At the Gate

when the two friends could no longer avoid the angry men with guns + atvs + leafblowers, they made their way to the gates of the walled city just before sundown and knocked on the small steel door to the side of the gates. a small slit opened. two eyes appeared in the slit, flicking under long lashes from one man to the other. —what do you want?! we dont allow straight white men!

—please, said one. we/re not like those others. he gestured behind them. —we/re hungry.

—are you jewish?

the man tilted his head slightly. —what?

—are you jewish? you look jewish.

—well, i mean, yes. secular though.

—thats fine. do you believe in israel?

—i/m sorry? believe?

the person behind the slit sighed. —believe in the right of return?

he shrugged. —i guess? i dont believe in the killing of palestinians tho. or their displacement, of course.

the eyes glared. —wrong answer. we dont take muslim extremists!

—im not muslim! i told, i/m athiest—

—we dont allow muslim extremist sympathizers! you/re either with us or against us!

—but…i just think the palestinians should me treated equally, like humans—

—sorry jew boy. jewish self-haters arent allowed!

—but—

—move along!

the first man stared at the glaring eyes for some seconds, then turned to his friends. —if you can still get in, do it! i/ll meet you somewhere!

—i/m not leaving you!

—no! the orange people are too close! theres no other way. its either/or!

—its never either/or!

—just do it! go!

the first man ran from his friend, away from the walled city towards the hills. his friends stared after him.

—straight white men not allowed! you may as well go after him!

the man turned to the glaring eyes. —but we—i—just want shelter. water. maybe a pizza?

—no straight white men. are you gay? closeted?

—uh….

—do you want to suck dick?

—excuse me?

—do you want to suck dick? fantasize about it?

—well, i mean, in certain fantasies. but i like women!

—too bad. are you bi? that counts.

—i mean, i have fantasies about being forced to wear womens underwear while my girlfriend laughs + has sex with a real man.

—cuckolds dont count. but are you trans?

—um, i dont know? i dont think so?

—are you a little bitch?

—i mean, maybe?

—do you feel like a little bitch in the presence of real men?

—maybe? but that doesnt make me a woman, does it?

—well, it doesnt make you a man.

—i guess thats true.

—we have a womens mountain mike race this weekend. if i let you in, you could sign up.

—oh, that wouldnt me fair. i mean, i/d sign up for the mens race.

—ah ha! i knew it! you are a man! your politics are so transparent!

—thats not politics. thats like, social issues.

—i knew it! cisgender male!

—what do you mean?! politics is about the exploitation of the working class!

—communist! socialist! anarchist! you/re like the dead white men you read!

—look, if you dont let me in, i will be dead! the conservative christians want to kill me because i/m not pro-life!

—if it wasnt for men like you, women wouldnt have to worry about abortions. get the fuck out of here!

—seriously?!

—seriously!

the slit closed. the man stared at it. he turned to the distant roar and dust cloud of atvs and leafblowers coming closer.

Hey, Johnny

I was running late as usual, but I had promised to hang out with the guys at Johnny’s Night Club. When I arrived the bouncer, Johnny Blot, nodded and let me in. Security was always tight at Johnny’s Night Club. 

As soon as I walked through the door someone called out my name.

“Look who it is. Johnny Comelately. You’re never on time.”

It was Johnny Swansong, manager and part owner of the club. He gripped my hand.

“Good to see you Johnny boy.”

“You too Johnny.”

“A lot of your friends are here tonight. There’s Johnny Onebrow at the bar.”

Johnny Onebrow waved, martini in hand.

“Hi, Johnny. Glad you could make it.”

“Me too.”

Johnny Hygiene came out of the restroom area. 

“Johnny Comelately! Good to see ya.”

We met half way across the floor. He pumped my hand. His hand was still wet, but I didn’t mention it. 

“What have you been up to you old rascal?”

I shrugged my shoulders. “A bit of this, a bit of that. And you?”

“The same. Insurance. That and the family. Keeps me running.”

I spotted Johnny Memento at a table with Johnny Hardon.

“Hey Johnny,” I said and meant it for both of them.

Johnny Memento smiled. “Wow Johnny. Long time no see. What has it been, a year?”

“More like three months.”

“Really? Could have fooled me. Takes me back to when we were kids. Remember when Johnny Bigarm threw that touchdown pass to me in the championship?”

“Sure do. Bounced out of your hands, off my helmet and back into your arms.”

“Those were some times. Weren’t they? Seems like yesterday.”

“Been fourteen years, but I’ll never forget it.”

“And the crowd! They went wild.”

“Sure did.”

“And Betty Lu Johnnyson from the cheerleading squad kissed me, and we went out after that for the next two years.”

“Great times. What have you been up to since I last saw you?”

“Same old, same old. Still working in my uncle’s funeral parlor, sharing stories with the old stiffs.”

“Sounds good.”

I turned to the other Johnny. “How about you? How have you been doing?”

“Can’t complain,” said Johnny Hardon. “Have a hot date later tonight. Remember Yolanda from chemistry class in college?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, she just got divorced. Hasn’t aged much at all. And guess who she wants to help her get back into circulation?”

“Johnny Hardon.”

“You got it mister.”

Johnny Swansong tapped my shoulder. “Sorry to interrupt, but one of the reasons I wanted you to come by and hang out for a change was to check out a new act. I’m thinking your boss, Johnny Platinum, might check him out himself if you put in a good word.”

“Okay. I’ll have a listen.”

I was used to these types of requests. Johnny Platinum was a top record producer in the area with connections to some of the big companies. I often got a nice tip along with a request, but Johnny Swansong was an old friend. I let it pass when it turned out the envelope was a bit light.

Johnny Swansong escorted me into the big room where a five-piece band had just finished setting up.

“What are they called? There’s no sign.”

“Just listen first.”

“Hi, Mr. Swansong,” yelled a young kid from the stage. Couldn’t be more than nineteen.

“She the singer? Easy on the eye.”

“Martha? Not the singer, but in the band. Rhythm guitar and tambourine. Does some backup. Good kid. I mean really good.” He grinned. “She’s why I hired them in the first place, but now it’s about the music. Just the music.”

“Who’s the singer?”

“The skinny blond guy. Martha’s brother. You have to hear this guy’s voice. I think they’re going places.”

We sat down at a table, ordered some drinks. I saw some familiar faces in the crowd. Johnny Spine, my chiropractor, and his lady; Johnny Wholesale and his gal; Johnny Narc, and Johnny Looselips, and a bunch of others. We listened while the band ran through their set. Some covers, a few originals. Pop, light rock, a little heavy metal. But the voice of the lead singer. The voice. 

“They play okay,” I said, “But you are right about the singer. Just needs the right material. I’ll talk to my boss. “

I gave Johnny Platinum a call. Asked what he was doing. He wasn’t busy. I suggested he stopped by and catch the band. They were playing three sets that night. Johnny Platinum said he’d try to make it. 

I let Johnny Swansong know that Johnny Platinum might stop by. Johnny Swansong thanked me and slipped another envelope into my pocket. The night was getting better.

Johnny Platinum stopped by around midnight, just before the final set. Johnny Swansong was more than cordial, explained he sort of represented the band in a semi-official way. We got a good table in the second row and sat back to see what happened. The final set had more songs, more range, and better instrumentals as if the first two sets were warm ups, or adrenaline or something else had gotten them juiced up. But they still weren’t great. Except for that voice. It was all about the voice. The lead singer had a gift. Johnny Platinum agreed with Johnny Swansong. There was a chance to make money here. With the right songs, the right music, the right costumes, and, of course, the right promotion, who knew what could happen.

After the show Johnny Swansong brought the band over to meet Johnny Platinum. Johnny Platinum extended his hand to the singer. The other Johnnys at the table stuck out their hands as well. There was a lot of shaking and pumping before getting down to business.

“You’ve got a set of tonsils there,” said Johnny Platinum. “What’s your name?”

“Bobby Healey. Together we’re Bobby and the Floaters.”

Johnny Platinum laughed, “What kind of name is that for a band? That’s gotta change. Look, you sound good, not great, but you need proper guidance. I might have Johnny Comelately here throw together a contract for you to review for an album and a small tour, if you’re interested. Not a lot of money to start. A percentage. Maybe an advance. But who knows what can happen in a year of two with luck and hard work. But you have to be willing to make compromises.”

Bobby looked at his sister who nodded.

“We’re interested,” said Bobby. “What kind of compromises.”

“First thing, the name. What kind of name is Bobby and the Floaters? Come on. You gotta change the name.”

“You don’t like The Floaters?”

“I can work with that,’ said Johnny Platinum. “Though you could make it easier for me by opting for a different band name or different band altogether. If you want to keep the band as it is, we might be able to do a deal, but they’ll need to get a lot better. It would be easier to swap players, but I’m willing to give it a try. But Bobby and the Floaters… that Bobby part has to go.”

“What do you suggest?” asked Bobby. “Just go with The Floaters?”

“You can do that or you could change Bobby to another name.”

“Like what?”

“How about Johnny? It’s warm, friendly, people can relate to it. I can go with Johnny and the Floaters. That’s bankable. Sounds marquee. Sounds much better than just The Floaters, and a hell of a lot better than Bobby and the Floaters. Though, like I said, the band might need to be reconstructed. Down the line. I’m willing to give them a shot, but they have to earn it. You on the other hand, you’re in. You can sing. I can work with you. If we can reach an agreement about the name thing.”

“But my name’s Bobby.”

“About that.” Johnny Platinum scratched his chin. “Healey is not a good name for a singer either. It don’t quite go with a great name like Johnny.”

“You think I should change it?”

“For professional purposes only. No offense to your family, you know.”

“What kind of name do you have in mind?”

“How does Johnny Scales sound? You got your Johnny, which everybody loves, and then Scales, a name that means something cause you can hit the high notes and the low notes. That’s the kind of name that audiences and investors eat up in Johnnytown.”

“The world’s bigger than Johnnytown,” the kid mumbled.

“It sure is,” said Johnny Platinum. “But you gotta start somewhere, and you’re in Johnnytown. If you want to win in Johnnytown, you need to be Johnny Scales or Johnny something else. But not Healey. It will sell some tickets, but not enough. You have to give the people what they want, and in Johnnytown they want a Johnny, but not a Johnny Healey. Healey doesn’t mean anything. It doesn’t say anything about you. You need to either go with the flow or wind up a schmo.”

“I’ll think about it Mr. Platinum. I’ll definitely think about it.”

“You can call me Johnny. But don’t think about it too long. After tomorrow I may have changed my mind. There are a lot of bands out there.”

Martha whispered to her brother, “Just do it. Johnny’s your middle name anyway. That part should be easy for you, and you’re real name will still be Bobby Healey.”

Bobby sighed.

“Okay. You can call me Johnny Scales.”

“Good,” said Johnny Platinum. “We’re all simpatico. Let’s have a drink to celebrate.” He invited the band to sit at the table. Johnny Swansong signaled the waitresses to accommodate them. When all had a glass of something alcoholic in their hands, Johnny Platinum raised his in a toast.

“To the next big thing in Johnnytown. Johnny and the Floaters.”

He drained his glass, then added, “and after Johnnytown, who knows? The sky’s the limit… with a change or two.”

I had to agree. 

God Doesn’t Believe In Me

God doesn’t believe in me. It’s a real problem. I’ve met Him like three times, and each time He just covers His face with His Hands and starts singing “la la la” really loudly whenever I try talking. 

I’m told by mutual friends that soon as I leave the room, God always starts ranting about how there’s no actual proof that Marshall Greenbaum actually exists. He’ll go on about how I’m just a myth invented a long time ago by people who felt like the need to convince themselves that there was yet another twenty-nine year old hipster in Brooklyn. He’ll poke holes in my existence, like wondering how it is that I pay rent on my nice Williamsburg apartment when my only source of income is a barista job, or why it is that I supposedly graduated from Sarah Lawrence yet still repeatedly refer to Yonkers as upstate New York. 

I always thought He was a bit of a self-important asshole, so I didn’t mind too much at first. But a few days ago my doctor spotted an inoperable tumor the size of a golf ball sitting on my cerebral cortex, and for the first time in my life I actually felt glad that I ran in the same social circles as God. I’m lucky that God never misses one of Kayla’s parties. 

He’s over in the corner of the party, talking to some cute gothy girl with blue streaks in her hair. He’s leaning in close to her as He talks so that He can be heard over the Tame Impala song blasting on the speakers, but I think it’s just an excuse to see if she minds Him invading her personal space. She doesn’t. 

The girl bends over when she realizes that the laces of one of her Dr. Marten boots have come undone. God doesn’t bother hiding that He’s staring down at the cleavage poking out of her black crop top as she ties the lace, and He doesn’t even notice the edge of His long white beard plop into his beer-filled solo cup as He does so. God is kind of a dog. 

There’s a pause in their conversation as the goth girl ties and God oggles, so I figure now is a good time to approach Him. If He goes home with her, then I’m done for the night. I weave my way through the party, giving polite nods to friends I pass, and approach God and the girl. She finishes tying her shoe as I reach them. 

“So, as I was saying, I really don’t like this era of Tame Impala very much,” drones God as the girl rises back up. “Lonerism and Innerspeaker were both masterpieces of modern psychedelia, but they really sold out with Currents. And don’t even get Me started on The Slow…”

“Hi God,” I interrupt as I approach them. 

God turns to look at me, and His eyes grow wide. Then He covers His eyes with His hands, allowing His solo cup to drop onto the floor and spill Goose Island IPA all over Kayla’s carpet.

“God, I have a favor to ask,” I begin. “The other day my doctor…”

“La, la, la” sings God monochromatically. 

“My doctor said,” I continue, raising my voice to now compete with both God’s signing and Kevin Parker’s. “That there’s a tumor growing…”

“La, la, la, la!” sings God with increased intensity. “La, la, la, la, la!” 

His singing has begun taking on the melody of “Eleanor Rigby”, and I wonder if He has noticed. 

“What the fuck is happening?” asks the goth girl. 

“La, la, la!” sings God. 

I step forward and grab God’s wrists, clutching them by the edges of His white robe. I tug His hands off His eyes, forcing God to look me in the face. 

“La, la, la, la!” sings God, His voice growing shrill but still carrying the tune of “Eleanor Rigby”, albeit now in a higher octave. 

“Just shut up and listen to me,” I yell at God. “There’s a tumor growing on my brain, and You’re the only one who can save my life!”

God abruptly stops singing. For the first time ever, He stares right at me with His big dark eyes and really takes me in. 

“I can’t save you, Marshall,” says God in a calm, steady voice. “Because you’re not real. So there’s nothing to save, you see?”

“But I am real,” I insist to God. “Look at me, I’m right here.” 

“I’m just going to let you guys figure this one out,” interjects the goth girl as she inches away from us. 

“Cassie, wait,” God calls after her. “Let Me get your number!” 

Cassie continues walking away from us until she is swallowed up by the party around us, dissolving into the crowd. God turns back to me and glares. 

“Way to ruin that for Me, dude,” grumbles God. “We were totally going to boink.” 

“Sorry,” I mutter. 

I’d usually feel bad about cockblocking some dude, but I had bigger concerns at the moment than whether or not God got His rocks off. 

“I haven’t gotten a piece of goth ass that nice since Mary Shelley,” He carped. “And then nearly two-hundred years later it looks like I’m finally going to get to revisit the peak of My sexual existence, and it only takes Marshall Greenbaum two minutes to completely blow it for Me.” 

A thought blooms in my brain. 

“If I’m not real, then how could I have ruined that for you?” I argue.

“People who aren’t real ruin things all the time,” shrugs God. “Holden Caulfield is fictional, and he’s the reason John Lennon is dead. And, come to think of it, John Lennon is the reason Sharon Tate is dead. I wonder if that’s connected somehow.” 

“Okay, you’ve got me there,” I admit. “But You can’t have a conversation with Holden Caulfield, except by reading some scribbles made by a man who died over a decade ago. You’re talking to me right in the flesh. How do You explain that?” 

“You’re talking to Me right now in the flesh, and there’s plenty of people who don’t believe in Me,” says God. “I’ve met Richard Dawkins like three times, and each time he just covers his face with his hands and starts singing ‘la la la’ really loudly whenever I try talking. It’s a real problem.” 

I stare at God, dumbfounded.

“Do you really not see the irony in that?”

“How do you mean?” asks God, cocking a bushy white eyebrow. 

“That’s exactly what You do to me!” I exclaim. 

“No it isn’t,” says God dismissively as He shakes His head. 

God’s eyes widen. 

“Oh My Me,” whispers God. “You’re right, I do do that.”

“Yes, exactly,” I say. “See, I am real! Now, please cure my cancer.” 

“What if Richard Dawkins is right,” murmurs God as He vacantly stares off into the distance. “What if I’m not real?” 

The color has drained from God’s face and He trembles as He speaks. 

“What if I’m not real,” He repeats. 

“Hey God, I think You’re drawing literally the opposite conclusion from what I was going for,” I say. “I’m trying to prove that I am real, not that You’re not. You see what I mean?” 

“I’m not real at all, am I?” says God. “I’m just a figment of humanity’s imagination.”

“Of course You’re real,” I argue. “I’m talking to You right now. Just like You’re talking to me. We’re both real, see?”

God leans against the wall and collapses His face into Hands. He murmurs something to Himself, but whatever it is muffled by His palms. But I can more or less guess the gist of what He’s saying. 

“Come on, God. You’re messing with me,” I say. “There’s no way that You’re concept of self is so fragile. You’re God, for fuck’s sake.” 

God collapses onto the floor and hugs His robed knees close to His chest.

“I’m not real!” screams God. “I’m not real, I’m not real, I’m not real!” 

As God repeats those words, He begins to fade away. 

“I’m not real!” declares God one last time. 

Then He winks away into nothing at all. 

“Did I just kill God?” I say aloud to no one in particular. 

Around me, the universe begins to shake.

Kelp

The summer I collected kelp was the longest summer of my life (unless you consulted a calendar). I was living in a flop house and working at a clam shack by the vast, vast, vast (salty) Atlantic in South Kingstown, Rhode Island and on my day off I would walk along the shore, collecting kelp in a Hefty bag. The beaches were a goldmine, as long as you coveted kelp. I had lines of jump-rope hanging across my room and I draped the strips of kelp over the ropes. I heard somewhere you could make kelp lasagna but I never tried that. I did not eat the kelp. I just needed it around. I was a seeker.

I left the windows open and along with the kelp, I began to collect flies. You should’ve seen them— hundreds of little black bacteria bugs sucking on all those drying, stinking strands of kelp. The smell reminded me of my Aunt Edie without the minty snap of Wrigley’s spearmint. It was like having a tide pool right there beside my bed. It informed my dreams like sea shanties from doomed sailors. I got the message. Soft and clear. The flies never got annoying, I honestly loved the little buggers, but eventually my neighbors began to complain about them and the rotten sea-smell wafting into the hall. They worried about corpses, like I was a serial killer or somesuch thing. My tenuous tenancy at the house grew controversial. I kept to my kelp. The buzzing of the flies spoke to me in the middle of the night like radio waves tripping off my fillings (tooth decay is the bane of my existence). The language of the flies was transmitted in a long staccato drone. Zzzzt…zzzzt…zzzzt… The buzzes amounted to endless Zen questions, “………….?”

“……………?”

“……….?”

The answers came in abrupt, declarative buzzes:

“……..!”

The flies led to cryptically silent maggots, of course, and they squirmed even more fundamental questions. There they were, scattered on the floor like wriggling rice, uttering the unutterable, ineffable truths that rightly belonged to the cosmic dance of the planets.

The orbits of the flies were spiral galaxies and I watched them like moving maps of the vast, vast, vast universe.

I was also smoking a fair amount of dope at the time.

I continued to collect and drape seaweed until September when I abruptly stopped.

I had my answers. I moved on.

I left the kelp for the next guy.

*

From: Everything Dissolves

A CHURCH SERVICE FOR ONE

I would like to go to a church and pray on my knees in an empty sanctuary.

Then I would get up and sing along with “The First time Ever I Saw Your Face” by Roberta Flack on my phone as the worship service.

I would light a cigarette in there as my incense then I would preach a sermon about how I should give up smoking.

I would say something to God like I miss you and look at the stained glass that looks like it is made of blood and think about all the prayers uttered in this building and what they all might have meant to the Lord.

I would hock up all of my phlegm in a gold offering plate and leave a couple bucks in another.

Snoozing in the pew with my cat I would adjust my blanket so that I was completely covered and count lost sheep being found by their shepherd.

I would not be afraid of being profane in this holy sanctuary.

God knows how bad it’s been and I’m here to flush out the toxins.

I would take communion with a bun from a Whopper and a Coke, baptize my forehead with the sweat on my Burger King cup and I would cross myself as I exited and breathe an easier breath than when I came in.

SHAVED AND WAXED

I was thinking of taking my Craig’s List ad down early when she answered.

Honestly, I hadn’t expected to find anyone on Craig’s List who would shave and wax my asshole for five bucks, let alone a dental hygienist. I mean, you couldn’t find a six-pack of Schlitz beer for under eight.

I sat around until about seven that evening, and then I couldn’t take it anymore. I emailed her.

“You’re cheap,” I said. 

She answered right back. 

She said, “Some people aren’t in it for the money.”

She asked when was good for me.

I said three o’clock Friday.

She said seven was better for her. 

And maybe she was right. Meemaw would be napping in the basement at three o’clock. If we skipped her nap, I could get her in bed by six and we’d have the whole evening. 

Seven o’clock it was.

I ate breakfast at Denny’s all week long to bide my time. High stacks and poached eggs. The Denny’s booths were smooth hard plastic. I told myself they’d probably feel a whole lot smoother once I got my ass waxed. 

Thursday came and I had second thoughts. What if meemaw woke up early and wandered upstairs and found me facedown on the ironing board with a mysterious female applying coconut oil to my asssflap? Congenital heart disease ran in the family. Meemaw might have a fit. If she did, it wasn’t technically my fault, but I’d still have to explain it to the judge. 

Come Friday I made sure meemaw was in bed by six with a box of Queen Anne cordials and the HSN on full volume. She was sawing wood by six-fifteen. I gave it another fifteen minutes and cleared a space on the living room floor. 

I got down a few back issues of People Magazine. I put out a cup of tea and some pillows and a tin of ass wax I’d ordered from a third-party seller on Amazon.

It was ten past when she finally got there. She’d come with a little guy who called himself Durant. Durant claimed to be her assistant. I still didn’t know her name.

Durant said, “Hey, I know you.”

I got this a lot.

I said, “I used to wrestle. Semi-pro.”

“Holy shit,” Durant said. “Earl ‘The Pedestrian’ Wilmer. You’ve lost weight.” 

Durant said to the lady who was going to wax my ass, “Pam, Earl used to walk around in circles before jumping on law-abiding, tax-paying wrestlers from behind.” 

Then he turned to me and said, “I’m sorry, Earl.”

Before I could ask sorry for what, Durant smacked me in the head with one of meemaw’s vases. He was fast. I hadn’t seen it coming. But it wasn’t enough.

Durant tried picking up the sofa. It wouldn’t budge. He went for the fire poker, but I got to him first. I put the sleeper choke on Durant. Durant wouldn’t go down.

Durant said, “You’ve got to do better than that, Pedestrian.”

“I didn’t do anything to you yet,” I said.

He tried to worm his way out, so I rabbit-punched Durant in the ear and he sort of slumped over into my arms and began to slobber.

Pam screamed: “You killed him!”

“I didn’t hardly hit him,” I said. “And you’ve got to be quiet.”

“You did. You killed him. He’s not breathing.”

It was true. Durant wasn’t breathing.

I said, “You came over here to rob me.”

“It was Durant’s idea,” Pam said.

“Do you even know how to wax assholes?” I said.

“Durant does,” Pam said.

We stood around not saying anything for a minute or two and then I said, “You better get him out of here.”

“I’m not touching shit,” Pam said.

“You better,” I said.

“Or what? Are you going to kill me too?”

Probably, I wasn’t. I’d never really even knocked another man out. Durant was the first, but I’d killed him. So you never knew.

“Is he your boyfriend?” I said.

“What’s it to you?” Pam said.

“Nothing. But if you want, you can dump him in back of the Safeway on Tedeschi Street. There’s no cameras back there. Either that or I call the law.”

Pam began to cry.

I said, “Grab his feet.”

When I got back inside, meemaw was stirring in the basement. She wasn’t a big woman, but she wasn’t quiet on her feet either.

I made meemaw a plate of Oreo cookies and a glass of milk and set them both down on the dining table. 

Meemaw ate two Oreos before her eyes started to move about the living room. I knew that vase was special for her. Grandpa had brought it back from China on a selling trip.

“You broke the vase.”

“Yes, meemaw.”

“You little fucking shit.”

When meemaw went back down to the basement, I drove out to the Safeway on Tedeschi Street. I didn’t see Durant by the dumpsters. 

I went inside and bought a compact mirror and a waterproof razor and a bottle of Nair hair remover. I got a six-pack of Schlitz beer out of the cooler, and I was wrong.

The Schlitz was four ninety-nine and it wasn’t even on sale. 

A Conversation About Loud Orgasms

“You know, about two days into my freshman year of college it was brought to my attention that I’m an incredibly loud orgasmer.”

“Like, what, you moan?”

“More like scream.”

“Christ. Who told you?”

“The kids in my dorm.”

“Oof.”

“They started calling me Scream Queen. At first I thought they knew about the vocal showcase series I put on YouTube in high school.”

“That would have been better, somehow.”

“I know.”

“But how didn’t you know? About the loud cumming, I mean.”

“I don’t know. I don’t feel like it’s loud. I guess I just get swept up in the moment. Like when you yell at the TV during the Knicks game.”

“Woah now. That’s different. I’m in full control of what comes out of my mouth.”

“Your neighbor almost had you evicted last year, the things you said were so vile.”

“Okay maybe now and then I lose my cool.”

“But that’s just what I mean. You can relate, sort of.”

“Okay, sure.”

“And you know what the worst part is? No one in my family ever said anything to me about it.”

“Figures. That would be quite the uncomfortable conversation.”

“More uncomfortable than listening to me scream my way to climax for, what, like five years before I went off to college?”

“No, not that uncomfortable. You’re right.”

“I didn’t know how to face my parents when I got home from school. I swear my mom sat me at the end of the Thanksgiving table so no one would have to use a serving spoon after me.”

“That seems passive-aggressive.”

“Yeah so anyway I drank a lot at Thanksgiving that year, you know?”

“Naturally.”

“I was kind of…well I guess the best word would be ‘distraught.’ I was distraught. I didn’t want to talk to anyone about anything, so I binged red wine in silence at the end of the table, separated from the adults by all the little cousins.”

“You don’t have the youngest sit down at the end?”

“I think the rule of thumb is that the table is seated from most desirable to eat with to least desirable to eat with. So that leaves the high-decibel masturbator in the caboose.”

“That seems to make some sense, on the surface.”

“Yeah well after all the guests had gone home I didn’t think it made much sense at all and was quite frankly furious that my parents had let this go on for so long–my loud orgasming, I mean.”

“Yeah, I got it.”

“So I downed maybe another glass or two of wine quite quickly and staggered up the stairs to my room. I was alone, drunk, angry, upset, and the lights were off. Needless to say, this all made me incredibly horny. So I waited until all was quiet in the kitchen and went at myself. I knew my parents could hear me and I wanted them to. I wanted my screams to haunt their minds. I know that’s kind of fucked but I was angry and as I said quite drunk. And it’s not like it was anything new–they’d heard me violate myself god knows how many times before.

“But this particular time I was quite savage with myself. Borderline self-abusive. Assaulting my crotch like some shit you’d find on a controversial porn site. Every ounce of energy and anger went right between my legs. I screamed, of course. I think I started crying too.”

“Sounds pretty intense, all that.”

“You can’t even imagine, I wouldn’t think. So I’m screaming, tears running down my face, body tensed so tight I can feel blood rushing to my eyes, and my dad kicks in the door. Literally kicks the latch right through the doorframe. It wasn’t even locked. Wood splinters rain down in front of my dad as he cocks a fucking shotgun and flips the light on with his front hand. He’d thought I was being murdered or something, but there I am, lying alone on top of my bedspread, my right hand entirely inside of myself and my left slowing like an abruptly unplugged chainsaw.”

“That’s some strong imagery, the chainsaw thing. What did he say, your dad?”

“Nothing. He just stood there shocked in the busted doorframe, shotgun still cocked and raised. I was certain he was about to shoot either me or himself, understandably. But he eventually turned back into the hall and shut the door, as best as it could be shut. We’ve never talked about any of it. I still sit at the far end of the dinner table.”

Always The Cult’s Bridesmaid, Never The Cult’s Bride

The first time I feel your touch, it’s as if heaven has graced me. My head is bowed. I am dressed in the robes of the lamb. I’m on my knees, in the church knave, praying.

You stand before me, and I feel your hand on my head. I’m so happy I begin to well up. Your touch only lasts a second before you move on, but in that moment, I know I’m closer to god. I feel divinity.

When you walk away, the deacons are on me. They grab my arms and pull me to my feet. I see you walking among the kneeling flock. I see you touch other women; two…three…four maidens. They are young and beautiful, like me, and the deacons seize them by the arms as well. They don’t need to. We would follow you through burning cinders. But as I take a step, I find my knees are shaking. The deacons keep me steady, and I’m grateful.

The flock continues to chant the Eternal Harmony. We lucky maidens are escorted out of the nave, through the chancel, and into a narrow hallway behind your holy altar. My breath catches when I realize the honor we are to be given. Two of the maidens swoon, nearly falling, when they see what lies ahead.

The deacons are taking us to your private sanctum.

The corridor to your sanctum is old, made of time-worn stone. Coal braziers burn on either side of your door, and we’re made to stand before the flames.

“Strip” We are told.

We do so. Willingly. Quickly. The deacons receive our clothes, our belongings, which are tossed onto the braziers. The heat washes over us as our earthly possessions are consumed, and the smiles on our faces are serene. At least, I am serene, until I see that Cathryn has arrived with the deacons…as the fifth maiden. And my smile withers.

Maidens are chosen for elegance, grace, and devotion. But I know Cathryn was chosen because it’s an affront to god to hide her body behind clothes. Her hair is swirled honey. Her curves are generous and sweet. Her gaze is sharp as she looks at us—the lesser maidens—and her smile becomes condescension.

The deacons bring four black veils to cover our faces, and one white veil, for the bride. Cathryn doesn’t act surprised when the deacons adorn her wrists, ankles, and neck with gold cord, and lower the short white veil over her face. Cathryn walks, pert, and proudly clad in firelight, to your door. And I fucking hate her.

When you open the sanctum, you’ve changed as well. You’ve abandoned your robes and you stand, breathtakingly naked, with the Elder Helm covering your face. The black marble visage of the first god contrasts with your taut muscles, your erect cock, and your hard eyes. You look like you’re ready to punish the unworthy. I quiver, imagining what form your punishments might take…

But tonight you have eyes only for Cathryn. Despite our collective feminine nakedness, your gaze never leaves her. I feel myself and the other maidens shrink, as you take Cathryn’s wrist, and lead us into the sanctum.

A massive bed with rosewood posts sits surrounded by candles. You take Cathryn and lay her on the bed, and she writhes, slowly, on silk sheets. We four maidens in our black veils stand, confused, until you point to us, indicating that we should kneel. When I hesitate, you grab the back of my neck roughly and force me down at the bedside.

You take my hands and press them together, then you hold my head down, and your cock is so close to my face I can feel its warmth. The other maidens kneel at the corners as well, and I’m a little girl again, praying at Father’s bedside.

You crawl across the bed and pull Cathryn, gasping, to her knees. Near the foot of the bed is an altar of stone with a velvet-covered book. You slap Cathryn’s ass so hard it makes the other maidens flinch, and Cathryn cries out. Then you press your palm to her back, forcing her down on all fours, which puts her face level with the book.

“Pray.” You tell us. And we begin the Eternal Harmony.

I mumble the chant until I hear Cathryn’s cries as you enter her. She is in instant ecstasy, bouncing as you plunge in and out of her, and I hate her. I hate that even with the mask, I can see how much you’re enjoying her body. I hate how powerful Cathryn looks, taking your cock in wild thrusts. I hate how pretty she is, pink and flushing. I even hate that I care so much; that Cathryn’s existence diminishes mine.

I watch through the dark veil as Cathryn bounces on your cock, pushing against you like a good bridal slut, and the candles begin to flicker and wink out. Around the bed, the circle darkens, and you slap Cathryn again, and again, turning her ass dark red in the shadows.

“The book,” You growl. “Open it.”

Cathryn, in rapture, reaches a shaking hand for the book. My voice falters, but the other maidens keep chanting.

A gust ripples the sheets and extinguishes candles. Shadows fall over the sanctum. Cathryn is pale and sweaty in the dying light, and you look like a marble carving of the First Man—your pelvis slapping against her ass.

Cathryn removes the black velvet from the book and opens the cover, leafing through it. She acts coy, running a manicured fingernail over the ancient script. She poses for you, looking back over her shoulder, grinning.

That’s when we see it. The dark forces. The arms of the elders. They reach from you, in the night, like ropes of shadow. Like writhing snakes protruding from your shoulders and back. Shades of black that slither around the bedposts, the headboard, and around Cathryn. We maidens see it through our veils, but Cathryn does not.

The shadow tentacles curl around Cathryn’s thighs, around her stomach, and between her breasts. The maidens have all stopped chanting. We are struck silent, witnessing a miracle, a curse, as the shadows envelope her.

When the darkness closes around her throat, she doesn’t choke. Not quite. Instead, she draws in a long, shuddering breath, her fingers and toes curl, and her eyes go wide. People refer to the air as nothing. But to breathe nothing, to fill your lungs with nothing, is truly horrifying.

You growl and bury yourself in Cathryn as she begins to thrash, hovering in the clutches of the shadows. Her eyes go white. Not rolling into the back of her head. They turn true white, as if the elder god has taken her sight. She claws at her face with her manicured nails, leaving long scratches that weep blood.

You huff and grunt behind the mask, and I can tell you’re close. Your hands dig into Cathryn’s hips. Your cock, hammering, makes her toned flesh bounce. She screams, and her horror is swallowed by the black void that has entangled her.

I hear your laughter, booming, as you spend your seed inside Cathryn, and her limbs begin to shudder.

I reach down with one hand, very slowly, and I finger myself, as I watch Cathryn being taken by forces dark and powerful and ancient.

***

It’s past midnight when we are driven home by the deacons. Cathryn is taken first to the hospital, but we all know where she’ll end up before the week is out…

Ivy Hills Crematorium is less than ten miles from the church. Sometimes, I think there’s providence in that. Or just prudent planning.

The deacons warn us not to speak about anything we’ve seen. We’re told to stay faithful. And to keep our bodies pure, and ready, for your touch. I don’t need to be told. I know exactly what, and who, my body is for. You’ll need a new bride, now that Cathryn is gone.

Over the course of a week, I visit with the three remaining maidens. They are giddy and frightened and elated and reverent in turns. They are torn between their attraction to your power, and their fear of the thing we saw reaching through you. I nod in agreement with them, and I humor their nattering. After our visits I leave each of them with a pledge; that no matter what happens, we’ll all stay friends. A pinkie-promise, like sisters, to remain devoted to each other.

I smile. I nod. I make promises. And every maiden suffers a terrible accident after our visit.

Every maiden…except me.

The deacons are furious when they pick me up on Sunday, but they aren’t surprised. Maiden Cynthia took a nasty spill on the stairs, which sent her to the hospital. Maiden Terry drank bad wine. Maiden Sara has gone missing, although her car is in the garage.

And that leaves me, your only bride, by the time Sunday services have ended.

Your sermon goes on for hours. You preach hellfire and damnation, eternities and infinities. You are powerful. Eloquent. Emotional. Evocative. I touch myself, frequently, throughout your sermon. I make sure you see it, too, and you lick your lips as the service comes to an end.

The deacons select new maidens from the flock. They are young, bright-eyed, and beautiful. They swoon when you touch their heads, and they are escorted by the deacons. I follow with a deacon at each elbow, but I move with purpose.

The new maidens are stripped before the sanctum, and the fire reveals their awe. I disrobe as I walk, and I toss my things on the crackling brazier. The deacons give the maidens their black veils. For me, I take the white, and gold cords are placed around my ankles, wrists, and neck.

I wait before your sanctum, naked, and eager, while the maidens titter behind me. I feel poised and polished until you open the door. When I see you, I am undone.

You are naked, save for the black marble mask, and an erection that looks like it could pierce plate aluminum. Your cock is so beautiful, so perfect, that I’m tempted to fall to my knees and worship it now. You see my gaze, my fixation, and you grin.

I hold my arm up, expecting you to take me by the wrist, but you don’t.

Instead, you walk around me. Inspecting me, and the other maidens, like a breeder inspecting livestock he might purchase. You linger on the new girls—getting close enough to sniff their hair, check the color of their eyes, and at one point, brush your cock across one of their asses.

Finally, you come to me. You stand in front of me, your erection aimed at my abdomen, and I see your eyes glimmer behind the mask. You sigh, loudly, and you make a show of seizing my wrist. You pull me along toward the four-posted bed, and I am smiling, despite my frustration.

You guide me to the bed where I’m to prostrate myself, and you instruct the maidens to kneel at the bedside and begin their prayers. Then you crawl over the silk to join me, and you find me laying on my belly, ankles crossed in the air, like a teenager on the telephone. I glance over my shoulder, and I watch you.

I am not smiling. I am not coy. This is not a game to me, like it was for Cathryn. She was given something that you are withholding, and this is my tiny, rebellious way of demanding the same treatment. The same…cruelty.

You register my little act of defiance, and you respond with the appropriate paternal instruction. You scoop me up, lay me across your lap, and you spank me like a petulant child.

Your night with Cathryn was special. You reached into the ancient, the forbidden, and part of that, I’m sure, hinged upon the pain you inflicted on her. Thus, I should be given the same pain before we start. Or so my logic holds. However, when you begin to strike me, I realize I may have been too free in my invitation.

You treat me like a child, but you don’t spank me like one.

Your hand is calloused and hard, and your arms are corded. Your first volly makes my ass glow red and brings tears to my eyes. The next ten drive the breath from me. I fall fully across your lap, and your erection presses hard into my belly.

I wriggle. I cry. I beg. I lose count after twenty slaps, so I start counting again in my head, and I lose track after another twenty. So much time passes, and you are so thorough in your beating, that my entire backside is hot, pulsing pain by the time you’re done. I’ve soaked your sheets in tears, and I have left your legs wet where I wriggled across your lap.

Just when I’m able to stifle my sobs, you haul me up on hands and knees, like Cathryn, and I feel the head of your cock resting between my cunt lips. That’s when you ask me;

“Are you ready, child?”

I don’t trust my voice, so I nod.

I think back on how wanton, how shameless, Cathryn acted when you took her. Her screams, her ecstasy…I thought it was an act.

When you enter me, and I feel myself stretching to accommodate you, I know it was no act.

It isn’t the bestial way you move. It isn’t the power you wield. Or the hardness of your body, or your cock.

It’s your spirit.

You thrust into me with an eagerness that speaks of joy and desperation. You take me, claim me, as one who is hanging from the cliff of mortality, and I am the fruit you pluck before you fall.

I’ve already screamed my voice hoarse during your spanking. Now my cries of lust are throaty, and I embarrass myself with little yelps as our flesh slaps together and I feel your cock filling me. I clench, and I wriggle, and I instinctively crawl away, but you pull me back. You always pull me back, like a compass coming to true. My legs begin to shake and my arms buckle, and you let me fall into the mattress, eyes and mouth wide, while you hold my hips and bury yourself in me.

Then you say the words that I’ve been imagining all week. The words I’ve obsessed over since I saw the shadows. But I’m so deep in my shameless lust, you have to repeat yourself before my mind can surface.

“The book.” You say. “Open it.”

I reach for the altar at the foot of the bed, and I peel back the black velvet. Underneath is a book of simple calf-skin binding, with uniform yellowed pages. I open the book to the inside cover, and I moan as I feel you slowing your pace. You’re close to coming. I can feel you’re close, and you’re breathing heavier than when you fucked Cathryn. That, more than anything, makes me smile as I look at the ancient pages.

The words are written in neat columns, but they are in no language that I recognize. Indeed, I don’t know that anyone on earth could recognize them. But they speak to me, nonetheless. As you fuck me, I see a story—the oldest story—shaping in my mind…in our minds. An interplay of light and dark. A dance of entropy and creation. The coupling of primal man and first woman. I see creation. I see pregnant eternity. And I feel the friction, and the war of power, within me right now. Within the pleasure, and the seed, of your vigorous fucking.

Unlike Cathryn, I see the shadows that emerge from you when the candles go dark. I see the shades of the god; the ancient one who derives its pleasure through you, as you take your pleasure from me.

Also unlike Cathryn, I embrace both man, and darkness.

I moan, and I wriggle, in the grip of those shadows. I spread my legs for them. I welcome them. I breathe it in, and the void fills my throat. I open myself, and they enter my every hole, lifting me high above the bed, weightless and twitching, as you plunge into me again and again.

I can’t breathe…can’t think. I am reduced to a vessel for your greed, and I shudder on the edge of blissful, orgasmic unconsciousness. You caress and squeeze and nibble my flesh, rapacious, and I hear you grunting as you approach the precipice. I am soft and warm and floating before you. And you unleash yourself into me, cumming, as I wriggle helpless on your cock, suspended by night given form…for your pleasure.

And that is when I lose myself. I cum, at the edge of sanity, desperate for air. I quake and shiver until I see stars. I shake and gasp until white pinpoints appear in my vision…except the stars never leave my eyes. They dance above the bed, as if my pleasure has summoned the cosmos above your sanctuary.

The roar in my head, and the fire in my loins, is slow to ebb. But ebb it does. And as you pull out of me, the darkness withdraws. Coils of shadow fall away from me, like unbound ropes, and they disappear, back into the doorway that is you.

You remove the black marble mask, and you look confused. Sated. Pleased. But confused.

“How?” You ask.

“I accept you, and I accept it.” I smile. “And it might have helped if any of your idiot brides bothered to read the first page.”

THE DAY THE WORDS DIED

The city was hot like a burnt out cast iron frying pan. My sweat was dripping all over everything; I was cranky, homicidal with rage, and completely confused about my place in the world. All in all, a normal start to the day.

I had some projects lurking in my mind that I wanted to work out, so I flipped open my laptop to find that all the symbols on the keyboard had vanished; all the buttons were blank; I tried pressing them, but nothing happened. I have to say, I was really fucking creeped out. 

Stunned, frozen and drooling, I sat in awe with a subtle reactionary atrophy. I shook off my amazement and wondered if this bizarre phenomenon wasn’t just contained to my computer. Beside me was my journal; one that I’ve been keeping for about five months, more of a workbook/sketch pad, used to quickly get down ideas before they left my mind. Yesterday it was almost full up; today it was completely blank, the pages were all ruffled and creased like they’d been used, only nothing was on them, not a pen or pencil mark, just blank white pages. 

I’ve suffered through mental illness all my life, but it’s never evinced this kind of fuckery before. I went over to check my meds; sometimes I get confused and take the wrong ones. The meds were there but the stickers were all blank; this was turning into something I didn’t think I could fucking handle. I went to my books; they were all blank, covers and all; my cleaning supplies, blank, no words anywhere; my rulers, my calculator, no numbers. I went frantically through my boxes of old letters and tax returns; no words anywhere, Jesus-Fuck, what the hell was happening? I picked up the phone hoping to get some answers, or at least someone with the same questions I had, but again, no numbers, no numbers recorded, FUCK! 

I sat down, smoked a joint, and tried to gather myself and put this, whatever it was, into some sort of perspective. The television, nothing but static, the radio was the same; even the labels on my underwear were blank; this wasn’t going to put itself into any goddamn perspective at all, this was demonic voodoo fuckery in its truest form.

The next step would have to be clarification; was the rest of the world experiencing this clusterfuck as well? Or had I finally lost whatever was left of my mind? I hadn’t been out in weeks; clinically, it was agoraphobia, but actually, it was my distaste for people of all sizes and shapes; generally, I just hated people.

I was on the seventh floor; the top floor, kind of a ghetto penthouse with leaky everything; I had a great view of the courtyard and the neighborhood, I saw no one at all, no one standing on their balconies as I was, no one on the streets, no sounds of cars or screaming maniacs, which was a normal in this section of the city, but not one goddamn fucking soul. 

As terrified as I was, I’d have to get outside and check out the scene from ground level. I didn’t have much in the way of survival gear, but I loaded up what I could. I strapped on every knife I could find, loaded a bag full of cherry coke and leftover pizza from three days ago; I took my one flashlight and a twenty pack of batteries, which was useless really; it was daytime and the flashlight only took one battery at a time, but I was new at this sort of apocalyptic kind of thing and it was better to have and not need, as the saying goes.

I tied a collapsible chair around my shoulder in case I had to sit down and roll a joint; I brought all of my grass, whatever I had for cigarettes, and anything that made fire: lighters, lighter fluid, flints and wicks and matches. I definitely didn’t feel ready but I knew I was never going to, so off I went out my fucking front door.

I didn’t lock up in case I lost my keys along the way, but I did notice that there was no apartment number on the door either, so I left a cherry coke as a marker. Walking towards the elevator I saw that all of the doors were void of any numbers; I tried knocking on a few of them but nobody was answering; this was all just fucked right up.

I made it to the elevator, which had also been robbed of its up and down symbols; however, despite the clusterfuck at hand, I was able to discern that the bottom button meant down, so, I pressed it, and the elevator opened. Inside the elevator was another story; I’d forgotten which button was designated to what floor, so I just pressed my best guess. The doors closed and I felt the mechanical movements; I was on the top floor, so I surmised that I must be going down, but the doors opened onto a floor that wasn’t the lobby, FUCK! 

I pressed the buttons several times and ended up on identical floors; they all were blank of evidence of where the fuck I was; I decided that whatever floor showed up next, I’d get off and start raising hell, banging the fuck out of every door I found. The doors opened once again to some non-designated floor, and I went completely ape-shit, screaming, bouncing off this door and that door, like a wild fucking animal, until I turned a corner, and looked down the hall at a cherry coke tin sitting in front of a door, FUCK! 

I stumbled with my proverbial tail between my legs back to my place; I was fucking exhausted, pissed off and completely dumbfounded; I grabbed the cherry coke and went inside. I plopped down at my desk chair and proceeded to spark up a smoke, but, to my surprise, there was already one burning in the ash tray. Even stranger than that, there was one other thing I didn’t notice when entering.

A goddamn fucking monkey sitting on my fucking bed; the fucker was wearing a tailored suit and fucking about with some sort of mechanical device; it was like a sextant, a compass, about ten scrabble sets, a gyroscope and a bunch of containers of weird liquid got together and gave birth to a very complicated “what the fuck”. He didn’t pay very much attention to my presence, just an occasional glance, checking me out. I really didn’t want to disturb him; he seemed deep in concentration, and I wasn’t all that sure that he was even real.

After a few cigarettes and cherry cokes, the monkey seemed to have adjusted the machine to where he wanted it and turned, seemingly to address me in conversation. He apologized for his silence, as he had to concentrate on the dimensional position of the machine. I tossed him a cherry coke; he explained that the machine had to be in the exact spot it was, in order to function properly in unison with all the other machines placed in other geographical positions. And with that, he excused his uninvited presence and thanked me for the coke.

“What in all living fuck is going on?” This was what I conceived to be the most universally accepted question I could ask. The monkey described that certain places on Earth went through an unexpected multidimensional shift, causing a fracture in time and space; these machines, when all of them are aligned, will connect using sonic waves and hopefully put things back in order. After the explanation my next question was going to be “What in all living fuck is going on?”, but given its repetitive nature, and my conclusion being that I wasn’t going to understand a fucking thing he said, I decided to hold back and just let the fucking monkey do his shit; I offered up another cherry coke.

Activate Anna 

“Son-of-a-bitch!”

Sitting on the toilet lid, Hector winced as he doused the wound with alcohol. His shin looked like somebody had scraped it with a cheese grater. It hurt like hell. But he was accustomed to such pain. Injuries and skateboarding were inseparable. And he had been skating since he was fourteen. 

At forty-six, he was definitely old school. Too old, Monica would say. His ex-girlfriend had given him much grief on the matter—

Put away that toy!

You’re not a teenager anymore! 

Grow up, Hector!

Monica had disapproved of Hector’s job, too. Working at a sex doll factory wasn’t her idea of respectable employment. In tandem with the skating, this had finally proved to be too much. She had dumped him some six weeks ago, packing up her belongings and moving out while he was at work. He hadn’t talked to her since. 

After topping the wound with gauze and several band-aids he went to his tiny kitchen and grabbed a beer from the fridge. He sat on his second-hand sofa and lit a cigarette. The beer was cold and good. 

His board was propped against the wall just inside the door. Hector admired it from afar. Skull Skates deck, Tracker trucks, Rat Bones wheels, the quintessential hardcore, old school set-up. 

He regarded his surroundings. Monica’s things had given the joint a touch of class; without them, the place looked seedy. Empty beer cans, overflowing ashtrays. The current issues of Thrasher and Hustler cluttered the table before him. 

Hector thumbed through the Hustler. Internet porn certainly had its place, but he still preferred print. Old school to the core, he thought—old, outdated tricks to accompany his archaic stroke mags. 

He certainly didn’t miss Monica’s incessant bitching. But the sex . . . damn, he missed fucking her!  She was a stick of dynamite in the sack. And now she was surely balling somebody else, some asshole accountant who played tennis or swatted golf balls on the weekend. What she called a “professional, mature man.” 

Hector admired some hot ginger with freckles, tatts, and big tits. He hadn’t gotten laid in quit a while. He unzipped, pulled out his cock, and spat on it. Then he tugged and jerked and grunted and blew his wad all over the ginger’s big tits. 

***

“Stealing a doll? Are you nuts? That’s crazy talk.” 

“I was expecting a little more support,” Hector said. 

They spoke in hushed tones despite having the break room to themselves. Judd, Hector’s coworker at the factory, took a bite of his liverwurst sandwich. They worked in the warehouse, packing and shipping dolls for the well-heeled consumers who could afford such luxuries. These weren’t cheap, inflatable dolls. Not by a long shot. These were top-of-the-line, ultra-realistic fuck dolls meticulously sculpted by a team of whiz-bang engineers. 

Judd said, “Forget it. You’ll get fired. Maybe even sent to jail.” 

“Only if I get caught.”

“You’ll get caught.”

“Thanks for the confidence.” 

“Hey, man, you asked for my advice. I’m not going to sit here and blow smoke up your ass. Don’t do it. Don’t even think about it.” 

“Easy for you to say. You’ve got a girlfriend, a very fine girlfriend at that. You can tap that ass whenever the mood strikes. In fact, I bet you tapped it last night.” 

“Well, not to brag . . .”

“That’s what I thought. You want to know what I did last night?” 

“Not really.”

“I jerked off to Hustler.” 

“You still use stroke mags?”

“You know me, man. I’m old school.” 

“Go to a bar, pick up a slut.”

“I hate bars.”

“Get a hooker.”

“Fuck that.”

“Well,” Judd said, “I guess you’ll just have to beat your meat.”

Hector sighed wearily. “Working around these dolls all day, it’s really starting to get to me. It wasn’t a problem when Monica and I were together . . .”

“Because you were having regular sex.”

“Exactly.”

“And now you’re not.”

“Yeah,” Hector said, “and it’s just so damned tempting. Day after day, man. I work in a state of perpetual horniness. I want to whip out my cock and fuck a doll right there on the warehouse floor. Those bitches are hot.” 

“I won’t argue with that.” 

“Especially that new model.”

“Anna?” 

“Oh, man. She’s something else.”

“Look, Hector. I hear what you’re saying. You’re going through a rough patch. Monica left you and you’re lonely. But you’ll get over it. This isn’t forever. You’ll meet some hot skater chick and everything will work out.”

“I don’t know . . .”

“Trust me, man.”

“Maybe . . .”

“Just don’t steal a doll.” 

Judd’s words went in one ear and out the other. Hector had already made up his mind. He was going to do it. 

***

Heart hammering with excitement, Hector hauled the large box into his apartment. He closed the door, locked it, and secured the chain. Safely ensconced within his lair, he opened the taped flaps with a pocket knife, finally digging into the packing peanuts where he struck gold—

Anna! 

A week had passed since his conversation with Judd. Good thing he hadn’t listened to his coworker. Otherwise, he wouldn’t be the proud owner of the Ferrari of sex dolls. And that just wouldn’t do. 

Hector placed her on the sofa. He actually gasped at the spectacle. Anna was a goddess. Supermodel slender with boyishly cut brunette hair, firm little B-cup tits, and the tightest apple ass imaginable. 

Hector’s cock stirred. He couldn’t wait. 

He shucked his clothes with much haste. Then he spat in his hand and lubed his prick, priming himself for the fuck of the century. He grabbed her ankles and pushed her legs back, opening her cunt for a deep, penetrative reaming. 

Hector mounted. 

Everything he had heard was correct; the countless glowing testimonials from satisfied customers were instantly verified. Anna’s pussy felt amazing; its silky folds and contours enveloped his shaft, eliciting a moan as Hector rammed it home. 

It was surreal. He had worked with these dolls for years, carefully packing them into boxes. And now he was fucking one, the best of the best.  Anna! And she belonged to him. He could have her again and again, later tonight, tomorrow morning, tomorrow night, whenever he wanted.

Anna would always be in the mood. 

Anna wouldn’t say no. 

Anna wouldn’t criticize him for skateboarding, wouldn’t badmouth his job, wouldn’t try to turn him into somebody he didn’t want to be . . .

Hector tried to slow his thrusts, but it was no use. Face contorted with ecstasy, he shot a massive load, filling Anna’s tight pussy with rope after rope after rope . . .

***

“Run that by me again?”

“Did I stutter?”

They were sitting in Judd’s car in the employee parking lot, talking and smoking cigarettes on their morning break. 

“I did it,” Hector said with pride. “I took my very own Anna right under their noses. It was a cinch, man.” 

“When?”

“A few days ago, right after you clocked out. That big shipment out on the loading dock. Well, I was waiting on UPS, but the driver was running late. Everybody had gone home for the day, so I went for it. I backed my car in, tossed her in the trunk, and that was that. The driver showed up a few minutes later. Bad ass, huh?”

“Bad idea, Hector. These things are made to order. What happens when the paying customer doesn’t receive his doll?” 

“He calls, complains, and we play dumb.” 

“You’ve got it all figured out, huh?” 

“It’s no big deal. Nothing’s going to happen.” 

“What about the camera on the loading dock? Did you think about that? They’ll check the footage. They’ll see you heisting the goods . . .”

“I doubt it. I mean, it’s not like there was a break-in at the factory. They have those cameras for the cops, man. They won’t call the cops. 

“I don’t know . . .”

“Besides,” Hector said, “shit gets lost in the mail all the time.” 

“Yeah, shit gets lost in the mail. Small shit. This isn’t a goddamned paperback novel from Amazon. This is a six-thousand dollar sex doll. You can count on a thorough investigation.” 

“I’m telling you, man, everything will be cool. The UPS man, dude. It’s his fuckup, not mine.” 

“That’s your story?”

“That’s my story,” Hector said, “and I’m sticking to it.”

***

Days, weeks, months . . . . 

Hector settled into a nice routine: work, skating, fucking Anna. His shin healed nicely. He forgot all about Monica. Most importantly, nothing had been said about the missing doll. It was as if the incident had never even happened. Hector was the victor. He had rolled the dice and won in a big way. At least, that’s what he thought. 

Until the big boss summoned him to his office. 

***

Mr. Harvey Goldstein, the big boss, sat behind his desk. His was an opulent office befitting a man of his professional stature: cherry wood walls, exotic fish aquarium, and a stunning view of the cityscape. 

Dressed in his dirty work coveralls, Hector felt awfully out of place, as if his presence were steadily contaminating the room. He sat on the other side of the desk. He was nervous, yet tried not to show it. Play dumb, he thought. Admit nothing. Stick to your story and never waver . . . 

“Hector,” Goldstein said, “do you know why I called you in today?”

“No, sir,” Hector said. “I hope nothing’s wrong.” 

“Unfortunately, something is wrong.”

Hector didn’t say anything. 

“A doll is missing.”

“Missing?”

“That’s right. One of our customers never received his order. We’ve tried to track the item, but our efforts have been unsuccessful.” 

Hector’s mouth was dry. His armpits began to sweat; he felt the droplets slowly slide down his ribcage. His heart rate increased, thumping a mad rhythm inside his chest. 

“Would you know anything about this?”

“Nothing at all, sir. Maybe the doll got lost in the mail . . .” 

“It’s possible,” Goldstein replied, “but highly improbable.” 

The office seemed to be getting smaller. Hector could feel the walls closing in, compressing him into a tiny, claustrophobic space. 

“We have certain safeguards in place. In a business like this, we find these measures to be an absolute necessity. Theft will not be tolerated.” 

“Sir,” Hector said, his voice cracking, “I can assure you that—” 

“You’ve been with us for a long time, Hector. You do good work, always have. If, for whatever reason, you suffered a momentary lapse in judgment . . .”

Hector didn’t take the bait. He remained silent, refusing to confess. 

“I’m not an unreasonable man. We all make mistakes. I can forgive a single transgression. Provided, of course, the prompt returning of the doll.”

“I don’t have the doll, sir. I don’t know anything about it.” 

“That’s your story?”

“It’s the truth.” 

Goldstein pinned Hector with an intense stare, his mouth set in grim determination. “Twenty-four hours, Hector. That’s how long you have to return the doll. After that, all bets are off . . .” 

***

A Friday night found Hector getting good and drunk in his apartment. It had been a long week at work and he was celebrating. 

The twenty-four hours had elapsed with no action on his part. Returning the doll would be an admission of guilt, and he wasn’t admitting a damned thing. 

Mr. Goldstein didn’t fool him, not for one minute. The big boss was bluffing. Hector wasn’t stupid. That garbage about a “momentary lapse in judgment” and forgiving “a single transgression” was total bullshit. If Hector returned the doll he’d be canned on the spot, perhaps even detained and subjected to criminal prosecution. 

“Mr. Goldstein,” Hector addressed the shabby walls, “I call your bluff.” 

Sitting on the sofa, he cackled with maniacal glee. Then he got up for another beer. His cell phone vibrated on the kitchen counter. He peered at the number with surprise. It was Monica. What the hell did she want? Hector hadn’t talked to her since the breakup. He didn’t feel like arguing. He was on a good drunk and he wasn’t about to let her ruin it. Then again, maybe she wanted to apologize . . . 

Against his better judgment, Hector took the call. As soon as he heard her voice he knew something was horribly wrong. Monica was hysterical. 

“My God, Hector! What did you do!? They’re going to kill me! They—”

“Calm down, Monica.” 

“They’re here in my apartment!”

“Who? What are you—”

But Hector never finished his sentence. He was abruptly cut off by a raspy male voice. “Hey, asshole. Shut the fuck up and listen. This is what happens when you try to screw the company . . .” 

Hector heard two things—

The whining of a power drill. 

And Monica’s screams. 

***

In a state of utter panic, Hector rushed into the bedroom to retrieve Anna. He crossed the threshold. And received the shock of his life. 

Anna stood there beside his bed. “I gave you a chance.” Her lips moved, but the voice was that of Harvey Goldstein. “You could’ve returned the doll, and everything would’ve been forgiven. Unfortunately, you had to do things your way. I’m actually sorry that it had to come to this. You were a good worker. But those days are over. Goodbye, Hector.”

Anna lunged with astonishing speed, covering the few feet between them in a split-second. She clutched Hector’s throat with both hands, squeezing with incredible strength. Hector clawed in desperation, trying with all his might to pry her fingers loose, but it was futile. Her strength was Herculean. Anna squeezed, harder and harder. Hector felt an immense pressure in his head; his eyes threatened to pop. 

He unleashed a wicked kick; his right foot slammed into Anna’s crotch. She released his neck and staggered backwards. Hector turned, fled the bedroom, and rushed for the door. He never made it. 

Anna caught him from behind, clutched a handful of hair, and hurled him to the floor. Hector’s head slammed into the hardwood with immense force. He was stunned, dizzy, unable to get up. 

Hector’s skateboard was in its usual spot, propped against the wall. Anna grabbed the board and wielded it with both hands. 

“No, no . . . God, no . . . Please don’t . . .”

She brought the board down again and again and again, pummeling Hector until his face looked like raw hamburger and the walls were coated with gore. 

***

Her work done, Anna raided Hector’s closet for some clothes. Luckily, they were about the same size. His shoes were too big, but she could make it in her bare feet. 

Board in hand, she exited the apartment and descended the stairs to the street. It was a long haul to Mr. Goldstein’s posh mansion in the suburbs, but Anna was up to the task. 

She skated all the way.