From Justin Gawel: Eccentric Dirtbag
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.”
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!
–We rejoin our hero on his figurative precipice, about to dive into the graphic description of last night’s sexual encounter in which no detail is too trivial to not mention.
“She invited me up to her place,” Milton continued, “It didn’t matter that it was below freezing out or that her heat had been turned off at her apartment; I had enough warm wang to thaw an igloo. One look at my demeanor, or the demeanor of my penis, and you would know that Milton Honeysnickle was ready to jam his beef log in some of that stinky, Kellenberger cookie.”
The orcs destroying the sleepy town of Djallenfjord in the group’s game of Dungeons and Dragons would have to wait to be vanquished; this traveling party had more pressing things on their plate at the moment; Milton carried on with his tale of conquest, “We go back to her room and I rip her clothes off with such force that they’re reduced to mere rags, suitable for nothing more except maybe cleaning clogged drains in pubic schools. I plunge my face into that bushy badger’s nest she was sporting and I start licking those meat curtains like I’m devouring a Subway Cold Cut Combo. Each stroke from my tongue is more aggressive than the last; rattling that clitoris like it’s a die in a Yahtzee shaker in a game played by Parkinson’s patients during an earthquake. She was almost there, but I stop, because my forceful licks are starting to break skin.
The group is in awe at this point; Milton has them at full attention. He knows they are hanging on to every moist detail of his story. “I took my mouth out of her pube forest and stood up. My steel girder of a bulge was testing the strength of the button on my jeans and when I tried to remove the pants the button shot off into the corner of room and lodged itself in the skull of her roommate’s cat. I froze momentarily, worried a dead animal could kill the mood, but she quickly reassured me, “Hey, when you’re done lodging things in that pussy I see something of yours I like to lodge in my pussy.” She had given me the green light and I wasted no time pulling out my junk as I imagined myself lighting a cigarette and saying a cool-guy tagline.
Nerdenkrantz’s misgivings had been silenced, as he too sat, rapt with excitement hanging on every word out of Milton’s mouth. “My wang blazed a trail through her thicket of dark stringy hairs and before long my battering ram was knocking down the doors to the infamous Kellenberger lady bits. At this point I just start using that battering ram of a dong I’ve got to just fully hammer her slop hole. Like a pneumatic nail gun; I’m just firing and reloading over and over again as the bed frame and walls begin to rattle causing picture after picture to crash to the floor covering the dead cat in a layer of broken glass and precious Kellenberger family memories.”
Milton leaned forward and drew the crowd in, “Now this is when it’s kicked up a level,” he teased, “After about five minutes of that I bend her right leg up and start going at it, essentially hitting the NOS on my sex drive. She let out a little yelp, like a dog that had been accidentally stepped on, as I can tell my thrusts are shaking her internal organs like she’s on some unsafe carnival ride. Well, guess what, bitch, you are on an unsafe ride and his name is Milton Honeysnickle.”
“It was after then I pulled her leg back farther to try to get even deeper. It was here that I thought her leg felt like ligaments were popping, but she didn’t care. She was too busy trying to repress her screams to keep from straining her vocal cords while still attempting to keep herself conscious through the extreme g-forces being exerted on her. I heard a cracking sounds and worried that her leg was breaking, but I realized that it was just the box spring starting to splinter under my domineering force. Good work, Sealy, way to not make a box spring that couldn’t handle my Saturday night.”
“She was nearing, yet another, bone-rattling and mind-shattering orgasm and she repressed her pleasure shrieks long enough to get out an “Oh God, oh God,” to which I simply replied, “Hey, baby, I’m here, but you don’t have to call me God, you can just call me Milton.” She nodded as if she understood, but I doubt anyone could hear much over the sound of me furiously entering and exiting her while my jackhammering of her flesh cavern continued.”
The room had become hotter and the boys clenched their fists in an attempt to draw their attention away from their arousal. “As I neared my big finish,” Milton progressed, “The decision to pull out wasn’t made out of worry that she would get pregnant; it was more of a concern for that the monstrous power of my load might damage her cervix or possibly even her small intestine. I wanted to go for round two in a bit and that was going to be tough if I she had a bunch of internal bleeding. I decided blast my cock cream into the closest thing I could find, which happened to be a blanket that looked pretty old, very handmade, and looked to contain the most sentimental value. Since I couldn’t find anything else, and I didn’t want to risk anymore structural damage to the room, I pulled out a few thrusts later and released my floodgates into this personal item of Kelly’s at a PSI pressure level that was enough to rupture a sewer line.
“Was she mad,” Nerdenkrantz wondered. “No,” Milton responded, “The blanket was destroyed beyond recognition, but that’s what two gallons of hot goo shot at a dangerously high velocity can do. She probably didn’t even realize it; she had never experienced anything like that before in her life and if she didn’t care about a dead cat I’m guessing she wouldn’t care about a ruined blanket. For the next twenty minutes she just lied there while I made a sandwich and ate it while I took a dump in her bathroom. After that she was able to gather the strength to actually sit up in bed, which revealed that she had acquired massive rug burns all over her back. It was a learning moment for both of us as we both could recognize and appreciate that Milton Honeysnickle creates a lot of friction when he fucks.”
“Was that it, man,” Nerdenkrantz asked, begging for there to be more to the epic. “Well, after that, we stayed up until about seven in the morning and did the deed about three more times. We both fell asleep very satisfied at that point; then I woke up at her place around noon and took the bus home.”
The group remained stunned, still trying to wrap their minds around Milton’s experience. They slowly moved into their Dungeons and Dragons game for the week and the rest of the night went smoothly and predictably. However, from that point forward Milton was no longer the butt of any verbal jabs or cutting remarks and the group began to go back to picking on each other for other reasons.
Of course Milton’s story was completely fake since in actuality he had spent his Saturday night going to a small house party, drinking a fifth of vodka, and attempting to give a very clammy and non-consensual back rub to the host’s seventeen-year old sister who was up visiting college.
