I’ve always been pretty liberal as far as sex is concerned. I think men should be able to put their dicks into whatever willing and age appropriate hole makes them happy (behind closed doors), and women should be able to insert things into their vaginas pretty much whenever they feel like it. If that means watching a lady play hide the butternut squash in the produce section of Stop & Shop, I can deal with it. I’m always game for adventure. I also consider myself sexually educated, insofar as I know that someone, somewhere, por ejemplo, likes to eat shit, and that Shit-Eater probably hangs out with a bunch of lesbians who have huge cocks. I always imagined that they all lived in a gated community of condos somewhere in
As full of knowledge and imagination as I am, I was still surprised to find out that not every sexual deviant lives at Bonerhole Crest. That right under my nose, at the very gas station where I earn my living, there is a true to life Muppet fucker. Muppet-Fucker is a forty-five year old gas pumper with a fetish for fat whores and Agent Cody Banks. I always let the Cody Banks thing slide because he is mildly retarded, although he still functions like a semi-regular human being. He is not mongoloid retarded. He looks like a regular short, fat guy in giant yellow galoshes, but his mental is a little bit slow. Mind you that I am not making this shit up. This is all true but for his name, which I changed in case he accidentally bangs his retard head on his keyboard and my website comes up (and yes, he is computer capable).
I see him every morning when the night shift is over and he replaces me. We usually shoot the shit for a minute and then I leave him alone to eat his breakfast of black bean burgers and milk from the 7-11 down the street. Sometimes he begins to tell me about his honeys (his name for his fat hookers), and I nod polite before slipping out. This time, though, was different.
MF came walking into the parking lot of the gas station, his step had a little extra hop in it and he had a huge, crescent moon grin. Maybe 7-11 got a new kind of Nesquik, I thought as he wobbled toward the booth. He saw me and waved. As he reached the booth I noticed that he was carrying a short stack of printouts. I figured they were dirty jokes he pulled off the internet so he could fling them at the lady customers with hopes of landing his boner their vaj’s. I was wrong.
“Uhhhh, hey Jay, guess what?” he said to me, almost bursting out of himself.
“What’s that?” I was tired. I had been up all night and was unprepared for happiness.
“I, uhhhh, I was on the internet last night, you know, looking at the websites,” he said, making a mock jerkoff motion with his hand. “And I found this.”
He laid the printouts on the counter of the booth. Depicted were life-sized, fuckable, plush dolls, all of them resembling Janice from The Muppets. I didn’t know what to say. Did he print these out to show them off to people? Was it a joke he concocted just for me so he could sneak in an early morning gag? “Awesome,” I said. I never really knew how to react to MF when he told me stories that involved his penis. I usually just walked away.
“I ordered one. Only seven hundred bucks. Should be delivered on Wednesday so I’m going to take the day off of work.”
I looked at the pictures on the counter, sure to keep from touching them, as if by holding them his perversion would creep off the page and infect me. I looked to Muppet-Fucker, his grin as wide as when he came in, and slipped slowly out of the booth door, into the morning that was my solace.
For the next couple of days MF would excitedly inform me that he was taking Wednesday off in lieu of his doll coming. I did not bother telling him that he already told me. He was happy, despite the fact that he was coming down with a pretty horrible cold, and I’m not one to be a buzzkill. Plus, it was early and I wanted to go home. I nodded and left.
Wednesday came and there was no MF as expected, his hours being covered by my boss’s son. I only imagined with what glee he unearthed his new lover from her stiff cardboard holding cell, freeing her with emphatic rips of tape, finally holding her in his thick embrace after their seven hundred dollar arrangement had been fulfilled.
Thursday came and as usual, MF arrived to replace me. Only, he wasn’t quite as ecstatic as I expected.
“Get the doll?” I asked him, strangely anxious for him to fill me in on this anomaly of human fuckery. How big was it? What was the pussy like? Did he actually fuck it?
“Uhhhh, yeah,” he said, his eyes to the floor.
“Well? What was it like?” I couldn’t keep the smile from my face. It was as if I was twelve and a friend was about to tell me about how he fingerbanged the neighborhood depository.
“Well, it’s great. It kept me so warm all night that I had to turn down the heat.”
Okay, he slept with it in the literal sense. Weird, but hey, isn’t everything revolving around a plush fucktoy? “What’s the pussy like?” I asked. “Is it realistic?”
His eyes were still on the floor and I knew something was wrong. “Well, I got this really bad cold and, uhhh, couldn’t get a boner if you know what I mean. So hopefully tonight…”
Then he told me about how the doll has a plastic bag you can take in and out of the vagina, and how you can also just rawdog it for some skin on plush action. Later days, he would tell me how he fucked it, and how he sits it next to him when watching TV, and how he named it Jessica Biel. MF had found a lover, and for that, I was happy for him.
MF lives in an efficiency apartment on a gas pumper’s salary, which is very little. For him to shell out seven hundred bucks must have drained his retirement savings. People of Bonerhole Crest, please take pity on my deviant friend. He is a poor man, but rich in boners. As I have stated, he is forty-five years old, which is like sixty-five in retard years. Please let the stars twinkle for him. Let him retire to your majesty, if not for his looks, then for his commitment to the craft.