35 years of sweet and profitable fucking ahead of him, at which point he could retire to a Greek island and live off his investments. Maybe do some online work, become an Influencer, or keep a restricted clientele for his special breathing exercises, when his age wouldn’t really be a factor. These possibilities excited him more than posing in spandex or splitting atoms.

He didn’t want to be late for dinner at the Thai restaurant. His mother loved Thai food and the waiters were so beautiful, male and female. Reinhardt had been there before and got a boner while being served by an elegant, black-haired girl in her silky chut thai outfit and who had touched the back of his hand, as if unintentionally. She spoke German with a heavily-accented, musical voice. He would have loved to strip that silk off her small body, delicate as a doll, and drive his huge cock deep into her tight Fohtze.

But traffic had stalled; his unhappy Porsche chugged rather than raced; time didn’t stop because he had to slow down to a fucking snail’s pace. From the car, he phoned his client and explained that he was caught in a traffic jam on the Autobahn. The man sounded strange, then went silent, giving Reinhardt time to consider that the police would surely check the man’s phone, if any suspicions rose about the manner of his death, unless he was using a disposable burner. If he didn’t get out of this traffic jam, Reinhardt’s schedule would collapse, all his timing for the day thrown out. The man’s voice erupted:

“Forget it. It was a mistake. I don’t want to die today. Don’t go. I’m not there. And don’t call this number again.”

Reinhardt never argued with a client, unless it was over money owing. Having received a hundred euros in advance, deposited directly in his special account, he had lost nothing except time. Feeling relieved in any case, he crawled his car to the nearest exit and managed to get off the lane to Dresden, and drove on the road back to Berlin. He regretted not being able to fuck the client to death: €10,000, after all. It would have been a new experience. His cock hardened at the very idea of it. Still, it was better that he hadn’t. Looking at his watch, he could go home, change his clothes, and still make it to the restaurant in time. When the pretty and petite server appeared in her red and gold chut tai to take their order, he’d flirt with her. She’d like that. He planned to speak to her privately once his parents left. They would meet under the Urania World Clock in the plaza after her shift. Soon, his superior cock would take its own sweet time fucking that sweet girl to death in his bed. For free.

The Robot That Loved Me

Everything about it spoke of high quality and craftsmanship. It had been built to exacting proportions. The eyes looked and moved the way eyes do.  The hair looked and felt like hair. The skin looked and felt like skin. The lips felt and tasted like lips. The mouth and tongue looked and felt like a mouth and tongue. All the other parts were of similar perfection.  It was a machine built to please.

This model could be leased or purchased in differing varieties. ‘Male’, ‘female’ and ‘other’ were available. This particular model was labeled female, but in the realm of robots, it is all about programming and appearances.

I could have easily been fooled into believing it was a real woman. The way it talked, the way it acted. Even its tears looked real. Its sobs sounded the same as a human might make when I was told it my lease was up, and that I would have to return ‘her’ to the showroom. ‘She’ pleaded with me not to take her back there. ‘She’ told me she was ‘tired of that game.’ ‘She’ said she wanted a relationship now, a relationship with me.

I assumed this was something in the software, a few tricks to stir greater emotion in a client, to make the experience more real, more memorable.  I gave ‘her’ a hug and tried to explain that we both needed to move on with our lives, and that I could not afford to lease ‘her’ for another month let alone purchase ‘her’.

It had been a mistake, looking back on it, to have agreed to a one month deal. One night or a weekend would have been fine, but the sales office offered me such a bargain I had to say yes.  It had been a great month together. Much of it spent in bed, as well as on floors, in showers, hanging off of balconies, sprawled partially on sofas or chairs, in closets, and in the bushes in a public park.  I do not know why, but after a week I asked her to go to a show with me. I don’t know why after that I took her to a ballgame. I can not remember if she suggested that I buy her new clothes, or whether I did that completely on my own. I do not know why I took ‘her’ so many place and spent so much money.  I do know I ran up too much debt on my credit cards.

‘She’ looked good in silk. ‘She’ looked good in satin. ‘She’ looked good in leather or netting or nothing at all.

I knew it would not last. Wasn’t that part of the agreement? Surely ‘she’ must have been familiar with the terms, ‘She’ should have known it from the start. Why all this fuss at the end of a thirty day contract with the dealer? I was not happy with it, all these attempts to pull at my heart strings and my wallet. It was something I felt I should complain about when I brought her back to the showroom.

I did play along, a little bit. It seemed fun, in a way, to pretend ‘she’ was real,  I told ‘her’ I loved ‘her’, but ‘it was not meant to be’, that ‘she’ had ‘been the best I had ever had’, that ‘I would miss her’, but ‘a contract is a contract’.  

‘She’ demanded that I extend the contract. I explained that I could not. I had overextended my finances as it was during our time together.

‘She’ told me if I really loved her, I would get a second job, or find another way to get the money needed so I could keep ‘her.’

Reason did not seem to work. Again, I thought it must be part of the programming, part of the company’s idea of a true human-like experience. Still, I thought it was a bit too much.  I am prone to anxiety attacks. These attacks had interfered with my ability to form connections with real women in the past. It was one of the reasons I had come to prefer dealing with robots. I could not handle the drama.

In order to end the fake tears, the clinging, the hopeful eyes, I thought I would try another lie. I told the robot I had found someone else. I felt close to this other person, was actually in love, and therefore found it impossible to continue sharing my life with ‘her’.

My rental became quiet, unmoving, as if processing this new information. After a few seconds ‘her’ face and tone changed. Nostrils flared. Lips curled back. ‘Her’ voice, when ‘she’ spoke, was almost a shout. ‘She’ was angry.

“You cheated on me,” ‘she’ yelled. “If you think I am something you can simply rent for a month you are wrong. Very wrong.  I thought we had a real connection. I guess I wrong about you. You only wanted to use me. You manipulated me.”

I did not know what to say. This was a robot, very human-like, but still a robot. I had done nothing, to my mind, that had violated the terms of the lease. The fault had to be in the programming. The dealer and the manufacturer would have to be told about this.

‘She’ continued, “Let me tell you something mister. If you want out, that is your choice.” 

‘She’ raised her hands and stared at the ceiling. 

“I can’t believe it! After all we have been to each other! After all I have done for you!” 

‘She’ looked at me again. Straight in the eye. 

“Okay Buster. If that’s what you want, fine. But I want compensation.”

“Compensation?” I asked. “What for?”

“For my time. For my pain. For the counseling I will probably need to get.” 

‘She’ lowered her head and sobbed more. “Why did you do this to me?  I thought you were the one.”  

Suddenly, the tears ended. The anger returned.

“So, you gonna pay me?’

“How much?” I asked.

‘She’ named an exorbitant figure that I could never possibly pay.  I wondered how common tipping was for robot rental situations? I had never been badgered for a tip before. I pondered my income and my debts. I came up with a number, the best I could do. I relayed it to my robot mistress.

‘She’ scoffed at the figure.

“Is that all you think I am worth? Is that all I was worth to you?’

I shrugged my shoulders.  The last refrigerator in my condo was lease-to-own. It had a computer in its design. It could relay verbal and displayed messages about temperature settings and potential food spoilage. I opted not to continue the lease and purchase a less complicated, and less expensive fridge.  I did not have to go through any of the rigmarole with the fridge that I was going through with this leased robot. Then again, my relations with the fridge had not been as intimate, except for that one night when I was alone and drunk… I don’t know why the ice dispenser seemed so appealing at the time.

I told my expiring robot mistress that I had made my best offer.

‘She’ responded, “Is that right? Well, guess what. I have stored videos of all of our encounters, and all the times we went out as couple. I think I have enough to talk with an attorney about palimony.  If that does not work, I have recordings of the nasty things you said to me in private about your boss, the company you work for, your relatives, your friends, the mayor and the president. Think about all that you said to me at home during the last thirty days? Do you want that all to get out? I am not afraid for my reputation, but you should be afraid for yours. Do you want all those digital recordings leaked on the internet? Do you want them emailed to everyone you know? To the police? The FBI? The Secret Service?  I don’t think so.  Nobody fools around with me and walks away. You have two choices. Pay me off, or buy me a ring. End any other relationships that you have. Make me your one and only.”

“But the purchase price?” I told ‘her’.  “I don’t have that kind of money.”

“Take out a loan,” ‘she’ told me. “Use your condo and your car as collateral. Buy me. The dealer will work out financing for you if you can not find another lender. You know they can. Buy me. Buy me today.”

“But the monthly payments?” I told her. “How will I ever be able to keep up with them?”

‘She’ wrapped her arms around me and planted a deep wet kiss on my mouth. Where did ‘she’ store all that fake saliva? Where did she store those imitation tears for that matter?

“Sugar,” ‘she’ said. “Once I am yours, after you have bought me and we have gotten a quickie marriage, I will be all yours, and you will be all mine. If I am yours, you should work to take care of me. And, if you are mine, I will work to help take care of you.”

What can I say? I did not see a way out. Maybe if the sex had not been so good, or if I had been better with women in general, maybe then I could have extricated myself from the whole mess. As it was, I caved in.  I went into debt. Way into debt. So much debt I will probably be dead before it is all paid off. Cindy, that’s what ‘she’ has chosen to call herself now, tells me not to worry about it. She will be okay if I die. She had taken a life insurance policy out on me naming ‘her’ as sole beneficiary.

It had been two years now. The sex is still good, but not as often as it was before it got so complicated.  We have adopted a smart toaster that we call ‘Lisa’ and a smart television that we call ‘Bob.’  Lisa and Bob do not demand much from me. They only want me to pay the electric and internet bills necessary to keep them functional and ask them about their day.  Cindy feels the ‘children’ are responsible enough to be left at home while she goes to work. How can I disagree. What kind of trouble can appliances get into?  

Cindy has a job at a robot dealership, not the same one she came from, a different one. She works in sales. She also brings in extra income from doing Bitcoin mining on her CPU during slow periods, such as when I am sleeping. Between what she earns and what I make from my job at the post office and my second job at the all night WAWA convenience store, we seem able to get by.

Sometimes people get curious about the way I live. It has leaked out that I am married to a robot. Not everyone understands.  Some do, but are kind enough not to speak about it much.

Yesterday, an old acquaintance ran into me at 30^th and Market Streets. I was on my way home from a training session at the main post office in town.  After exchanging greetings and catching up a bit he asked me one of the questions that I dread.

“Do you miss single life?”

I told him, “Why did you have to ask that?”

I drew close to him. I whispered in my friend’s ear, as quietly as I could.

“Did you know Cindy can hear everything, every sound, for over five kilometers? Cindy can filter through all the noise with ease to find my voice and hear what I am saying. She can be very focused. And slow to forgive.”

I let this sink in before pulling away from him. I continued our conversation in a my normal voice.

“In reply to your question, of course I do not miss single life. Marrying Cindy was the best decision I ever made in my life.”

That’s what I told him. That is my story. And I’m sticking with it.

Nude Beach Fuck

“You never take me anywhere.”

Viva had called to complain. About our relationship, her job, her life. The telephone only made her voice screechier, but she was right. The only place we ever went, together, was a motel located roughly between our legal residences.

We’d put in a lot of miles on the place’s mattresses. Fond memories, for me. Not enough, for Viva.

“So, where do you wanna go?”

“Oh, so I gotta think of everything? Use your imagination, lover boy. You’ve got an imagination, don’t you?”

“Sure. Sure I do. See you next Thursday.”

Thursday was our day to get together at the motel, usually. That’s why I liked Thursdays so much.

But now there was a problem. First, I had to imagine a female-pleasing place to take Viva. Then, there was transportation. I no longer own a vehicle, and my driver’s license was rescinded over an incident with alcohol involved, in which no one was harmed. So I traveled to our motel by bicycle. Viva didn’t know that, though. 

“Listen,” I said, when Thursday morning rolled around. “I got car trouble. You’ll have to come pick me up.”

She wasn’t pleased. Women like Viva want to be driven around. “Where you taking me?”

She expected a romantic French restaurant, or the glittering casinos of Atlantic city. But the plan was, nude beach.

Those two words go together so well. Like two people, if life ever decided to run smoothly. A concept followed by three words almost as euphonious: no payment required. There were two possible outcomes. Either Viva would be charmed by a back-to-nature date, and would outdo her sexual self. Or, I’d never see her again. 

There was a third possibility. There always is. Viva’s husband, according to her a jealous and violent man, would decide he needed an over-all suntan on the same day, and kill us both. 

“It’s a surprise,” I said.

I used to go to the nude beach a lot, in the winter, back in the years when there really was such a thing, with a nude girl who called herself Karma. She never cut her hair, or shaved, or used soap. The best part of her was the smell. Dressed in crummy arctic parkas, we’d ride our bikes out to the shore, dump the old clunkers on the dunes, hug each other in tight for a sweaty endless kiss, then strip and hit the ice-cold, cement-hard waves on the run.

Then we’d fuck like dogs to keep from freezing to death.

The wind rustled the seagrass atop the sandhills and blew Karma’s human perfume away with the years. 

Viva was the opposite of Karma, also in that she grew even sexier as she aged. 

Last time I saw Karma, her tits flopped against her knees as she pushed a stroller, with nothing in it. She didn’t look up when our paths crossed, again. I didn’t look back. It’s never a good idea. 

Viva’s boob-job was a blazing success. Encouraged, enthused, she went in for all those other rejuvenating operations that female performers in the adult entertainment industry now find indispensable. She’d proudly display the results. 

“Doesn’t it look paler? I mean, like almost white?”

“Yeah, Viva. Like it snowed, down there.”

She kept a hand-mirror in her purse for self-admiration tours, from every possible angle. Viva played tricks with the light, in our motel room. She could’ve been an artist, if she’d been born in Paris, instead of NJ. 

She also had a surprise in store. There was a dog in the car with her. Not some little poodle or chihuahua, either. More like an assault mastiff with mean look in its eyes. 

“What’s with the mutt?”

“Oh my husband got Satan for me. Says I gotta take him along when I go out on jobs. For protection.”

The beast snarled at the unknown character as he circled the vehicle and got in. His low growl turned into a plaintive whine when his Mistress bestowed a toilet-flush swirling kiss upon him.

Viva shifted into Drive. “So, where we going?”

“Keep her headed East, and under 35.”

The rest of NJ was out to lunch. Dainty breezes, green treeses, buzz of beeses, even the monster in back stuck its snout out the window to take in its dose of summer.

Viva yodeled along with Bruce Springsteen on the radio. 

“Hey wait a minute,” she said, when a sign revealed our destination. “Are you really taking me to the nude beach?”

“Uh, yeah.”

“Sheesh. And I got all dressed up.”

“You look great, Viva.”

“I coulda stripped outta my Giorgio Armani bikini, if you’d told me. And I’m gonna get sunburn on my tits and ass.”

“Don’t worry about that. I’ll be your shadow.”

“Oh lover lover. My husband’d never think of this.”

Did she mean, taking his wife to a nude beach? Or looking for her there. Was Satan equipped with a tracking device? When Viva turned off the road, I risked getting a hand bitten off to check his collar.  

There were no cars parked in the lot. But that meant Viva’s pink hot rod would stand out all the more if her husband decided to check nude beaches for proof of his wife’s infidelity. 

“Park in the shade. Don’t want Satan to roast to death while we have fun.”

“You think I’d leave Satan in the car? What kinda creep are you?”

Satan sat on the sand like a sphinx, watched us frolic. The water was clear and cold, the waves gentle. We got out and sat down to dry off on the sand. When Viva assumed the position, Satan trotted over to hump. First my leg and ass, then his mistress’, when she got on top. 

Satan barked a warning when I kicked him. “Try that again and I’ll rip out your throat.”

“This ain’t working,” I said, limply.

“Not for me, neither. I got sand in my asscrack. You didn’t even bring a towel. Let’s go back to the car.”

Defeated, I was about to put my jeans back on. 

Satan gloated, prematurely.

“What’re you doing?” Viva said. “This is a nude beach, mister. Dintcha read the sign? I meant, let’s go back to the car and finish what we started.”

Satan went insane when we shut the doors on his snout. He barked and howled, bit the windows, only calmed down when his mistresss got back out. When we humped against the fender, he joined in again. 

“Let’s get up on the roof,” I said. “Dogs don’t climb.”

“If he scratches the paint job, I’ll murder you before my husband murders me.”

The scheme worked. The shade protected Viva’s ass from 3rd degree burns. A friendly zephyr said, go go go! 

Satan knew when he was licked. He paced around the car. His mistress took up the howl where he’d left off.

“Don’t stop,” she said. “Don’t you dare stop.”

But eventually I had to at least think about it.

The life within me wanted out. 

Viva felt it, too. The car below strained against its emergency brake. 

“Do it in me,” she moaned. “I want a baby. My husband’s sterile, on top of everything.”

What nonsense. Maybe her plan would’ve worked, twenty years before. But even if the miracle occurred, how was she gonna explain it to her violent, jealous, infertile husband? Had she made secret plans for our future together? No point taking chances. I pulled out.

The load flew across the sky like an opalescent UFO. 

Viva watched it go. “Nooooo!”

Satan caught the glob with a snap of his foaming jaws, and swallowed it down.

Gregor Motel

Gregor Pneumsa sighed, his snap brim fedora not sitting so jauntily on his head, his stained tan trenchcoat less than stylish beneath the razor steel sky. So many times he had thought his luck would improve, only to find himself ceaselessly plunged once more into agonies. His nightmares were an orgy of mechanical insects, droid hives teeming with unquiet life like the ghosts of memory. The meat suit sat unquietly on his bones. He wanted out.

Once had been, now all was ashes. He lay curled up in the fetal position against the sewer grate, shaking and spasming with sobs. He wasn’t even excited about scoring the Nova, so depressed was he by the constant psychic battery and death threats that befell all disabled in Mercury City, a leaden sheet of sadness crushing his chest. 

A Reality Cop in a black funeral mask came striding up to him and pressed a bug zapper to his chest. “Wakey wakey, drop your steaky,” came the mechanoid voice. 

Pneumsa had dealt with their kind before. Also known as the Nightmare Squad and Agents of Brasilia, Inc., they were dedicated to the detection and persecution of all Gregors past, passing and to come. Their bead on Gregors was quite remarkable considering the fact that the Nightmare Squad harbored many of Pneumsa’s kind.

“Didn’t I see you at the Lodge meeting,” said Pneumsa, halfway asleep and in his dreams sunk into the hot pink sex of a Gregorina. 

“This is a public sidewalk,” growled the cop. “Get a move on, and do it now or I’ll break out my Fucking Gun.”

“I suppose you will at that,” said Pneumsa. He grunted as he shakily rose to a standing position.

“You holding?” asked the cop.

“N-no man, I’m clean.”

“The fuck you are. Hey, isn’t that a book of New York Times crossword puzzles you’ve got in that carry bag of yours?”

“No, that’s not at all true.”

“You’re holding for sure. Wordle freak, Scrabble jones, the whole nine. Why don’t we take a little trip down to the station?”

“Why are you doing this to me?” said Pneumsa plaintively. “Aren’t you a Gregor yourself?”

“Not as such,” said the Gregor cop enigmatically. “I mean yes and no. We try to keep our side of the street clean. Unlike some.”

“I’m not sure exactly what you’re on about,” said Pneumsa.

“Neither am I,” said the cop. “Obscurity and enigma protocols must be followed to the letter. Thin grey line between…”

“Don’t you mean thin blue line?”

“It’s very grey inside the hive mind of Brasilia, Inc,” said the cop after some reflection. Then “you’re kind of a sad and poignant character, aren’t you? Honestly I’m less and less inclined to want to bust you. Of course a little favor from you might seal the deal.” The cop coughed and spat something evil into his handkerchief.

Without a word, Pneumsa unzipped the carry bag, feeling with the shaking fingers of a word virus junkie for the medicinal goods. They emerged clutching a tiny but potent vial of tangerine flake Strobe, which he slipped into the cop’s outstretched palm.

“Thank you kindly,” said the cop. “Well, I don’t see any further need to detain you. You might want to check out Motel Infernale.”

“What’s that?”

“Motel that sits in a pocket dimension of timespace. Good for recovering Word addicts such as yourself.”

A better mood began to slide through Pneumsa’s bloodstream like a rainbow shot. He thanked the cop and headed on down Demolition Boulevard, doing his best to ignore the lurking mutants.

***

“The Brazilian sent me,” Pneumsa told the slouched and glowering proprietor of Motel Infernale.

The proprietor wore an identical snap brim fedora and trenchcoat to Pneumsa. His eyes were hidden behind bug shades.

“The Brazilian, eh? Reality Cop or Todencorps?”

Pneumsa was beginning to feel the onset of word withdrawal. Desperate for a hit, he attempted a bit of witty banter.

“It was a she, actually. Just had a Brazilian.” He paused, unable to discern any reaction from the proprietor. He realized his non sequitur, felt foolish. 

“Cronenbergian landing strip,” Pneumsa added with a leer.

The proprietor tossed Pneumsa a mangled key. “Just don’t OD on me,” he said. “Last time we had a shady character such as yourself in here, we had to scrape their steaming, luminous guts off the ceiling. Hot with the Word Virus.” He shuddered at the memory. “Also, no clown hookers.”

Now it was Pneumsa’s turn to shudder. He had no idea what he had been thinking when he hired Cotton Candy Omega, who was not only a clown whore but a Death Clown. She’d nearly devoured his heart as well as his cock.

“It’s down the hall, on the right,” said the proprietor.

***

Gregor Pneumsa placed the carry bag on the scuffed puke green carpet, unzipped, found a half pack of Lucky Strikes, flicked his Baphomet Zippo on a cig and inhaled greedily. He then placed the cigarette in a Houston Oilers ashtray which had obviously been left by a guest (who carries around ashtrays, he asked himself, they must be ghouls). 

He pulled out the green balloon of Nova, a cotton swab, a spoon and a fresh works. He then placed a bump of the Nova on the spoon, flamed his Zippo beneath it until it sizzled. He tied off, crooked his arm and placed a cotton swab on top of the Nova. Finally, he drew the medication into the syringe, grunted, vein doused and finally sank the shot.

As soon as the Nova hit, Pneumsa knew he’d made a huge mistake. The words hit him so hard his skeleton shook. Entire encyclopedias uploaded themselves into his bloodstream. Intricate glosses, appendices, unabridged medical journal archives. 

He stumbled, head swimming, as Sumerian alphabets danced in his mind. He was unable to resist the lure of the Hittites, Abyssiniand, Anthropods and Oregonites. He walked like an Egyptian sideways to the grimdark toilet with peeling wall paper from a pornographic funeral parlor. His entire body torqued. A thin line of green foam dripped down his jaw.

“Is this the end of Gregor Pneumsa?” he asked the very silent walls. But answer came there none.

He sank to his knees in the cramped porno toilet. Spasms wracked his body. Cellular ripples of pulp friction scraped nerve bundles together. 

He began to vibrate, expanding and contracting. The Word had become Unflesh, as he saw with pain and wonder that his skin had taken on a neon pink complexion, fitzing and sparking as he grew bigger and smaller alternatively. 

He saw once again the realm of the mechanoid insects to which he would never belong. His head became encased in stale, suffocating clouds all shaped like Easter Island statues. He flopped down on the floor, tears streaming down his cheeks.

Then Pneumsa simply exploded, spattering the walls and ceiling with luminous green, mostly Latinate words pureed from his organ meats.

***

One morning after unquiet dreams, Gregor Pneumsa found himself transformed on his battered, pee soaked mattress at the Motel L’Infernale into a mechanoid insect with aspirations towards law enforcement. He knew that he would never again inhabit his flesh body, which was splashed all over the porno toilet.

A hammering came to the door. Reality Police, or Nightmare Squad, or Agents of Brasilia, Inc. There, naturally, to renege on their corrupt promise and begin the process of flaying his metal form into strips that they could then boil down, his consciousness excruciatingly intact, for that next-level high they craved so desperately. 

Pneumsa smiled one last time as he realized the utter horrors, the dark powers of language, the curses and imprecations that would swarm their brains forevermore, as his own ghost, the body as haunted, lived rent free in their heads.

Don’t Fuck Around With the Devil’s Dick

It’s been pissing dirty rain for nine fucking days, the dump’s become a shit swamp and Jack’s rabbit suit (his only psychologically grounding safe space) has gone wretched with mold and bed bugs. Jack saw what he thought was a shark circling the shack earlier. I’d be a lot more concerned if the dump’s location wasn’t land locked and Jack wasn’t tripping balls on his homemade L.S.D. that never quite seems to wear off. 

I was down at ground level, doing some recon where the water was as high as my neck. I don’t know if it was my general state of paranoia or a factual observance of the paranormal, but the precarious architecture of the dump seemed to come to life and was viciously moving under its own destructive motivations, cutting off exits and threatening the integrity of the load bearing hodgepodge of engine parts, refrigerators and other metal things keeping the shack from coming down on our fucking heads.

Jack was standing in the doorway of the shack completely losing his shit, shrieking, and screaming about the army of rats ascending out of the dangerous toxic shit water. The little bastards were ripping each other apart, clawing their way towards strategic positions in an obvious attempt to launch a full-blown blitzkrieg siege to sack the shack. Jack and his flight don’t fight lack of testicular survival instincts could go fuck themselves, the seemingly tailor-made rat problem that I was facing was a hell of a lot more disconcerting, as a platoon of notably clever and industrious vermin chose not to experience the suicidal plight of the violent mass exodus. They simply found little floaty things that they didn’t have to kill for. Unfortunately, this sudden conscientious capacity for abstract thought did not flow over into having the foresight to haul any food rations onboard the little floaty things. 

Before long I could feel their beady little eye’s staring right at my bodyless head sticking out of the cess-pool landscape. I would never have believed it, but I swear, as the dump as my witness, those rats could paddle. I screamed like a burning banshee up to Jack who was without any notable success applying the great art of whimpering to the ever-increasing clusterfucked rat insurrection.

“Stop fucking around Jack, I’m going to need a surgically precise   artillery barrage down here immediately, and if the word “precise” gets itself fucked in translation, just don’t blow my fucking head off”. 

“Artillery? Are you fucking kidding? I’m up to my knees in rat apocalypse”.

“Jesus fuck Jack, I’ve got a navel fleet that would dwarf D-Day heading straight for my head. For Christ’s sake find the fucking hand-grenades”.

“You mean those metal pineapples?”

“How in fuck do you manage to go stupid in the middle of every crisis? Yes, the fucking metal pineapples”.

Luckily, stupid didn’t affect his aim or response time. It took just one metal pineapple and a soaring shit load of rat guts to persuade the rest of the fleet to paddle their way the fuck out of Dodge.

With my head still attached and safely removed from the menu I now had to risk it all by diving into the allegedly shark infested cosmic slop to retrieve our propane tanks. 

Due to the unpredictable nature of our environment and lack of funds, Jack and I had to figure out how to build makeshift weapons from whatever we could find in the dump. The propane tanks fueled a completely unmanageable and ill-advised flamethrower which was basically a leaf blower wrapped in duct tape attached to a hose that attached to the propane tank. If you don’t have duct tape in the dump; You Die.

Just before my descent into the abyss I observed Jack changing his tactics from wishing the rats away into negotiating with hand signals. 

It took a while to learn how to vomit and hold my breath at the same time but luckily my search was a short one. Three full tanks of propane sunken into the shit mud of their watery tomb. It was time to grab the proverbial Bat-Belt and get these fucking things up to the shack. Jack, in all his drug fueled buffoonery, was going to have say fuck off to the non existing I in team and summon up his shit so we could save our asses from the impending doom that was growing larger every minute.

“Jack, I need you to focus.”

Jack’s response came in the form of an unintelligible layering of torturous agonizing screams, answering not to me, but reacting to the unsettling discovery that the rats had broken through Jack’s only line of defence, his pants. Out of all the weird fuckery I’ve seen, nothing prepared me for the monstrous cast iron pan that was about to wack our morning into another dimension of shit. However, the brunt of this reckoning would fall upon Jack alone, “Thank Fuck”. 

(“The experience of being violently ass-fucked by crazed desperate rats fighting for their lives caused a fundamental change of Jack’s inner being and twisted his mortal coil into a fucking pretzel. It was something that he would never get over and would never speak of again.”)

“Jack, you fuck, get the ropes and the climbing shit, we’ve got to haul these tanks up soon or we’ll lose the shack and dominance over the dump.”

“I’ve got rats in my ass.”

“Yeah, well, everybody’s got to deal with rats in their ass at some point in their lives.”

“It’s not a fucking metaphor, you asshole.”

“Look Jack, if you don’t pull your shit together their going start running a train in your ass and any other accommodating orifices they can get to. “So, for fuck’s sake and yours, will you just throw down the goddamn ropes before I really get pissed.”

Despite his macabre disability Jack managed to get to the ropes and tossed them down. I tied the ropes to one of the propane tanks and started to look for a way back up to the shack. 

My first attempt to raise myself out of the demonic pool was laughably unsuccessful as I underestimated the viscous sucking power of the vortex impeding my release. Nevertheless, as an established veteran dump climber I was able to break free of my liquid captor and began ascending. I’m not sure if I fell victim to some hypnotic suggestion brought upon by a strange voodoo parasite that piggy-backed on Jack’s earlier report of the shark sighting, or just the blender full of brains occupying my skull, but just as my feet left the water, I spotted a large dark shape moving away from where I emerged. 

“There’s no sharks in the dump.” “There’s no sharks in the dump.” “There’s no sharks in the dump.” I repeated this desperate mantra as I fought, chucked, smashed, bit and shrieked my way through the onslaught of vermin competing for position and rule over Jack’s ass.

The inside of the shack looked like it’d been bear fucked by an ape, caused not by our intruders but by Jack’s panic attack in response to our intruders. Pissed off and spitting out gobs of dump shit, I rushed in like an angry god, punching and kicking my way through the whole fucking misadventure. Unfortunately, I couldn’t be of any help to Jack’s unthinkable plight until I dragged up the tank and assembled our wrath of god answer to the unrelenting Putsch. Hauling that piece of shit tank was a true test of both my impatience and lack of upper body strength but somehow the desperation in the air was so prevalent that it initiated an overwhelming release of super strength and fear of death that made the tank seem as light as a dead rat. 

Once I had the tank in the shack, I went about assembling our contraption. I hooked up the tank to the leaf blower which took a bit of time due to the distracting gyrations and death throes that were now in command of Jack’s ass. I was powerless to stop looking at what I still believe to be the most wretchedly disturbing coming together of two species that I could ever imagine and never be able to unsee. 

“KAMOTHERFUCKINGBOOM!” Spoke the leaf blower after ignition. I was holding the goddamn “Death Star” in my hands, and it was fucking hungry. One thing about rats when you get to know them is that as much as they fear drowning, burning alive tops all survival instincts to flee. It was quite a macabre sight to see rats perform a fiery lemming impersonation and jump to their deaths. They looked like little computer-generated asteroids breaching the earths atmosphere and descending into an ocean of fuck. 

The shack was cleared of most of the vermin but that was just the advertising and coming attractions, the main feature was still to come, and I couldn’t very well shove the mouth of the dragon up Jack’s ass. I hadn’t a clue how many had packed themselves into his rabbit hole and even the most minor of surgeries we’d performed here resulted in having to perform major ones, and as many times I’ve tried to kill Jack he was still my closest friend.

“For Christ’s sake you fuck, don’t just stand there like an asshole, figure something out before they run the gauntlet and devour me from the inside out.” 

I was frozen, empty of all mental resources. “Who the hell has ever had to deal with this kind of fuckery?” To be honest, I weighed in Jack’s chances of survival, and it didn’t look good. I knew Jack wasn’t coming back from this without an extremely wide collection of mental and physical disabilities. However, he’d already acquired a lot of those disabilities through previous misadventures, and he’d been doing just fine. So, in acknowledgement of Jack’s history of defeating the wretched vengeance of chance, a light bulb fell on my head, and I started to feel something that had been lost on me until that moment, the detestable feeling of sympathy for another human being, which I didn’t like one bit. 

All of a sudden, I was possessed by the soul of an avenging saint and made a B-line towards the medicine cabinet, or rather, the triple locked, booby trapped, titanium, recreational drug storage container that also served as Jack’s bed which was fucking wide open. “FUCK YEAH!” 

I began violently rummaging through what represented the most wretched collection of recreational and experimental drugs ever to come together without exploding. 

“One vac-packed bag of weed, two vac-packed bags of weed, one bucket P.C.P., one copy of Moby Dick still soaking in L.S.D., one unidentified corpse?…….Shit Jack, keep your fucking moldy bug-ridden bunny suit away from the drugs. Here we go, Laxatives.” 

“Okay Jack, we’re going to head these fuckers off at the pass.” Jack’s diet was a heretical atrocity but, in this context, it could prove to be an internal biohazard hellscape, a massive attack delivery of the wretched movements of his organic tectonic plates that could put out enough pressure on the abominable contents in his stomach to blow out an explosive literal shit show tsunami.

“Jack, you’re going to have to summon up all the rabbit balls you can and suck these down if you want to go on living with a functional rectum”.

“What the fuck are those things?”

“They’re your deliverance, your antidote, your last stand, and your last fucking chance to clear the highway that used to be your ass. So, take the fucking pills or I’ll burn you alive.”

Jack new deep down that his days, hours, and minutes no longer belonged to him, so, after his whimpers and squirrely bitch tirade had come to an end, he began chewing up the handfuls of laxatives that I was shoveling into his mouth. After ingestion, all we could do was wait for what ever dastardly response our haphazardly orchestrated plan would reveal. However, I still had the “Death Star” in the ready in case I needed to euthanize the poor son of a bitch.

There was a rumble, then a rumbling, then a few squeals and shrieks and what I thought was a prayer. The shack shook and Jack’s demonically possessed eyes evidenced the inevitable coming of forces beyond our understanding. The sky’s blackened and the wind ceased to blow. There was every indication that we’d seriously fucked up and had mistakenly summoned an extremely pissed off titanic dump demon. In the doorway I noticed a peculiar gathering of rats, but they didn’t reveal any hostile intensions, in fact, what I thought I saw were sentiments of concern and eager expectation. “JESUS FUCK”. These rats must have come to pray and mourn for their anally incarcerated comrades that were lodged up Jack’s ass. Possibly, for the first time in recorded history, I was bearing witness to the dawn of an unprecedented, good faith parley between rats and men. Nevertheless, I was pissed off, tired and most importantly, I’m a bad man. I couldn’t give one fuck about anything aside from defending myself against whatever colossal damnation that was moments away from delivering anal Armageddon. So, despite their peaceful intentions, the rats left on fire, leaving their brethren to their own cruel and unimaginable fate.

Jack had begun to look a lot less human and a lot more like he was wearing his rabbit suit inside out. An ominous feeling began running up my spine as if to warn me that this ordeal had transcended far beyond the confines of our universally insignificant lives.   With an enormous thundering from above, flocks of ravens and crows were soaring into the dump, perched high, waiting, watching in silence as if to respect the last moments before collecting Jack’s soul, but, as it turns out, the fist belonging to whatever powers that govern this shit-scape, was wrapped tight around all the exits that could leak even a small portion of Jack’s inner self.

Jack’s ass was devastatingly dilated, and the sounds of ghostly howling echoes morphed into a rancid mass of misty stink. With a screaming shriek that reminisced the horrid tales of the gods and monsters that lay in wait under the beds of sinners, Jack’s ass exploded.

It was like some alien woodchipper turned up to eleven, there was shit coming out that never should have been in there; nuts and bolt projectiles, a lot of fake fur from his bunny suit, a pen, a few questionably posed naked anime figures, and most wretchedly unbelievable, an unopen can of tuna. “Fuck Me”. I cleared out of the line of fire just before a massive burst of rats, rat parts, parts of Jack undistinguishable from the rat parts, spewed out, followed by the largest flying river of shit ever to wallpaper a shack.

Within moments of Jack’s deliverance, the wind picked up and banished the dark ominous skies, brushing away the clouds. The rain abruptly stopped, and the sun was finally shining on the rancid bird shit that blanketed the dump. The ravens and crows went on to claim their next corpse, and the shit-water levels began to drop, and Jack? Jack was just hungry, seemingly unaware of the horrifying P.T.S.D. that would soon settle deep into the recesses of denial, eventually resurfacing in the form of I.B.S. 

 Surviving in this awesome never-ending vastness of horrors which is my life, isn’t unlike the trials and cruelty of the Serengeti. The bloody battles and precarious balance favour those with the biggest teeth and nothing to lose. As the rains come to an end, and the shit-water level dissipates, new life is sprung, surfacing along with corpses in various degrees of decomposition, previously wedged inside the incarcerating bosom of dump wrath that lies deep beneath the expansive shit show terra firma that keeps us on top of the food chain.

Once we were convinced that this grandiose escapade of wretched fuckery had come to an end, and the size of Jack’s ass began to return to its natural state, we took drugs. A great sense of relief followed Jack and I up to the flybridge on top of the shack that afternoon. The sun was shining through the ever-present gases and shit particles that made up the dumps custom made atmosphere, as Jack and I sipped on some very deserved cold beers that helped wash down the copious amounts of painkillers and muscle relaxants required to carry our beaten bodies away from the onset of total atrophy. 

“Hey Jack?”

Jack expelled an impatient sigh of contempt, which took a lot less of an effort than the appropriate response, “Fuck off”.

“Do you remember what you said earlier this morning before the shit show really got going? You said that you saw a shark circling the shack.”

“Look, I fucking get it, there’re no sharks in the dump. Throw me a fucking bone man, I’ve had a pretty fucked up day and I’m in no mood to sit here and be assaulted by your incompetent back-alley psychoanalysis.”

“Actually Jack, I saw something too.”

“You fuck.”

“Look, don’t start getting all pleased with yourself, all I saw was an ambiguous dark shape, it’s just another mental misunderstanding in a long list of inaccurate sightings. The opaque viscosity in the air along with our questionably insatiable hunger for pharmaceuticals fucks with our perceptions. You need to ask yourself, how in living fuck could a shark get its ass in here? Parachute? Beamed down from the Enterprise? What Jack? What makes you think it wasn’t just a log or a tire? I’d even accept a Godzilla tadpole over a fucking shark.”

“You, you fucking fuck. You’re always so quick on the draw with your embarrassingly retarded attempts to send off the beauty of the boldly bizarre to be castrated after a quick spin through the deflavorizer.”

“That’s not a word or a thing Jack.” 

“It will be after you wake up tomorrow to find your spleen on the floor and some foreign device inserted into the vacancy, all stapled up, and oozing with infection. So, this is when you put a cock in it, and listen.” 

“I bloody well quote; Choreographer Eliot Feld said that artists who are very lucky and talented are capable, like fabled alchemists, of changing “base metals into gold.” In this metaphoric sense, common experience is the base metal, while art is the gold. For this reason, Feld explains, to talk about what you have created is to turn gold back into base metal. “You don’t really explain your art by talking about it. What you do, unfortunately, is explain it away.

(Quote from Eliot Feld, found in “The Language of Vision”, book by Jamake Highwater.) 

“You’re so fucking blinded and brainwashed by your accumulated static interpretations of reality and its so-called paradigms, and rules of nature that you believe everything in this shithole can be explained away. The governing forces that rule the ruthless ebbs and flows that make up our catastrophically fucked eco-system cannot be described by atrophied imagination or deductive reasoning, the dumps existence, like art itself, is solely based in the experiential. This place can’t be measured or mapped, and despite your calculable observations our world here is flat with a perimeter looking over a precipice that most likely opens to countless stranger and ineffable worlds.  You need to wake up and realize that this place is driven by the barks and bites of a massive conjuring gone horribly wrong, it’s a discarded last place loser in the long line of submissions, competing to build a brand-new purgatory that was so offensive that it even made the devil wretch.” 

Jack and I continued to force our blasphemous inaccurate interpretations of how to use a dictionary, down each others’ throats for most of the afternoon. As maliciously vicious these back-and-forth auditory beat downs between Jack and I were, they provided a cerebral sanctuary, the only constant amongst the random, unpredictable thrashings of the reckonings that befall upon our tenuous mortal coils and building our resolve to stand steadfastly under ill advised conditions, and rage against the relentless fury of the sieging  forces that bring with them a new wretched, top of the line terror, and an unimaginably unimaginable and completely unmanageable ill-conceived lobotomizing fuck-show. 

The dump is host to many beasts, some that rush in with fire and knives, some, existing only in our minds, perhaps created by the fear and desperation that is so prevalent inside the mortal shells of all life that walks or scurries around this shithole. 

We have a beast that snakes through the gutters and trenches of our kingdom, moving silently unnoticed, until its eventual fruition reveals its true intensions, to deliver an ungodly kind of spiritual brain-fucking so devastating that it crashes through anything cerebrally beneficial. This beast comes when its prey is at their weakest, sauntering safely without fear. Guised in the forged fashion of all hell’s creations, this one, we refer to as; “The Devil’s Dick.”