Ramblings From an Apathetic Adult Baby

From Justin Gawel: Eccentric Dirtbag

Category Archives: Erotic Fiction

Guess What, Grandpa is Dead: A Phone Call From U.S. State Department in Jamaica

Yes, is a Wilma Pennybuckle available?

 

Oh, terribly sorry, you’re already on the line.  Although, I probably should have saved my “terribly sorry” for what I’m about to tell you because, honestly, it’s just going to seem like I’m marginalizing bad news now.

 

No, please, I insist, Mrs. Pennybuckle, stop guessing.  To the best of my knowledge, no conspiracy exists that causes your grandchildren to keep putting on weight, I don’t think your pharmacist is trying to poison you, and I don’t think because your new mailman being black is an omen that a “tribe” of Nigerians moving in to the unsold house down the street. Further, I’d assume should they existed they would use the “family” and not don’t use the word “tribe” to describe themselves.

 

Honestly, I’m calling you today to inform you that your husband, Bucky Pennybuckle, has died in Jamaica.  Now I didn’t know him personally, but it seems like he was a man with a fun name to say and I am terribly sorry for your loss.

 

Interesting, you were unaware he was in Jamaica?

 

Hmmm, he said Omaha on business for the annual shower cap convention.

 

Ah ha, if by “Omaha” he meant “Montego Bay, Jamaica,” and by “annual shower cap convention” he meant “sex tourism extravaganza,” and by “business” he meant “three nights of sensual pleasure spent with various women before being robbed, bound, and having his face beaten to a pulp with a piano leg before being dumped in a sugar cane plantation,” then, yes, he was being very transparent and honest.

 

No, there was no trace of any actual business happening on this trip, unless by “business” you mean—

 

I see, I see.

 

Yes, I really am getting some mileage out of that gag.

 

Now, I realize this is a little personal, but did your late husband every show a proclivity for any specific fetishes?  We’re just trying to figure out if the ropes, bondage hood, and nipple clamps were put on him to make him easier to bludgeon, or if that was just what he was into.

 

I’m sorry, Mrs. Pennybuckle, I’m sure Mr. Pennybuckle would vomit with anger as well if he had, as you so eloquently put it, “had known he was going to die in a country run by drug-addicted, dark gypsies.”  Now I must interject, Mrs. Pennybuckle, because the population here genuinely does prefer to be called “Jamaicans.”

 

How much infidelity occurred?

 

I mean, it’s difficult to say, but the authorities did recover an oddly descriptive erotic itinerary in his hotel room with very strange crudely drawn pictures drawn in it.  If those figures were correct, he had been with three call girls his first night that he had in a position he referred to as “The Devil’s Baccarat Table” and then on the second night it appears he met a very frumpy night receptionist and utilized a move he dubbed “Jonah and the Whale.”

 

I’m sorry, I didn’t realize that that reference on the Sabbath would nearly give you a stress migraine.  I’ll give you a second.

 

Anyways, it appears he was killed on the third night of his excursion.  Make no mistake, it appears that infidelity definitely occurred, as the black light investigation revealed stains on nearly every surface of his hotel room.  However, that may have just resulted from the housekeepers half-assing it these days.

 

No, no, please, please, Mrs. Pennybuckle, I do not want to hear about your exploits while he’s away; this isn’t a time for one-upping.

 

That’s really not helpful either, Mrs. Pennybuckle, I’m not going to discuss the ethnicity of the housekeepers just so you can comment on their apparent lack of work ethic.

 

Honestly, Mrs. Pennybuckle, I really just needed to break the news and have you tell me where I can send the body.

 

No, leaving the corpse with one of his mistresses is not an option; in fact, the women are actually leading suspects in this investigation.

 

No, we can’t just fly him coach back home; that’s completely out of the question

 

I assure you, Mrs. Pennybuckle, people would notice a dead passenger on the plane.

 

Okay, I’ll be sure to ship it out as quickly as possible and the funeral home will notify you when it arrives.

 

Yes, I’m sure his friends and family will be surprised.

 

I mean, there’s no reason you can’t lie or not give specifics about his demise.  I’d be sure to have a closed-casket ceremony because no one is going to believe he died from a heart attack or stroke if they see his disfigured, battered face and that regrettable Jamaican braid he had put in his hair.

 

Frankly, I don’t think the mortician is going to be fix it.  Mr. Pennybuckle’s face is completely busted—like it’s a cross between an old, melted candle and a Salvador Dali painting.

 

No, Mrs. Pennybuckle, I honestly don’t think this is Obama’s fault.

 

Okay, okay, enough, really! This is a phone call with a stranger about your logistics with your late husband’s death not a chance for you to get on your soapbox and rant about minorities.

 

Well, yes, there’s no denying that Richard Dawson was the best host of Family Feud, but could you please save your “gravy faced” discussion and banter about Steve Harvey for another time?  I’m finding it offensive and I’m a little embarrassed to even be listening to your tirade!

 

I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have scolded you; I didn’t realize that was how you deal with grief.

 

Okay, I’ll let you grieve.  I’ll send his body out as soon as possible.  They’ll keep investigating here, but his bloodstained Tommy Bahama shirt has not yielded any leads or given us any names.

 

Yeah, seriously, you’re right, that’s totally like something out of Burn Notice.

 

Shut up, no way! I’m a huge Burn Notice ­fan too!

 

About these ads

Business Erotica

Dressed in suspenders and a silver tie clip, it was only fitting that the most important man in the office was also the best dressed.  No doubt about it, Jonathan Porter knew the business, knew the people, and knew how to run this place.

 

It was nearly lunch when Jonathan called Natalie, his assistant, into his office.

 

“Shut the door,” he ordered, not looking up from his laptop.  Natalie abided.

 

He looked up and looked her over, “I think it’s time we address the elephant in the room—”

 

“Sir, I’ve been trying to diet—“

 

“No, it’s not that; relax, kid,” Jonathan said, his magic words flowing like they did during that regrettable magician phase that he had all but repressed with painkillers now.

 

“No, the elephant I’m talking about is trickier; you’ve been here, what, ten months, now?” He said, standing up now and moseying towards Natalie.

 

She slowly nodded, “What’s this about; you’ve never said anything about my body of work.”

 

“Well, that’s mostly because I’ve had so many objections about your physical body. , However, I must say, there are some qualities I find less-objectionable—“ and in a swift, hostile takeover Jonathan used his position to leverage Natalie into position underneath him on top of the desk.

 

Puzzled, but not resisting, Natalie was flooded with confliction.  After all, Jonathan was her boss, and, despite his remarks about her weight and odor, she didn’t mind working here and didn’t want to jeopardize that.  On the other hand, it had been awhile since she had a man make a direct deposit in her, as she had grown accustom to using the proverbial “Easy Button” and saving herself a disappointing evening at the bar.

 

“Sir, I’m not so sure.  This isn’t so cut and dry, like the business.”

 

“I agree,” Jonathan suavely whispered, taking her hand.  “I mean, I’m pretty cut,” he continued, moving her hand across his toned stomach and back.  “But,” he breathed while discretely finding his way up her skirt, “You’re anything but dry.”

 

Natalie let out a low moan; it was clear she had a weakness for the sensual combination of his dry, clammy fingers and stupid wordplay.  There was no turning back; Natalie had drank the Kool-Aid, and not even the threat of awkward encounters or a boring trip to HR was going to stop here from going after that sweet, throbbing company pen in Jonathan’s slacks.

 

It’s anyone’s guess if it was merely Natalie’s enthusiasm for lunch or was it just because she was a former hot-dog eating champion, but she wasted no time flipping around on the desk and horizontally aligning herself to better take his hot product out of it’s wrapper and into her mouth.  As she hung there, upside down, between two pillars of the industry with a third pillar in her loading dock, she couldn’t help but compare this to that iconic kiss in Spiderman.  Yeah, it was weird; and in this objective author’s opinion that’s a odd thing for her to think now, but what was even stranger was the fact that Jonathan was picturing the same thing in his mind.

 

“Did you get lost?” Natalie asked Jonathan between heavy breaths.  “This is a business transaction, not a charitable contribution.”

 

“I’m still going to write off the damages as business expenses. And don’t worry about this—you should know I’m a team player around here.” He shot back as he ripped her stockings off and plunged his face into her grubby thicket.

 

“Good, she’s definitely looking forward to some quality face-time with the boss,” Natalie played back between lick after lick of Jonathan’s low-hanging fruits.

 

She always knew Jonathan knew the service industry, but it wasn’t until now that she realized he knew a thing or two about servicing.  Truly, thinking outside of the box, Jonathan propped her legs up on the desk and dug his face due south into the scruffier and swampier regions of her rainforest. He raised his right hand, like a snorkeler requesting air, and brought it down repeatedly in a SWOT analysis of Natalie’s dumpy, fat asset until said asset was it was so far in the red that bankruptcy would be the only way out.

 

Natalie couldn’t move, her muscles were paralyzed with the pleasure coming from Porter’s Five or More Forces of tonguing swabbing he was unleashing on her.  It wasn’t long now and Natalie knew it—her books were cooking in a hot, frothy stew.

 

Moments later, through a lot of moving parts and synergizing, Natalie belted out a wail, while Jonathan erupted everywhere, flowing like a perfect supply chain with no bottlenecks.

 

The office was in shambles; all varieties of company ink coated the desk and carpet.

 

Catching his breath while assessing the damage, Jonathon exclaimed, “Well, looks like the Children’s Hospital just spent their annual donation.”

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