Darrell Vickers – Farting Through Nylon Chapter Six: Turn It Up To Frenzy!

I think if I were writing a movie instead of a can’t-put-it-down bestseller, I’d make the next few scenes into one of those quick-cut montages to the tune “Money” by Pink Floyd.  Or perhaps “It’s Money That I Love” by Randy Newman.  That day became a veritable cavalcade of unbridled greed and sneaking around.  First it was Flora from Duke, then Josh from John Hopkins and a couple of Brown grads.  Punjab dashed out and actually bought Harvey flowers before asking for his advance.  Randy waited until Brian summoned up the courage to knock on Harvey’s door, then he ran up and pushed him over a big plant pot and walked into the office himself.  What a dick.

Unlike my shamefully weak, craven and grasping co-workers, I lasted a full two-and-a-half hours before I crawled in to ask for my big advance.  Okay, I had to wait until Alchemy went home before I went a-grovelin’.  No way was I going to let her see me debase myself like that for mere cash.  That would have totally scotched any chance I had of gettin’ some of Alchemy’s gold.  And, until I knew for sure that someone else was mining her ore, there was still a chance I might be able to get myself a couple of love nuggets.  Even the smallest of her crumbs would have been a feast for my heart.

I was amazed.  This whole loan business turned out to be such a simple process.  I went in and Harve had me sign about four sheets of paper while we listened to old Jerry Vale records.  That was it.  I can tell you, banks could learn a thing or two from that man (Except for his taste in music, cause, like, Jerry Vale sucks.).

He was still apologizing, as I signed the last couple of forms. “Of course, you know if I could, I’d just give it to you.  I mean it’s your money.  I just don’t got it.  You don’t hold it against me do ya, kid?”

“I could never hold anything against you, sir.”  I handed him the pages and he handed me this big, fat envelope.

“Are you sure you don’t want more than the quarter million?”

“To be honest sir, I’d feel funny about taking it.”

I could see the dewy eyes starting up again. “Can I…can I give you a hug?”

The next thing I knew, these big bear arms wrapped around me like the Orgasmatron in Barbarella.  How come I didn’t get this kind of treatment from those assholes at Bofa when all I needed was a measly 500 to finance a kegger during my last year of high school?

Now, I know what you’re thinking.  “$250,000!  Are you fucking crazy!”  And you’re right.  Normally, borrowing a quarter of a million dollars from somebody I hardly knew would have seemed somewhat incautious, bordering on irresponsible.  But the commission money was just pouring in.  Sales never seemed to stop.  By my second week, I had already covered half of my debt.

And boy, was I not alone.

If you walked into the common room a couple of days later, it was not hard to spot who had taken Harvey up on his ultra-generous offer.  Everyone had gone from Hugo Boss and medium-priced Dolce & Gabbana to William Fioravanti and top-of-the-line Dolce & Gabbana.  There wasn’t a pair of feet that weren’t comfortably ensconced in 600-dollar shoes.

I, of course, dressed well but to not too ostentatious.  I had Alchemy’s opinion of me to think of.  Yeah, I was playing this whole thing about as smart as a dude could play it.

Unlike Randy.

He comes in looking like he just stepped off Gerald Von Richfuck’s yacht.  He’s wearing an Anderson & Sheppard suit, which he flew to London on the weekend to have fitted.  His shoes are from fucking Testoni and he’s got Luxuriator Style 23 sunglasses that make his nose look like a lumpy turd in comparison.

And apparently, old Ran’ hadn’t finished with his nose decorations, because he marched over to one of the glass-top tables and dumped a big vile of coke across it and started chopping up lines with the razor blade on his neck chain.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”  I had never heard Alchemy curse before.  It was certainly called for and certainly titillating.  I wondered if her language got all fruity during “The Act”, swearing like some drunken sailor as she reached the very peak of arousal.  Ooooh.  I definitely felt a little tightening in the front of my Armani slacks.

Randy didn’t even look up from his chopping and arranging. “Hey, I made this company a mountain of money this morning.  I think old Randy deserves a little bit of fun time.”

With that, he took a couple of major toots.  His head rocked back like a teeny tiny forest elf had fired a pistol up into his brain through the roof of his mouth.

“Alchemy is right, man.  That is really bad Karma.”  It did look like good stuff though.

“You want some?”

“No thanks.  I did a jay with Dorothy about an hour ago.”

By the expressions on the faces of the people in that room, I guessed that Dorothy’s penchant for the herb was late-breaking news.

Every morning I took a few minutes to stop and talk to our adorably sweet receptionist and shoot the shit over a home-baked cookie.  Sure, I could have been in my office pounding out orders, but life has to be about more than just making money.  I know that’s heresy in a city like New York but I’m sorry, I’m just a people person.

So one day, I’m bending over to get a cookie while Dorothy is leaning over to straighten my tie and I smell something deliciously familiar on her breath.  Something, I regret to say, that I’d been neglecting as of late because I was so busy shopping, eating and having wonderful, wonderful sex.  We got to talking and it turned out that, apart from being a thoroughly good egg, Dorothy had also been quite the flower child in her day.  She’d lived in a commune, followed the Dead around and had access to some primo chronic.

From that moment on, I would show up a few minutes early for work and partake in a little mellow yellow in Harve’s executive bathroom while groovin’ to some quality bootlegs of New Minglewood Blues.  And she was most definitely on top of her holy herb factoids.

“This is White Widow.  It’s the winner of more Cannabis Cups and Pot Awards than any other strain. I don’t recommend it in brownies though, because of the potency.  It’s very hard to gauge the dose and once you’ve swallowed it, if it’s too much?  You’re pretty well fucked.”

Then Dorothy would go back to merrily knitting and singing “Truckin’” to herself while I stared blankly at my phone for an hour or two with my jaw hanging open like someone just hit me in the head with a circus tent mallet.  If the phrase “Woozy Two-Faced Beanfish” doesn’t have you eating carpet-fluff because you’re too paralyzed from laughter to move, then you can’t really appreciate the state I was in.

On the home front, things were proceeding in an orderly manner.  My relationship with Rebecca had blossomed into a deeper, more spiritual, 2,500 dollar-a-week union.  I appreciated the company and I adored the sex.  I even liked Artie.  He was a good, simple soul.  Nothing I did with and to his wife seemed to bother him.  And I certainly did a lot of naughty, naughty things with her.  Oh lordy, how we did love!

One night, Artie was playing solitaire at my kitchen table and Rebecca and I were sitting naked on the couch.  She had come up with some game she wanted to play to pass the time.  Any game where you start out nude on a couch is fine with me, so I said sure.

“So, how exactly does this work?” I inquired in my nakedness.

“First I blindfold you and then I hide something on my body and     you have to find it with your tongue,” she explained patiently.

“Is it a big thing?”

“Who cares?  If you’re like everyone else, once you get to my vagina, you’ll stop looking.”

Sometimes she made a lot of sense.  I was just about to go lingually a-roamin’ when there was a knock at the door.  This was really inconvenient and a very unusual occurrence.  Even when I didn’t have a prostitute and her husband living with me, I rarely entertained at Chez Bramble.  Girl Scouts, Jehovah’s Witnesses and candy seekers at Halloween all gave my discouragingly humble door a wide berth.  Nobody I knew ever dropped by.  You have to have friends for that.  I did have parents though.  Could this be my father?  Actually, I kind of liked the idea of it being daddy dearest.  Just to see the look on his face when he saw me standing there next to my au naturel ladylove.  Yeah, I know she was Artie’s ladylove, but the old man didn’t need to know that.  All he needed to know was that his boy was majorly gettin’ some.  Plus, he could fuck off and stick his money up his shit-cave.  Perhaps I could even get Rebecca to…

Another knock broke my train of thought.  I jumped up and creaked open the door ever so slightly.  Just in case it was a cop ready to truncheon my knob off.  That would not be unprecedented in my neighborhood.

But it wasn’t a truncheon wielding knob-cop.  And it wasn’t my regrettable father.

I’d always admired Izzy’s nose for its cute little shape and size.  Now I admired it for its acute sensitivity.  It had smelled my money from all the way across town.  She was wearing a long overcoat and a far friendlier smile than the last time I’d seen her.

“Hey Zack, I was just in the neighborhood and I thought I’d drop by,” she informed me, coquettishly.

Yikes.  This was a tough spot.  Perhaps the door crack was sufficiently skimpy that she wouldn’t realize that I was naked behind it.  I quickly jumped into survival mode.  No matter what, it was imperative that I stay cool.  And it was even more important that I not tell the truth.  I had to say something though.

“Izzy!  Hey!” How’s that for a James Bondian response?

She looked down and giggled. “Hey, I can see your little weenie through the crack in the door.”

Shit!  If I was going to have any chance of getting back with Izzy, I was going to have to deny her ingress.  The first part of my plan had already failed.  Now was probably a great time to start lying.  But it had to convincing and ironclad.

“Gee, it’s great to see you too, but unfortunately I’m a little busy right now.  What with stuff and shit.”

Izzy giggled again.  She had now done more giggling than the entire time we were an item.  And she got to see my size-challenged “fat boy” then, too.

“Yeah, I heard things are going pretty well for you.  Have you got Rebecca in there?”

“Who told you about…?’

“Randy.  My old boyfriend went to Dartmouth, remember?”

“What an asshole.“

“Uh huh.  They all are.  So, can I come in?  Cause I’m not wearing anything under this coat.  I thought maybe we could talk about this great new job of yours.”

Yes, it was all starting to make sense.

“She sounds delicious,” purred a familiar female voice from behind me, “Why don’t you invite her in, Zack?”

“Now don’t get excited.” I told myself.  This couldn’t possibly turn out to be as exultant as it seemed like it was going to be.  Something had to go wrong.  Terribly wrong.  Karma and life and shit just don’t work that way.  I’d seen enough movies to realize the score.  I knew that the horrible fist of reality would shoot up from the ground and rip my throat out through my ass, just as I was about to taste the heavenly nectar of yum.  But even so, you have to take that shot, right?  Even if you think it’s all a dream and you’re going to wake up humping that hole in your pajamas, you have to at least give it your all.

Because a prize such as this is so glorious, so unsurpassed in its superlative ascendancy that any price paid would be but a trifle in comparison.  I wonder if the Athenians, once dashed upon the rocks, regretted hearing the Sirens’ song.  Or did they still attempt to clutch and claw their way up the cliffs toward their irresistible, barely clothed grail as they were sucked, screaming into the deadly, treacherous waters?  I know I would.

As that midget in Time Bandits once so wisely declared, before being imprisoned in a rat-infested cage by the devil, “You risk all, you win all!”  My decision was made.  I steered my manly ship towards the treacherous cliffs and opened the door.  Izzy dropped her coat.

She wasn’t bluffing about having nothing on underneath.  Wow.  I gazed.  I admired.  I drooled a little.  It all came rushing back to me.  Ah, the memories, however brief and ultimately heartbreaking.  A man does not forget that kind of supple, warm, perfect, gimme, gimme, gimme skin.  And it was all over her body.  She had it everywhere.  The sight of a young and supple woman offering herself up to the splendor of a man’s loins is a memory that will haunt him to his grave.  When I die, I’m going to request a small hole be cut into my coffin, so that I might gaze upon the daughters of Eve, one last time, as they lower me into eternity.

My eyes came upon Izzy’s breasts (And I almost mean that literally.).  Those exquisite, perfectly shaped and bobbley, nippley wonders!  Oh, the nights after we’d broken up that I would stare at the secret footage I had taken of them on my I-Phone.  And now they had returned to me after a long and perilous journey.  Oh, how I was going to comfort them.  Cradle them in my arms.  Kiss their little heads.  Tell them bedtime stories.  We’d be buddies again.  Bosom buddies.  Sorry, that was a cheap one.  Oh, the nights of wugga wugga that lay before me (If nothing went predictably and horribly wrong, that is.).

Izzy handed me her solitary garment and crossed the threshold.  If you can call that worn-out, chipped and stained piece of pressboard with bent nails sticking out of it a threshold.  She didn’t seem to care that my apartment looked like they’d put naked white people in a scene from Roots.  And she didn’t seem to care that a guy in a chauffeur outfit was sitting and playing cards at my breakfast table.

“Oh, hi Artie.”

Once all the formal introductions were taken care of, she dropped to her knees and began to coax Knobzilla back up to his Tokyo-terrorizing splendor.

This was a new Izzy.  An Izzy that I’d always dreamed she might be and probably was with other guys.  Rebecca rushed over and joined her in “the position”.  It was a resplendent and intoxicating sight that I never thought I would espy in my lifetime.  Heck, until Rebecca and 500 dollars, I had never even espied one woman at “the altar” in my lifetime.  It was a very emotional moment for me.  I almost cried.  They giggled, they kissed, they passed my Happy Jackson back and forth lovingly, each plopping it onto their tongue like it was the first ripe strawberry of summer.

Now, I know I said that money was the root of all evil and it can’t buy you happiness or love and if you don’t have your health you haven’t got anything, but there are times when possessing large amounts of ooftish is the most wonderful, marvelousest thing in the whole gorgeous universe.

Where was my pride?  Where was my self-respect?  I don’t know.  I sent them packing with my loneliness and despair.  It was a trial separation, but so far it was working out fabulously.

That night was as if all the glory of heaven had descended upon my loins.  If there were a God, he would have surely floated on down to avail Himself of some of the incalculable libidinous goodies that lay before, under and over me.  For the fleshy pleasures to be found there, in that humble bed, dwarfed all the accomplishments of mankind back to the time when Fred Flintstone first got his job at the gravel pit.  I writhed and humped and sucked till my body was spent, my hose ran dry and my tongue could no longer taste or form words.  When the beaker of my life runs dry, and all that I was and will ever be is dust, the last atom of sweet mead that I shall taste upon the lips of my memory, will be that night.  Those girls.  And me, the luckiest son of a bitch in the universe.

But this was not the end.  Just as new life will spring forth from old dead logs, the girls sprang forth from my dead log and really came to life.

My unprecedented orgasms were but few and reserved compared to the spasmodic ecstasy that tore through their delicious bodies like erogenic tsunamis.  These were gut-busting climaxes of the highest feminine order.  Not like the fake ones Rebecca had with me to be polite or the tiny, almost imperceptible ones Izzy used to experience in college, even though I gave it my all (Part of my problem was, I didn’t have a huge amount of all to give.).

These Y-shaped goddesses were reduced to emitting blasphemous vulgarities and earsplitting zoo noises as they worked themselves into a concupiscent gynecomaniacal frenzy.  I bore holy witness to overwhelming and multifarious convulsions of carnal delight that exploded in their abdomens like a frying-pan full of popcorn.  There is nothing quite so visually mesmerizing or spiritually uplifting as the sight or two of Christendom’s most lithe and comely daughters, getting between each other’s legs and turning into truffle pigs.

It was with ultimate regret and very sore naughty parts that I greeted the morning sun.  For the day’s toil now beckoned me to leave a happiness probably only known by those who have shared a bowl with David Crosby.  So, I lamentably arose.  The girls did not.


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DBAWIS_ButtonDarrell 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

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