Ramblings From an Apathetic Adult Baby

From Justin Gawel: Eccentric Dirtbag

Tag Archives: erotic fiction

Autoerotic Fiction

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

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.

 

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