Darrell Vickers – Farting Through Nylon – Chapter Five: Needle-Dick the Bug-Fucker
Five minutes later, I walked into my apartment building with an empty stomach, no food and a big bump on my head. I wasn’t totally empty-handed though, because Rebecca was perched and ever-lovely upon my threshold. “Damn!” me thinks, “If only I wasn’t so tired I could make up for the other night’s blood-flow problems.” But no, I had to be sensible now. I just needed a morsel of food (Alas, I was morselless.) and some long overdue sleep.
Rebecca was the first to broach the subject of romance.
“Hey there, Zack? I missed you.”
“Ah listen, I would just love to relive last night. Only, I swear I’d be much more sober and stiffer. ‘Cause, you know, I can be really better and stiffer and even a little bit longer, if not under the influence. But, I just had my skull cracked open by a Korean convenience-store proprietor and I’m completely whacked. Would it be possible for you to come back another time? Like tomorrow?”
“But I’m here right now,” she whispered suggestively.
As nice as it sounded, I had new responsibilities. You have to be a real grown up here, Zack.
“I’d love to have your ‘company,’ Rebecca, but I don’t have anything to eat in my apartment.”
“That’s because I’m not in there yet.”
There was something about the way she said that. It made my legs go all weak at the top. I could hear my man-stick asking me if there was any chance I would reconsider. But, I needed rest. I could hardly stand. Be strong, young business man!
“That…sounds really good, terrific even, but I really need to eat food.” It suddenly occurred to me, I might be able to trip on out to the Vietnamese-owned convenience store on the other block. “Say, can you change a thousand?”
Rebecca didn’t bat a false eyelash. She reached into her purse and pulled out a wad. “Sure. What do you need?”
As she plucked the bill from my hand, my dewy eyes were worshipping at the temple of her delicate, oh-so-ample buxomness. (Translation – I was rudely staring at her boobs.) By now, my lady pleaser was weeping and pounding its fists against the inside of my jockeys. I looked deep into her eyes. They promised all the sensual delights of Versailles. And really, when you think about it, that’s an awful lot of sensual delights for only five hundred dollars.
“How about you keep half and give me the rest in twenties?”
“You know just the words that a horny girl wants to hear!”
Five minutes later, acts of incalculable fabulousness, that you normally only read about in books sold in limited-release video stores, were happening to me. She did things with her stuff that practically had me ejaculating out of my ears. I believe that I can say, without fear of contradiction that it was orgasma-rific. And then I fell asleep. I assume that Rebecca also achieved erogenic satisfaction. If not, at least I had put up a better showing.
I dreamt that night that Alchemy was nibbling on my ear. It was blissful. It was actually Rebecca nibbling on my ear which was also pretty spiffy but way more expensive.
Now, I don’t want you to get the idea that I’m like some kind of prostitute fetish guy. I mean, yes, Rebecca was a prostitute. But I’d like to think she was a woman first. See, I really, really like women. But as I stated earlier, those tender feelings have not always been reciprocated. To say the least. So many times I have looked forlornly to the 
heavens and cried “Oh why Lord, if you would not grant me the skill, why did you burden me with the desire?” It’s something Antonio Salieri says in Amadeus. God, the girl in that movie was awesome, wasn’t she? The way her rack…Anyway, I’m paraphrasing ‘cause I’m too lazy to look it up but you get my point. That’s me, the modern day Salieri. Totally awash in studly desire but also disastrously lacking in lothario skillz. It was so, so hard for me to talk to girls. And it was even harder for me to get them to talk back. Sure, “paying for it” was not the ideal situation, but it had been such a very, very long time (except for the day before, when it was completely floppity and useless) since I had enjoyed the imparadised company of a lady. I just couldn’t resist. Please don’t think too badly of me.
A soft whisper floated into my head like a warm summer breeze over the moors of Brigadoon. “It’s eight o’clock, baby. It’s time to go to that really high-paying job of yours.”
How evil is money? Philosophers and bards throughout the ages have attempted to gauge its deleterious effect on humanity. How, like the drip, drip, drip of a malevolent rain, it slowly, irreparably erodes the very foundations of decency and morality. If love is a blessing more precious than gold, then surely greed is a curse worth less than the basest of metals. I think to really appreciate the true insidious iniquity of this vile commodity, one need only look at the awful things it makes us do. On this particular morn, it dragged a young man against his will, from his warm and comfy, girl-infested cot. For it wasn’t enough that he had earned a sizable wage yesterday. He must do it again today and tomorrow. He was condemned to pound his hammer on the anvil of commerce until his soul split wide and his dreams drained away.
In other words, I really didn’t want to get up.
I rolled over on my pillow and soul kissed my rent-a-beloved. “So I hear Mr. Limo Driver isn’t your brother,” I mumbled through a yawn and rubbed my droopy lids.
“Nah. That was Artie’s idea…he’s actually my husband.”
Yikes! The droop traveled instantly from my eyelids down to my dick.
And there I sat, eating my Cap’n Crunch, Crunch Berries across the table from a guy whose wife I had just engaged in barbarous acts of carnality with. It would be untruthful to claim that this was the most comfortable of morning meals. He just sat there, staring at me. Smiling. I didn’t know whether he was going to tell a joke or slit my throat. Limo drivers are devilishly hard to read that way.
Oh. Perhaps I didn’t mention that Rebecca was sitting beside me, as naked as a Robert Maplethorpe photo (only without a foot sticking up her ass). I think she had the oatmeal. The silence (except for the crunching of my crunch berries) and the tension were excruciating. I knew I was going to have to say something or make a mad dash for the door and safety. I took a sip of coffee and tried to act as insouciant as possible.
“So…” That was all I could think of. What to say next! I started to sweat bullets. Artie and his naked wife both looked at me, waiting for the end of my sentence. Say something, asshole! “I hear you guys are married.” I smiled weakly and without spirit. I took another gulp of coffee. Perhaps if I asked a question, somebody else in the room would fucking say something. “Ah, any little ones?”
Artie leaned in. I leaned back. He squinted at me. “So, which sex was hotter? When you thought she was my sister or when you knew she was my wife?”
“It’s…I really didn’t. I mean, I only found out about your marital union… Cause you know, I’m so totally respectful of…”
“He was way too drunk to really get any good fucking in me that first night, weren’t you Zackie?” Rebecca chimed in helpfully as she stroked my earlobe.
“I may have had a wee bit too, to, but…”
“I worked on Mister Happy for about and hour with my mouth but it was a noodle.”
“Did you try licking his asshole?”
I guess these were common tricks of the trade. My cereal was looking less and less appetizing by the second. I was sure glad that I hadn’t chosen to have bowl of Berry Burst Cheerios.
“Oh yeah. I licked it, stuck my tongue up in there and wiggled it all the way around the inside, but he was just too wasted. Noodle, noodle, noodle.”
“Perhaps ass licking and lingual sphincter probing, while wonderful in practice…ah… perhaps there’s another topic of breakfast conversation? Is there anything new in the world of paleontology?”
Rebecca squidged herself up to next me, one of her wonderful, plump, pert breasts coming to rest in the crook of my arm. As much as I wanted to reach over and caress her perky little nipple, I refrained. Somehow it didn’t seem inappropriate.
“Sure.” Rebecca chirped, “There’s plenty of shit we can talk about. So, how much did you make yesterday, honey?” She began skillfully licking my cheek. It was very nice.
They both waited eagerly for an answer. I tried to keep a clear head as the tip of her tongue cruised past my eye.
“That’s sort of a personal question and I really don’t feel comfortable, no offense, at this juncture, discussing my financial affairs with a prostitute I hardly know and her husband.”
Rebecca possessed one of those thirsty, inquiring minds that could find no rest until her curiosity was sated.
“Oh darn. Mr. Secretive! I was only wondering, cause, you know, if it was a lot…I’d probably be so turned on I’d instantly suck your cock.”
This gave me cause to ponder. But not for too long.
“You know, right here in front of Artie. My husband. He’d be forced to watch as I took your whole throbbing tool into my warm, wet mouth. Right down to your adorable fuzzy balls.”
I looked at Artie. He was still smiling. I looked at Rebecca’s nipple that was still resting in the crook of my arm. I looked at her tender dewy lips, which promised all the wonders of Xanadu. I looked at my phone to see how much time I had.
“About 14,500 dollars.”
Rebecca gave my neck one last lick, dropped to her knees and started to undo my pants. It’s a little hard to know what to do in a situation like that. It was kind of uncharted territory for me. The belt buckle was undone. School, even well respected places of higher learning such as Williams, just don’t prepare you for eventualities of this nature. My zipper was ever-so-slowly pulled down. Gosh, that’s one of the nicest sounds in the universe(When you’re not doing the unzipping yourself, of course.). I gave Artie a wan but friendly smile as he bit into one last spoonful of the Cap’n. My delighted member was plucked from of its cottony enclave and came to rest in her soft, talented hands. O joyous beast!
“You’re really going to like that decision,” he said comfortingly.
The next second, life became so beautifully moist and exquisite that I didn’t even finish my coffee.
20 minutes later, I was in the back of a stretch limo with a freshly washed Johnson. There is very little that can compare to the sublime and nectarous act of fellatio. It’s like having your corndog inside a vagina that grew a tongue and a hand. Watching that beautiful little head bob up and down while you just sit there and work on your gusher, it’s…It’s absolutely the gold standard of sex acts. There’s a transcendent spirituality to it that no amount of time, or having to pay a certain sum of money to receive it, can diminish. That a woman would be so kind as to do such a thing is just so 
rapturous in its blessedocity. Call me a hopeless romantic but, after the act, I just cannot stop thinking very nice and grateful thoughts about the girl who just tongued my howdy. This feeling of gratitude can last for days or even weeks. BING! I’m suddenly overcome by a goofy smile and spontaneous thankfulness. I can’t help it. It’s just a lovely thing to do for someone.
I leaned back in the plush leather limo seat and smiled, but it was not a wan smile this time. No, not by a long shot.
It’s amazing the effect a few days of success has on people. For me personally, I had eaten a real breakfast with real food every morning that week. I had had sex. Often, I had the real food and the sex at the same time. You can’t really put a price on something like that (But Rebecca certainly could). All the employees in the office had massively upped the quality of their threads. My colleagues had traded their department store attire for trendy boutique-wear (Except for Alchemy of course, who 
always dressed like she was on television.).
Their watches went from fake brand names to real brand names. The guys were fucking with their dicks and the women were fucking with their hair. Everyone was happy.
Harvey, bless him, didn’t cut a single corner when it came to making his worker bees happy. And we were buzzing. Even the common room was sublimely opulent. It had Italian-leather couches, a free digital jukebox and a pastry tray that was refilled every hour from the very expensive bakery down the street. I can’t remember what it was called but it was named after some famous French guy. Most office building common rooms offer a sink, a coffee maker they found in the alley behind Goodwill and powdered creamer left over from the Battle of the Somme. It’s traditionally a place designed to make your own shitty office or cubical look almost stately. This vocational Valhalla had a carpet so plush, you couldn’t see your toes if you took your shoes off!
We all congregated there a couple of times a day to take a break from making ridiculous amounts of money and drink coffee that had been shit out of a weasel or something. I didn’t quite understand what made it more expensive than say, coffee beans that hadn’t been picked out of some rodent’s steaming dump pile. But then, I guess I’m not really a connoisseur.
Randy was over on one of the couches flipping through Forbes Magazine, in search of a nice casa de campo to stay in on the Duero River in Northern Portugal. I think he wanted to go there because he could talk snottily about its rocky terraces and low-hanging grapes while he was pouring 300 dollar port down the throats of the assholes he went to school with.
Brian walked into the room and made a beeline for the fresh gooey éclairs. Randy popped his head up from his Iberian article and bellowed, “Like you need to stuff more fucking shit into that fat, ugly face of yours. Try saving some food for the rest of New York.”
“Randy!” Alchemy, charity’s sweetest flower, couldn’t stand to see even someone from Amherst treated so rudely.
“And don’t bother to try and talk to the rest of us you boring little fucktooth. Just go back to your room and get even fatter.”
I could see that Alchemy was very unhappy. I decided to earn a couple of Brownie points and jump to Brian’s defense. “That’s pretty rude, man.” I didn’t want to over do it. Just make a symbolic gesture.
“Fuck ‘im. Fuck him like his gay-assed roommates did. Amherst Shit Sucker!”
Brian picked a twelve dollar confectionary item off the tray and sulked on back to his office. He tried to leave in a huff but he couldn’t quite pull it off. I felt a little sorry for him. I tried to feel really sorry for him for Alchemy’s sake, but you can only do so much.
As Brian was sulking off, a new guy entered the room. He was duded up in this weird sub-continental, white dressy thing with traditional cottony white trousers underneath. He looked like he’d just stepped off the set of Logan’s run. Nice guy, though. Very cheery.
“Greetings! I am Punjab from MIT,” he said in a very, very thick articulated Indian accent.
“Zack, Williams.”
“Alchemy, Princeton.”
“Randy, Dartmouth.”
“This is a jolly good job to be having, don’t you think? I surely hope they don’t decide to outsource it to my ratbag relatives.”
Punjab was one of those typical MIT guys. His two main interests in life were multiplying gigundous equations together in his head and science fiction. I think MIT grads are so fascinated with space because they want to believe that there’s a race of alien women out there, in such a remote part of the universe, that they’re even attracted to MIT guys.
I wondered which forehead show or graphic novel series he was psychotically obsessed with as he took a sip of his St. Helena coffee. Battlestar Galactica? (The original of course), Deep Space 9? The Starlost? (Only for real obscuros) Firefly? Next Gen.? Dr. Who? (Probably not esoteric enough.) My wondering was cut short by Randy’s bitching.
“I don’t understand why we can’t get our commission money now. The pay here is adequate, I suppose, but I’m making 30 times that a day in sales.”
“It’ll just make that big check in a few months all the sweeter,” Alchemy offered.
“Poor, poor sensible Miss Princeton. Where are you ever going to find any joy or success in life with a fucked up attitude like that? If you don’t demand what you deserve, and grab everything you can, you’re a sap and you’re going to end up eating out of a dumpster next some Amherst grad.”
Luckily, we were spared any more of Randy’s “life vision,” because Harvey ambled into the room. It was so weird. Here was the owner of this hugely successful company and he actually looked like he was nervous to come up and talk to the people he was paying a fortune to.
“I’m so sorry to bother you guys on your break.”
I for one was prepared to go into full-tilt ass-kiss mode. “Hey, absolutely no problem, sir. Do you need something doing?”
Harvey shook his head and pulled out some envelopes. “Like you guys aren’t doing way, way more than a pigeon-licking jerk-off like me deserves already. You’re so educated and smart and so kind to an old stupid fuckshit like me that, well…I was wondering if I could give you your paychecks a day early. You’ve all been doing such a great job; I just couldn’t wait till tomorrow. Every time I see you guys, I feel like a world class prick for not paying you more.”
Harve started doling out the big envelopes. Yep, Rebecca was going to be very pleased. And my Mr. Thrusty was going to be very pleased that Rebecca was very pleased. Perhaps it was time to broach the subject of flavored syrups?
Of course, Randy would have to spoil everything.
“Hey Harve, you couldn’t fork over some of that commission money early, could you?”
“Randy!” There was a lot of ice in Alchemy’s voice. Yes, she could be very cold and scolding when she wanted to be. It was easy to imagine her in a prison warden’s outfit as I was tied up and bent over a table. She’d bellow out orders in this gruff German accent while smacking my balls with a wooden school ruler. But, perhaps I’ve said too much.
Back to the common room.
Harvey’s face had turned beet red. “I can’t apologize enough.”
I decided this conversation needed to get back to some serious ass-kissing before we all got fired.
“There is no need, sir.” He gave me that little pouty look. “Harve. You’ve been way, way more than generous. We couldn’t be happier with this job and your exceptional generosity.”
“No. No. You’re very kind, but Randy is completely right. I know it’s a hassle, not getting your commissions for a whole six months. It’s an outrage. You’ve earned them and you deserve them. It’s just; I don’t get my money for six months. It’s a cash flow problem.”
Alchemy, Punjab and I (the people in the room who weren’t total fucking assholes) all piled on with the buttock smooches but Harvey seemed very distraught and could not be undistraughted. Then a little sparkle came into his eye.
Was he going to fire Randy?
“Perhaps I could talk to a friend of mine in the banking community. If you wanted to take out a loan, I’d be more than happy to co-sign for you and I’ll pay all the interest. It’s the least I could do. All you would have to do is pay back the principle.”
“That is exceedingly magnanimous of you sir, but we couldn’t ask you to do anything of the sort,” insisted Alchemy.
“Me neither,” I added nobly.
“Absolutely, not a thing that is necessary of you boss.” I think we can all pretty well figure out who said that.
Then. Silence.
More silence.
Alchemy elbowed Randy in the ribs. I elbowed Randy in the ribs.
“Sure. Whatever.”
“I’m super serious about this, guys. I just adore all of you to death. My door is always open should you change your mind. It would only take one little phone call.”
Harvey gave us a little shy wink and humbly went back to his office. We just stood there for a second, to contemplate what an unbelievably nice guy our boss was. We thought about how truly fortunate we were to be working there. But mostly, we were thinking about his offer. Well, most of us were thinking about it.
“So Zack, I hear it from various people in the building that you are indeed a homosexual dick smoker?”
Randy spit out his coffee and fell on the floor. Fucking asshole.
=DV=
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Darrell Vickers started out as one half of Toronto area band, Nobby Clegg. CFNY fans may remember the cheery song “Me Dad” which still gets airplay. From there, he valiantly ventured to L.A. and eventually became head writer for The Tonight Show with Johnny Carson. Since then, he’s created numerous sitcoms and animation shows in Canada and the U.S. He still writes music and has an internet band called Death of the Author Brigade (members in Croatia, Canada and the U.S.) Mr. Vickers also had a private music mailing-list where he features new and pre-loved music. Anyone who would like to be added to his daily mailing list, just write him at Radiovickers1@gmail.com
Segarini: Don't Believe a Word I Say 
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