26 Apr


(This is a selection from my book Hot Naked Tits, which you can buy here.)

One morning he looked in his neighbor’s window and saw a picture of his own cat.

The guy had his blinds closed like always. But today a computer monitor was pressed up by the window and the slats were pushed aside. There was a narrow triangle of open glass, enough to see in the apartment. It was stacked high with crap. Old books and magazines. Old art on the walls. Prints of Hudson River Valley school paintings cut out of a coffee table book, taped to the drywall. Certificates and degrees, too far away to read, yellowed, askew in cheap frames. And a picture of his cat. It too was framed. A foot high. iPhone picture, pixellated a little. Fluffykins regarded the camera with a dead mockingbird in his mouth.

What the fuck, he thought. Well– he’s a cute cat. He got a bird. The neighbor wants a picture, fine.

He got back to work hauling trash cans to the curb. It was 7AM, garbage day. Every ten weeks or so he’d be a good citizen and take down his building’s cans. After that, work. Then home, eat, jerk off, sleep. Alone but the cat was there. The driveway between complexes was steep. He had to take care not to spill coffee grounds from the cans on his crisp white shirt. 65 per cent polyester. It needed no ironing. He’d purchased five. An investment in adulthood.

The man’s window faced his across the driveway. At night he’d hear him moaning. He sounded old, and like he hurt. On the way back up to get his briefcase he took one more look. There was an unmade bed against the wall. A duvet cover embroidered with parrots. A black file cabinet in back by the cat picture with a spindly cactus on top, hooked so far toward the window that the pot was about to tip over. A Brother P-Touch label on the top drawer said “BILLS.”

And a desk, with monitors. Three of them fixed to a jointed chrome arm bolted into the wall. They were beautiful. Broad and slim and gleaming with sapphire glass; nicer than any he’d ever seen. Placed with care at at different heights and angles like the flowers on an orchid. They must have cost thousands. Well to each his own, he thought. I’m glad the old man has something he loves.

He got his black pleather attache and his tupperware of leftover pot roast. Locked up and headed down the hill to the bus. When he got home the gap in the blinds was closed.


It was a month before he saw inside the place again. This time at night. He was out calling the cat. Normally Fluffykins came in as soon as he got home from work. But once in a while he’d get in a fight with another cat. Spend hours squaring off with it under some car. Fluffykins won mostly, which made him proud. But out back was a big steep hill covered in tall grass; coyotes lived there. If the cat was out after dark he’d sit and think about the coyotes ripping him apart until he came in. The cat hadn’t come on the street out front. So he walked up the driveway toward the back lot, making a ch-ch-ch- sound.

He saw a patch of light from the old man’s window. Heard the groaning. There was the triangle of open glass. In it, a gnarled yellow dick in a gnarled yellow hand, the latter pumping furiously. The man’s pubic hair was a tangle of white like a wizard’s beard and he jerked and jerked and groaned and groaned. One of the monitors was visible. On it a Latina woman presented her ass to the camera and looked back, concentrating as she tried to stuff a half hard arm-thick horse’s penis into it.

The horse cock was white with brown spots. The woman mouthed something in Spanish or Portuguese and the man groaned again. Accelerated. His face was hidden, but there was the cat picture. And now next to it, a picture of a girl.

Well I’ll be damned, he thought. Heather.

Heather lived there before the old man moved in. Even though she was his neighbor he met her on Tinder. They’d walked out of their buildings to head to their date at the same time. She had blue eyes and looked like a painting on a 1930’s fruit crate. They got drunk and talked shit at the Short Stop. Her choice of venue. He invited her home for Scrabble.

She wouldn’t fuck him. He learned later she was fucking the Short Stop barback. He looked one of like Ed Norton’s rapists in American History X. He was married. His wife was cheating on him but he wouldn’t leave her. The Tinder date was meant to change his mind. Instead, he’d come up the hill the next night looking for the apartment with the cat, to kick that guy’s ass. No one was home. He left a note.

Later she came to apologize. He was alone, drunk. The best way to make amends, he said, would be some pussy.

No such luck.

They talked. Her dad was in prison for life, she said. He’d stabbed her stepmother to death. He was some kind of preacher and she’d followed him to Idaho; she was Heather’s age. Well I’ll never measure up to that, he thought.

Still, she kept coming over. They’d sing Grateful Dead songs then she’d get naked and he’d rub her back, her ass, her belly. She never did fuck him but one night she came over drunk and asked: why don’t you love me. After that he knew he’d won. He moved on.

In the old man’s picture she wore a white dress with the tops of her tits hanging out. Smiling next to her potted rosemary plant. It was extraordinarily healthy. She was a skilled gardener.

Well shit, he thought. I guess she left some stuff behind. Wonder if the old man has her dirty panties. I could stand a whiff. He fell asleep trying to remember the smell of her neck.


The last time he looked in the old man’s window he saw a picture of himself.

It was sunset. He’d been with his upstairs neighbor by the trash cans, smoking. You know about the old guy next door, he asked.

You hear him too?


He lives alone. I think he’s on disability or something. He never leaves. We thought he was sick, like he had cancer. But I think he’s just crazy and sits at the computer jackin off all day. We call him Jack.

That’s funny.

How’s shit with you, the neighbor asked.

Good. Working. You know how it is. Beats the shit out of me. But I got bills.

Ayuh. How’s things on the lady front.

You know. Fuckin Tinder. Even that’s drying up.

Your girls used to make me jealous.

Well shit man, I wouldn’t mind what you have. I’m almost forty for Christ’s sake.

Yep. Hard to find in this town though.

They parted ways. He walked out front to look for the cat. There was the light and the window and the hand; no dick in it this time. The picture. It was framed, next to Heather. She had taken it one drunk night. He was naked on his couch playing guitar. His face looked fucked up but his shoulders rippled.

He looked at Heather, then at himself, then back at her. Her tits in her white dress with her rosemary plant. Her warm belly in his lap, her naked back damp in the summer heat.

Well I have to say something, he thought. I can’t have a portrait of my god damn ball sac in the neighbor’s window. Go tell him to take it down. Maybe I’ll get that rosemary shot too. She knew me at least. Whatever else he has of hers. I have a right to it, he thought. More than him.

He walked down the driveway and up to the black metal gate of Jack’s building. The buzzers weren’t marked but he tried the handle; unlocked. The old man’s door was first on the left. The rosemary plant was there in its pot, dead. He knocked.

Coming, said the groaning voice.

The peephole darkened. The door creaked open a crack.

I’m glad you’re here, said Jack. I’ve been waiting.

He recognized the sinewy yellow hand that crept out. Reached out to shake it out of reflex. When he woke up there were colors and lights in his eyes. Bright but blurry. He was sitting down. His hands felt wrong, like they were all tendons and bones; there was an ergonomic mouse in one and a warm wet weight in the other. He forced his eyes to focus. Screens. On the left was Heather with her rosemary. On the right, the woman with the horse, furrowing her brow as she struggled to penetrate herself.

17 Responses to “Jack”

  1. Jay Money April 26, 2015 at 12:56 pm #


  2. whatarandomfuckingguy April 26, 2015 at 5:04 pm #

    Might just be your best yet. Awesome.

  3. lolz April 26, 2015 at 9:16 pm #

    I only care about musky teen vaginas.

    The greatest smelling pussy was the first girl I ever fingered. We were 13. This is not a coincidence. She was wet with no foreplay. It went right in. I can still smell it.

    She wasnt even hot.

    • I cannot distinctly remember the smell of the first pussy I stuck my fingers in, but I know it had a slightly sweet almost fruity scent to it. I remember a couple hours afterwards urging every one my friends to smell them. I don’t think I washed my hand for two days. An Italian girl from my neighborhood, Linda. Fresh little pussy smelled like a pastry shop full of cannoli and sfogliatelle. She’s married with a bunch of kids now. I still see her mother at church on Christmas Eve and Easter Sunday, which is about the only time I go. Her mother is there every day, volunteers. Nice lady, she always says hello to me, asks me how I’m doing. Asks about my mother. Nice family. Had my life taken a different path I probably could’ve married into it. All the respectable girls got snatched up while I was in the Land of Nod.

      Same age as you when it happened, I think. Seventh grade, so yeah, I would’ve been like thirteen. Now that I think about it I kind of peaked when I was thirteen. I hooked up with all of her friends. I hooked up with almost every hot girl in my neighborhood. All the girls loved me because I made them laugh with my uncanny Alf impression: Hey Willie, HAAA! That was it, that was the whole impression and they would die laughing. Thirteen-year old girls are easily amused – I smiled at them from across the lunch table with a mouth full of chocolate pudding and they were putty in my hands, let me feel their tits and gave me dry painful handjobs on park benches.

      The first girl I ever fucked we used to call her Taco Puss, because her pussy smelled like a Taco Bell dumpster full of gorditas rotting in the August heat. Irish girl, Michelle. I have yet stick my dick in a minority. I lost my virginity to her on my sixteenth birthday, but it didn’t smell then. She was something else, man, a natural born slut. She sucked my dick for hours before I fucked her. I think it was the first time she sucked a dick and she took to it like a duck to water – straight worshipped my cock. To this day it’s still one of the best blowjobs I’ve ever had. We were on ecstasy, parked under I-95 in the back seat of her mom’s Ford Taurus. My eyes were rolling in the back of my head. I remember Will Smith’s Wild Wild West playing on the radio, and I started cracking up laughing. You couldn’t pick a more absurd song to get your dick sucked to. I came in her mouth and she didn’t miss a beat, just guzzled it down with my dick still in her mouth and kept sucking. About a half hour later she came up for air, said her jaw was starting to hurt, and asked me if I wanted to have sex. I started fucking her as the sun was coming up. People were walking by the car on their early morning walks and errands, so we stopped and she dropped me off at my house. My dick was all red and swollen the next day, she damn near sucked the skin off of it.

      Then about a year later I double teamed her with one of my friends. We were sitting over his house one night, bored, so we called her up and had her come over. By that time she had been passed around our whole crew; she fucked both of us, so it wasn’t too hard to convince her to do it again at the same time. As soon as she pulled her pants down you could smell her rotten pussy. Holy shit, it was just… there are no words to describe the putrid stench eminating from her gangrenous black hole. It was something out of an H.P. Lovecraft story, an otherwordly odor strong enough to make you run panicked and screaming, clutching your throat like a doughboy during a gas attack on the Western Front. BUT WE DIDN’T! We held our noses and we held our ground. We persevered like General Black Jack Pershing’s heroic young American men during those trying days of yore. Our volley of loads launched against the enemy, we celebrated our victory with bottles of his dad’s Ortlieb’s beer and a nice fat blunt.

      Actually, I couldn’t nut with him in the room. I had to take her in the bathroom and jerk off in her mouth. She must’ve had some kind of bacterial infection, because she wasn’t an unhygienic girl. I have no clue how she didn’t notice how bad her pussy smelled. Bad enough to earn the nickname Taco Puss, which was relatively mild considering how vile her sloppy sloppy snatch really stunk. The scent clung to me for days, I was scrubbing my cock with fucking Fast Orange like a diesel mechanic and it still didn’t come off.

    • Matter of fact, right where that black car is parked:


      that’s the exact parking spot I lost my virginity in. I know because I remember people crossing that sidewalk there in the dawn’s early light of that humid August morning in the Year of our Lord one thousand nine hundred and ninety nine. And the red glared and swollen salami cock that my wild Irish rose, Michelle, proudly hailed at the twilight’s last gleaming? Well it was still there, yet waving o’er the land of the free and the home of the brave.

  4. pffffffftttsssssssiimmbllllllddddddnnnnnnnnn April 27, 2015 at 4:40 pm #

    I think they used your apartment building in that movie Nightcrawler. The main character, Louis Bloom, lives there.

    I like this story. The ending is almost Stephen King-esque. Reminds me of one of those short stories out of Night Shift.

    • AlmostAnonymous April 28, 2015 at 11:50 am #

      That’s a good horror story.

  5. A girl in my spank bank died recently. Overdose. Twenty seven years old. Now I feel guilty about jerking off to that memory. I don’t why. If she was still alive she would be excited, honored even, at the thought of me jerking off to her. She knew I jerked off to her, I told her on more than one occasion. But now I feel like she’s watching me disapprovingly. Probably because I think more about that than any other aspect of her short tragic life, and the brief time I spent sharing it with her. I tried to help her, but when it came to the fucking dope she was beyond my influence. I bought her things I thought would make her happy. Not drugs, other things. We mostly lost touch when I got clean.

    I called her a whore one time, which was unfair. Not to her face, but when talking to someone else about her. She was just a confused girl trying to fill the void. Unfortunately I couldn’t fill it for her. Nobody can fill it for you, you’ve got to figure out a way to do it on your own. That was her fatal flaw: she was always looking to other people for her happiness. I mean, sure, there’s the fellowship, but we are still ultimately walking our own paths.

    Sometimes it’s not enough, I guess. Connections, other people.

    That’s the third girl I’ve fucked who is now dead. All of them had small children (none of them mine) who will grow up motherless. I don’t really know what to do with that, but it sucks.

    • bourbonoftheday May 8, 2015 at 9:05 pm #

      Cant imagine that my man. Sorry to hear it. In a few ways though, thats kinda like the ultimate “now you’re stuck with my memory so fuck you”, so not sure if I would be sad, mad, or meh.

  6. Mack Schuylkill May 6, 2015 at 9:19 am #

    Mind f-er

  7. Bourbon of the Day May 8, 2015 at 9:02 pm #

    Three theories on where the hell DT has been…

    Theory 1: He finally did it. That magnet school Mexican sophomore [the one on the Red Line to Hollywood with the tennis shorts,small teeth, and big gums] and he fled the country.

    Theory 2: That bitch from The Soap really did kill DT, wrote that post, tried to maintain DTs swagg and threw in the towel. (Unlikely, as phrases like “I want to be some kind of pulsating queen ant, or something like the Guild Navigator from the Lynch Dune. Some Lovecraft thing made up only of balls and cocks with thirteen tentacles on the end each of which reach up into virginal pubescent cervix and squirt gouts of bleach smelling nut that dribbles out into their white cotton panties, which I then wear as a mask. ” are uniquely DT

    Theory 3: He has resumed duties as Master at Arms of the Quarter Pounder station. The good thing about that? Its summer, schools out, and as the Master-at-Arms, you get first dibbs on all that high school snatch begging for a leg up on the corporate ladder.

  8. C May 10, 2015 at 1:04 am #

    Where the fuck did you go

  9. mark boris May 11, 2015 at 5:38 pm #

    I would actually be willing to pay money to read this story. Like 75 cents, but still, that was good.


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