Ramblings From an Apathetic Adult Baby

From Justin Gawel: Eccentric Dirtbag

Tag Archives: erotic fiction

Autoerotic Fiction

12 Comments Posted by on December 15, 2012

The sun was high in the sky on this bright summer Saturday morning.  Fresh from his night of slumber, John opened one eye and took a glance around the room before reading his clock radio.

 

Eleven-twenty: too late to salvage the morning, yet too early to start any afternoon activities.  Rested, John sat up and pulled back his sheets pondering his next course of action.  He wasn’t hungry, and his only plans for the day weren’t until five; his options were endless really.  He considered setting up a doctor appointment for the rash on his arm, but he decided it maybe just needed a few more days.

 

John supposed he could go to the bank, not to deposit money or transact—he just liked hanging out at the bank.  Nah, he didn’t want to do that, I mean, come on, he already has his pants off.  Deliberation set in about a potential trip to the grocery store but John ultimately decided against it; he already had all the provisions he needed for his one-man nacho fiesta that was happening at five o’clock.

 

He lied back down on his bed and nestled into the groove his crooked spine had established in the mattress over its many moons of use.  The groove provided him a small canyon that he allowed himself to cozy into night after night, a canyon that became particularly difficult to scale out of after a restless night.  His eyes drooped a little and he let out a small yawn; he supposed he could read.

 

A stretch across the mattress and John snagged the screenplay he was working on editing the night before.  He was at page sixteen, and the last few days have been far from productive, but he figured if he can get some good, hard work done now he can gorge on a trough of nachos later completely guilt free.  Guilt-free about being productive at least, after all, there is a considerable amount of self-loathing that goes along with any personal nacho fiesta.

 

He starts down the page and begins marking with his red pen.  Embarrassed, he circles his your-you’re confusion and laments that he can’t remember why he thought Thomas Merriweather Rockefeller was a good name for any character, let alone the main one.  Self-Hating Saturday had already started and John hadn’t even binged on nachos, been to church, or spoke to his parents yet.

 

John’s conscious mind continued editing while his unconscious mind let his left hand wander.   His left hand blazed a trail through the maze of skin, blanket, and underwear and popped in at John’s junk as if to say, “Good morning, beautiful; you feel like dancing?”

 

With just a splinter of morning wood remaining, John’s left hand realized he was going to have to do most of the work rousing this sleeping giant, but hey, you can’t start a fire without a spark—but a lot of wood would certainly help.

 

John’s conscious mind snapped into it; he knew how he could pass the time—the answer had been literally right in front of him.  His attention shifted and he was soon only skimming through his bad symbolism and unnatural dialogue.  Suddenly, he realized that he was playing with himself while reading.  He now could identify with the way hipster kids feel when they read Catcher in the Rye or how Glen Beck feels when he’s proofreading his own books.  Disgusted with either of those groups, John emphatically hurled his first draft across the room.

 

His eyelids close and his mouth opens ever so slightly; his right hand begins to work his joystick like he’s going for the high score in the video game that is himself.  His mind flashed to that girl from senior year of high school.  Not her as a person, like her accomplishments and what not, more so just her pink lips sucking on his thing with such force you’d think she had a jet engine for a mouth—John’s strokes sped up and his body tensed.  In his mind she smiled quickly and John immediately remembers her missing tooth and shuddered a bit.  Immediately, she faded from mind.

 

Back to the highlight reel and John’s mind jumped to a hazy, post-bar memory.  He recalled this sexual encounter being like a slip and slide—it had been a particularly muggy summer and that particular girl’s vagina acted like it.  So wet and smooth he recalled, as his hand now was taking the most thorough, caressing touch to his wang.  He felt himself begin to lose control, slightly, as he reminisced; his hand bouncing up and down on his throbbing member like it was a piston in some well-oiled flesh engine.  Suddenly he stopped, it was only now twenty-five after eleven; John still had a ways to go until five, so he decided to make this last.

 

John took a few strokes off in order to prevent culmination, but now he realized that he’s got to kick-start the old love machine as the realization set in that his hiatus had been too long and he should never interrupted the diligent work routine he had established.  “If only I put this kind of effort and craftsmanship into my screenplays,” he though, but alas, that thought faded away in lieu of a sexual fantasy involving the cashier at the corner gas station.

 

It’s just an average night, John’s buying his usual pack of cigarettes and three candy bars.  John then removes his card from his wallet, preparing to swipe it on the machine.  But, when he goes to run it through the machine, John finds the machine has been replaced with a, now naked, cashier girl.  He swipes his Red Lobster Visa down her ass crack as she peeks over at him and whispers, “credit or debit, big boy?”  She turns to face him and grabs all she can of him.  John, now paralyzed by his own erotic pleasure, clenches every muscle in his body as he tries to hit his figurative brakes.

 

Just like the guy who shows up drunk to an AA meeting—John can’t stop and he knows it.  No use trying to derail this train.  John tightens his grip—his hot rod turning that deep fuchsia color indicating the pleasure express was right on time.  He mind drifts back to the gas station and he’s thrusting into cashier girl.  He’s loving every bit of this as he looks into the mirror behind the counter to fully appreciate this moment, but right then he realizes that it isn’t a reflection of him having his way with the cashier girl in the mirror, why it’s just him having his way with a very sweaty Louie Anderson.  John begins to climax as he feels the white-hot man yogurt drip down the back of his hand.  His mind is racing with a lot of confused feelings about his sexuality and Louie Anderson.  He wipes his hand on the sheets and curls up in a ball—looks like Self-Hating Saturday is off to a great start!

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High Schooler’s Plan for the Apocalypse

40 Comments Posted by on November 25, 2012

We can all agree high school kids are idiots.  We always make comments about them like, “Oh, she’s so smart for her age,” and never, “Oh, she’s so smart”.  We, rightfully, handicap the field to pay them a compliment; it’s like saying, “He walks pretty well for having Gout,” or, “She has a pretty good appetite for just watching them pull the plug on Grandma.”  Now, dead-grandma-Old-Country-Buffet-trip or no dead-grandma-Old-Country-Buffet-trip, high school kids still remain pretty dumb on the whole and incredibly easy to trick into anything.

 

Now, the chucklehead who sat behind me in tenth-grade English was no exception.  He wasn’t illiterate, but you sure couldn’t tell.  I remember convincing him that Hemmingway’s A Farewell to Arms was titled as such because the main character’s arms are blown off in an explosion at the end.   Like an old woman slipping on a banana peel and breaking her hip as she lands in a pile of wet garbage and cats, it was hysterical and sad all at the same time.

 

One day before class this future community college dropout was speculating on how he wants to go out when the world freezes over.  Yes, he is convinced that the world is going to end where everyone and everything is suspended in time and completely frozen, because, clearly, he sees the only logical end of the world being a super villain using some sort of doomsday device to freeze us all after the ransom of ten-thousand Asian babies isn’t paid.  Climate change, asteroids, nuclear war—all of these theories never crossed his mind or do not hold any credibility in his mind.  Refreshing to see that he doesn’t pay attention in his science or social studies classes either.

 

Chucklehead elaborates further that at the moment of said hyper-freezing of the world he wants to mid-coitus with a lady.  This way, in his eyes, when future beings thaw his corpse out there will never be any doubt in their eyes on whether or not this man was able to get pussy.  Adamant, he said this was the way he wanted to go out as, apparently, there is nothing else in his life he would want to be remembered by other than his ability to convince this one lucky woman let him wiggle around his stink pickle inside of her this one instance.

 

It’s shocking to me that this was the only way that he thought he could demonstrate his pussy prowess to future archaeologists.  Frankly, he could have just wished to be with his children when the world ended; a touching gesture that confirms that this man had raised children and has had sex in the past.  If he didn’t want his kids to be with him he could have just asked to die clutching child support and alimony collection letters, further demonstrating that at least during one point during his life he was able to let his bathing suit area rub up against a lady’s bathing suit area enough to get her pregnant.

 

Really, this chucklehead is overlooking the most obvious solution which would be just constantly prepare for the end of the world by perpetually wearing a t-shirt that says something like “I Fuck On the First Date”, “Pussy Poacher”, or “I’m RSVP-ing to the Orgy As “Cumming””, as any one of those t-shirts would undoubtedly be worn by an individual who wants to show off how much sex they have had.

 

To be James Blunt, his solution leaves a lot to be desired.  First off, slowly freezing to death with your penis out sounds like horrible way to die.  Plus what if the archaeologists interpret it wrong? I mean, honestly, what if they do a future autopsy and reveal that the girl died four hours before the world ended and Chucklehead died?

 

As for me I’m hoping to die the way I lived—drunk and in a karaoke related mishap.

 

Complaints, Erotic Fiction , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Presidential Erotica: A Chocolate-Vanilla Swirl

30 Comments Posted by on November 4, 2012

President Barrack Obama stewed in the Oval Office late one Friday night.  Frazzled about the country’s impending decision over his job, he kept running over numbers from various focus groups and demographics as he wearily tried to figure out if he was missing any key voters before Election Day.  Drained, he decided to call it a night and closed his binder, but just then the door opened.  Stunned, Obama turned to see none other than his opposition and Republican candidate, Mitt Romney, standing in the door.

 

“Hey there; you’re looking well, Mr. President.”

 

“You too, governor, what are you here for?”

 

“Don’t play hard to get; you know exactly why I’m here.”

 

As soon as Romney let those words leave his lips he and the president each took three quick strides towards each other and collapsed on the floor in a sloppy, homoerotic, interracial make out session that would make anyone’s grandparents vomit with rage.

 

Mitt worked his mouth down the president’s wrinkled shirt and unbuckled his belt with his teeth as Obama reciprocated the action.

 

“Happy birthday, Mr. President.”

 

“It’s not my birthday.”

 

“Then why are we about to party like it is?”

 

Simultaneously and instinctively they took one another’s Anthony Weiners and jammed it in their respective mouths in a beautiful bipartisan display.  They had turned the Oval Office into the Oral Office in no less than two minutes.   Although not members of the Tea Party, the two candidates proceeded to do their share of tea bagging as waves of pleasure washed over them.

 

Romney was trying to hold on for a few more moments, but it was not use.  He accidentally thought about how little he paid in taxes as took the First Penis out of his mouth and with urgency in his voice hollered, “Do you want it in your mouth or on your face?”

 

“What,” replied Obama, taking the governor’s Dick Nixon out of his mouth.

 

“Well, I figured since you’re pro-choice I’d give you the option.”

 

Without words Obama took some affirmative action and let that hot, billionaire cream hit him in the face.  By the time it was over the president looked like he had been in an explosion at a whiteout factory.

 

Romney, being a gentleman, reached in his coat pocket and pulled out several wads of cash and one Chinese baby that he gave to the president to clean himself up.

 

“Talk about a loaded question,” Obama said through a laugh.

 

“Oh, you’re so bad.”

 

“Quit your filibustering and let me fill you, buster.”  Obama stated as he aggressively bent Romney over the desk and mounted him from behind.  “Oh, yes, we can,” Obama said to himself before he penetrated Romney’s rear cave like it was in Pakistan and his member was a member of SEAL Team Six.

 

With furious thrusts Barrack began to rock the desk and initiated ass-warfare on much more than just the top one-percent of Romney’s pooper.

 

The sex was short-lived, but powerful and Obama let freedom ring after a few thorough thrusts resulting in the president emptying, a much more eco-friendly, Exxon Valdez-esque load into Romney’s dumper.  Exhausted the two collapsed onto the floor in an embrace.

 

Predictable, the president soon sparked up a post-coital cigarette while Romney began counting the money in his wallet to wind down, but not before letting a little bit of Santorum leak out of his strip mine and onto the Oval Office’s carpet.

 

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Everyone is Awesome-2

13 Comments Posted by on November 2, 2012

Dearest Everyone,

Be forewarned: this is a nice post.  I know most people who read my ramblings have tuned in each week to read erotic fiction or other musing about what monstrosities fell out of my balloon knot, but this week I want to send a genuine thank you out to all of you.   I have loved the support that all you crazy diamonds have given me and I hope we can keep this runaway freight train filled with potty humor and doody bombs a rolling.

This week my post here is about sappy, Lifetime movie-type stuff here.  However, if you’re looking for a “traditional” rambling from the Internet’s adult baby I have been honored this week with a guest post on The Guilty Conscience called “The Unbearable Loss of a Facebook Friend” .  So please check it out if you’re feeling inclined. The Guilty Conscience is also an awesome blog that has supported me, even though I initially it was just about scientific findings published by con-men who have been found guilty.

Adult-Baby Nation, you all do give me a warm feeling inside, wait, actually I think that’s just my lunch-whiskey.  But seriously though, you guys are amazing and I know I’m not always the best at responding to your comments or awards.  So here goes some much needed recognition to some people who have nominated me for awards.  They are truly cool cats who I would shoot pool and smoke cigarettes with at a jazz club any day.

  • Jeff Lisak Books: A nice guy and versed in writing in the Gang-Warfare with Sci-Fi genre; seriously , it’s like The X-Files meets The Outsides and everyone is a sexy as David Duchovny
  • Keli Has a Blog: Another awesome person who writes poetry and posts about dreams and cats.  Her site is the undisputed source that I frequent for all things cat, dream, or poetry related.
  • Desert Rose: Musings about everything and anything; if you can’t find something you like on here The Police, and by that I mean just Sting, will be after you.

I love you all and you all have a standing invitation to come eat McRibs with me in the trash pile that I call living quarters.  Please let me know if any of the links don’t work; I’m not great at computers and I think my Windows 95 caught an Altavista cookie or something.

 

Love,

Justin

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Career Fair

22 Comments Posted by on October 26, 2012

Joy, another college co-ed trying to convince me to hire her. She’s all zipped up in her fancy shirts and eager-pants while doing her best impression of someone who wants to commit fifty hours a week for the next twenty-five years to analyzing rat poison supply chain schematics.  I know, pinch me; my job is just so fucking fantastic I must be dreaming instead of abusing painkillers each night in my studio apartment in Bumblepoo, Ohio.

 

Holy Type II Diabetes, Batman, this one is way too enthusiastic.  She found our mission statement, “We Good, Rats Bad”, and is giving an introspective reflection on what that means to her and how it’s shaped her outlook on life.  Actually, that mission was from our, near illiterate, savant founder.  Yes, our Public Relations department has done a great job covering up such revealing aspects of his life, like his numerous financial contributions to the American Nazi party and that he celebrates the fact that we are the preferred rat poison for cults committing mass suicide.  His idea to run a marketing campaign on that last tenant would have been, well, suicide.

 

Wow, she’s still going on how these four monosyllabic words have explained the universe to her.  With one word I could stop this torrent of embarrassment gushing out of her mouth, but, then what would I do for entertainment?

 

Hard worker, team player, tolerator of the diverse, mhmm, yeah, I’ve heard those generic lines from everyone, sweetie, yet I’m still left with a lazy, selfish, workforce who continues to insist on contributing significant portions of their paychecks to the American Nazi party, so why should I believe you? Oh, here’s why you think that—it’s because you listed it on your resume, a resume that, tragically, you wrote in Comic Sans for some misguided reason.   That’s adorable; you’re talking about why you put it in Comic Sans, as if you could ever justify it or as if I would ever care.  No, sweet cheeks, it doesn’t come across as kitschy, creative, or “showcasing your fun side”.  Honestly, both our lives have been set on darker courses for having listened to you or even being here today.

 

This is getting pathetic; Comic Sans just asked a question about our third quarter earnings versus our expected annual growth.  Let’s have some fun with this.

 

Man, giving overly complicated sounding answers that are really just saying buzzwords and jargon nonsensically strung together is becoming addicting, not as addicting as painkillers, but addicting nevertheless.  “Glocal economies are what we anticipate synergizing once our Six Sigma black belts can conquer some new Asian territory versus the Federal Reserve’s self-corrections”.  Yeah, that sounded like Bjork read a Wall Street Journal and then tried to write lyrics for a new album no one wants.  Yet Comic Sans over here is frantically scribbling down every bit of it like it’s the cure for cancer or the Colonel’s secret blend of herbs and spices.

 

She’s just trying too hard to get this interview; I think she might pull a muscle in her face from giggling at literally everything I said.  I can tell you right now that we’re not going to interview her.  She has no experience; she gave generic, plain-flavored-Quaker-oatmeal-esque answers to everything; and she has blonde hair and blue eyes that are only going to enforce the prevalent Nazi stereotype of our company. Overall, she strikes me as really dumb, like the type who would be perplexed if her new toaster didn’t come with a manual.

 

Although she’s a terrible candidate for a supply chain position but as a candidate I could flex into a sexual position?  Yeah, let’s go for it—I’m down to stick my pen in some non-company stink.

 

 

“Hey, would you want to discuss this opportunity over a drink with me later?”

 

 

Joy, I think this business prick is trying to hit on me.  I just came to this career fair wanting a job—and not a job that’s prefaced with “suck”, “rim”, or “manual labor”, mind you.  This short, corporate-rat-poison prick with his lazy-ish, well, just not as hard-working, eye will be in for a rude awakening if sex is what’s in his poison-riddled mind right now.  Here he goes into his best impression of the guy he thinks I’d want to be with for the next twenty-five years or so when in reality he’s just another guy in a fancy shirt and eager-pants looking get off the clock and subsequently get off all over me.

 

Holy shot of penicillin, Batman, I think he just leaned in and tried to make a joke.  I couldn’t discern a punch line from his monosyllabic stammer, but all of a sudden he stopped the surge of anti-charm coming out of his mouth and looked for a reaction out of me before he started uncontrollably sweating and clicking his jaw.  I just tried to force a little laugh.  Not too much though, we wouldn’t want him to think he’s actually funny or have him, god-forbid, attempt another joke.  We just need to force enough laughter for him to save face so that he doesn’t go home and kick a dog or take a bunch of painkillers to ease his sexual frustration; I wouldn’t want a dog hurt out of my lack of amusement, and, seriously, guys who look like short business Nazis have done worse for less.

 

Oof, he’s still going with this, generously named, “comedy” part of his flirting.  I don’t know why he keeps going with this; honestly, I think Michael Richards could get more laughs at an Al Sharpton’s birthday party.  With one word I could stop this speeding locomotive of humiliation he’s riding, but, then what would I do for entertainment?

 

Open minded, free spirit, thorough, mhmm, yeah, I’ve hear those generic lines before, guy.  Is that why you wore your puka shell necklace under your tie?  Does that really stick it to those one-percent, corporate fat cats?  Never mind,  He’s too busy explaining the tattoo sleeve of civil rights figures he wants to get.  No, that tattoo doesn’t make you “deep” and it certainly doesn’t “heel the scars of slavery” as he put; that tattoo makes you the idiot who’s trying too hard to seem not racist.

 

Wow, he just segued from speaking about his civil rights sleeve to asking me about my ancestry.  I swear if he brings up the universe or Burning Man next I’m going to barf angrily.

 

It should be illegal to have as much fun as that answer was to give.  He’s absorbed by my non-sequiturs and my fabrications about “the old country traditions,” “my real birthday versus my German birthday”, and “waltzes during eclipses of the harvest moon under Sagittarius at the gord festival”.   Hilarious, he’s eating it up every word like it’s some fair-trade oats that he claims to give a shit about.

 

This is even better, he’s trying to analyze it and make sense of it.  I think I just heard him misquote Aristotle, Descartes, and Savage Garden all in an attempt at an explanation for the concept of “culture”.  Jesus, this is getting painful.  I really wish one of us could just die right now to put me out of the misery of this conversation—where is a D.C. Sniper when you need one?

 

Okay, he’s still trying to convince me; this is beyond human politeness.  He would be a terrible coworker and I’m guessing a horrible sexual partner, since, based on his vanity, I think his life is too empty and he’s too sad to achieve orgasm.  I’m don’t want to deal with all this; I just want money from a job.

 

I’ve seen enough; I don’t really give a shit about my chances at a rat poison company anyways. I’m just going to cough in his face and walk away.

 

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