They were at Brite Spot. His first date since he knew for sure the thing with the girl was over. Everything was fine and then the speakers played John Waite’s “Missing You.” 80’s night. After that, Elton John’s “I Guess That’s Why They Call it the Blues.” He’d been told to pray when it hurt. Dear Lord, why not just have the clouds spell my name and form a middle finger. His date had the kale salad. Yeah, I went to a couple Sex Addicts meetings once, she said. Dear Lord, forget I complained.
He fingerfucked her against a tree by Echo Park Lake. They went to her house. Her pussy felt the same as the girl’s and he thought he was cured. Continue reading
image stolen from kobebundle.blogspot.com
He was lit and he went to the back patio for a cigarette. It was Monday and the crowd wasn’t bad. Two to one ratio but one cute girl smoking alone. Mexican in Converse. 1981 Love and Rockets.
You look like the girl who blew Eric Stoltz in Rules of Attraction, he said. He knew she would know it.
Haha– that’s not the only thing she did in that movie.
The less said about the rest the better.
I actually love that movie.
Me too. It was the first time I learned that people wipe their ass while they’re still sitting down. That split screen scene with fuckin cinder block head James Van Der Beek. Continue reading
image stolen from conanevolved.wordpress.com
They were laying in bed. He had her ipad on his lap to watch Conan the Barbarian. Golden Age Schwarzenegger had fled across frozen wastes. He came upon a hut. A woman with 1982 plastic surgery stood in the door. Do you not wish to warm yourself by my fire?
I’ve been unfair to you, she said. He paused the movie.
I shouldn’t even tell you this but I forgot my texts come to that fucking thing.
Well I didn’t look. But now you better tell me.
It might hurt you.
… Continue reading
There was thumping coming from the bathroom. Slow at first, then gradually faster, and then a big sound like a bundle of logs being dropped.
Where’s the soap? She called through the door.
I don’t know. Where is it usually?
The door creaked open and her head appeared, face slightly red. If it were where it is usually, she said, would I have asked you where it is?
Well it’s in there somewhere.
Are you sure sweetie?
Yeah, it has to be.
He stood up from the couch, walked over and stuck his head in the bathroom door. She was back looking in the cabinet under the sink now. Moving items around: toilet paper, baby powder, tampons. There was no available physical space large enough to be occupied by the 8-Pak of Lever 2000® Pure Rain™ bath bars she had instructed him to buy. But she kept looking anyway. Continue reading
The fucksleeve came in the mail on a Tuesday. Just like a real woman it took forever to come, he thought. There’s a joke you’ll never be able to tell in public.
As promised it was in discreet packaging. A surprisingly small box. Within this was a plastic egg that contained the fucksleeve. While small, it could be stretched, per the pamphlet, “to accommodate any size penis.” There were also hints on how to maximize sensation on the glans and frenulum; some artist had been paid to draw a hand in various positions stretching this piece of silicon over a healthy-sized member. It’s a living. Inside the thing’s orifice was a single use packet of lube, but he opted for Curel Intensive Care instead. Save the special stuff for a rainy day.
He’d been up since eight but had done nothing. He had masturbated, to a midget. That was it. Two hours of culling through this midget’s oeuvre to find the optimum clip to masturbate to. Little person, rather. If he ever encountered a midget, he would have to take pains to correct himself. They consider “midget” a slur. Their vaginas and assholes are as deep as a normal sized woman’s, he had learned.
He’d been laid off six weeks ago and had accomplished nothing in that time, but that was fine. He’d accomplished nothing at work either and at least now he wasn’t being brutalized by assholes. He wasn’t stealing from anybody, or killing people. His old job had been in insurance and he’d spent the day fucking people over. Getting to zero was a net gain for the world.
Work was gone but there was still the same sense of urgency, just about bullshit now. The gas bill was due, the phone bill was due. Or rather, so far past due that Verizon sent texts with important new information about urgent changes to your account. Give us money. The DMV had important information about his auto registration, which was that it had been suspended because Progressive hadn’t sent along the required confirmation of insurance. To re-register, give us money. Progressive hadn’t sent the papers to the DMV because his bill was precisely one minute past due. Their text said sorry that you left us. Sorry that you left us, give us money. Fuck you, pay me, was all every letter and text and phone call ever said. If they actually used those words maybe he’d pay on time. It would certainly make the mail more interesting. Continue reading
He was awake. Hands on a steering wheel. Trees rushing by. Most cars were self-driving these days but he enjoyed it the old fashioned way. Everything was coming back to him. He was on his way home. Emily was making a chicken pot pie. His favorite.
The day was over and he remembered nothing. The new stuff was perfect. Used to be you’d get an image peeking through once in a while, an emotion of some kind. The phone would ring and you’d get a little stab of fear. You’d still have no idea what it was about, but you’d flinch. Now, nothing. Waking up, nice hot coffee, kissing Emily goodbye. The drive to work; starlings swirling over the river. Pull up to his parking space– it was in god damn Siberia, but, who cared; he would forget the walk. Twist the dial in the crook of his elbow left, right, left again. Then he was awake and driving and the sun had moved. Ten hour shift gone by like it never happened. Continue reading
Image: “Ordeal of Man-E-Faces” by Deviant Art user ~danbrenus
Previously on Passions:
Custom Jerkoff Encouragement Videos. That was the new idea. Men would pay you to make a video where you sat with your legs spread and talked to the camera about their fetish, liberally incorporating their name. I want you to cum inside me, Darren. My life is almost complete but I want to have a baby. Your baby, Darren. I want to feel your cum spray inside me, Darren. This was the example Yuri showed her. He had bought a studio, which is to say a building with a camera in it in Pacoima between a CLINICA FAMILIAR with posters of frightened pregnant girls in the window and Rudy’s Auto Shop, Specializing in Transmissions Since 1989. I need you to give me a baby, Darren. And she smacked her pussy, the star of Yuri’s first producorial effort, betraying her stripper roots. Smacking your pussy makes a guy who’s staring into his vodka red bull look back up at you in a titty bar; on a laptop video screen it looks cheap and clownish. Astrid would do better. Darren had paid one thousand dollars to have somebody tell him she wanted his baby. The girl got two hundred. It was eight minutes worth of work and it didn’t seem to be a problem that the girl ran out of material at the two minute mark and just repeated herself. The American sex industry is the last place in the world where the buyers are so desperate that incompetence is forgiven, even expected. The quality of acting– the insincerity of the enthusiasm, or the horror in the case of something like rape porn, would have got any Wal Mart greeter fired on his first day. But you could still feel pity and disgust pretty transparently in the passenger seat of some guy’s Honda as you took off a pair of panties that you’d been supposedly sweating and cumming in for two days and handed them to him for a hundred dollar bill. You could still be obviously creeped out as long as you held eye contact. She bought them in packs of six and swabbed them in her armpits after jogging. Continue reading
Previously on Passions:
October 16, 2012
from: Angela Euna Kim (firstname.lastname@example.org)
to: Filbert B. Kim (email@example.com)
Lexus of Alhambra called me this morning. A man told me that my monthly payment was not made on time. I was at brunch with my friends and I don’t need to tell you how embarrassing it is to receive a call from a creditor regarding a late payment when your friends can clearly hear what is being said over the phone. YOU did not make the monthly payment on time and they are assessing a $100 fee and additional interest, and if there are three more late payments the car is in danger of being repossessed (!)
How could you allow this to happen? YOU need to take care of this right away. You also need to call on mom’s car and make sure her latest payments are up to date. Please do this right now. If mom got a call from a car dealership telling her she was a deadbeat she would be mortified.
Fuck. The fucking car payment.
October 16, 2012
from: Filbert B. Kim (firstname.lastname@example.org)
to: Angela Euna Kim (email@example.com)
Why don’t you just call it what it is, you idiot– a fucking Toyota. A fucking Toyota Camry, except, that wasn’t expensive enough for you. You needed a Toyota Camry that cost eighty thousand dollars. Because you liked the color. Metallic teal. And probably because you thought the raghead salesman was handsome. You fucking whore.
You bought it because you liked the fucking metallic teal, and the voice of the onboard computer. It was easy for you to plug in your god damn earpiece that’s glued to your head like fucking Robocop and make calls where you talk about nothing to your muppet-faced USC friends. What did you even have to talk about, before you had that fucking car? Grey’s Anatomy? God forbid you should pick up a fucking book. I should have killed you when I had the chance. Continue reading
Previously on Passions:
William Z. “Billy” Krojcek of Sherman Oaks needed you to laugh at his small cock while he peed in a diaper. On his back with garbage bags spread over the bed. He would greet you at the door in his adult baby getup. Go to the bedroom, open the diaper, he pees, and you laugh at his tiny little willie. Maybe blow on it soothingly. While he’s pissing he gets hard; hopefully the piss all comes out before this happens but more often, not. The fundamental flaw in piss fetishes is, it’s hard to piss with a boner. Piss would go all over the place, then he’d jerk himself off while you cooed at him and pop in two seconds. The rest of the hour they’d talk. Billy was a teacher; he gave good advice regarding her son’s education. Don’t let them push him out of the honors math class. Have him retake the test in the school library without other students and distractions, say it’s his right as a student with a learning disability. Sometimes he would feel it coming on again at the end, put down fresh bags, don a fresh diaper, start anew. Her cooing and giggling and saying “it’s SO SMALL!!!! No woman is even gonna be able to feel that when you grow up! I’m gonna tickle those tiny little pink balls!” Not in a mean way. In a motherly way. He would cum again, sometimes so fast his boner was half strangled and cocked to the side, barely hard before puking up thick gouts of smelly jizz. Thank you so much, you’re really wonderful. I’ll call you again next week.
Raymond R. “Ray” Jimenez Jr. of Los Angeles needed her to pantomime shrinking him with a shrink ray. Then she would talk like he was six inches tall and crawling all over her body, into various crevices. Talk like she couldn’t see where he was and might step on him, squash him. Then he got a blowjob. She didn’t understand how this didn’t crush his suspension of disbelief, but, she was just the help. He would be so hard from the oh no I’m gonna squish you talk that he too would cum in seconds. Her blowjobs were also, as you would expect, excellent. Imagine if they hadn’t been. A life wasted. The aptly named Ray was less talkative. Or maybe the roleplay was so talky that he was just talked out. Why, she wondered, didn’t he buy a toy gun to stand in as the shrink ray. Sucking dick isn’t a big deal but standing there with a straight face holding an invisible gun and saying “ohmigod you’re getting SOOO SMMMALLLL–” she earned her check. I’ll call you next week. Continue reading