Sorry, bud, but you ain’t getting anywhere with that gangrenous fuck stick.Submitted by AllyJeans at 2007-03-08 16:06:16 EST
Rating: 1.65 on 87 ratings (87 reviews) (Review this item) (V)
The man’s name was Darryl, and we went on a date. He was a friend of a friend of an acquaintance. The acquaintance—my co-worker, Marjorie—told me over weak tea and stale saltines that we would be perfect together. She didn’t know this man personally, and to be honest, she didn’t really know me all that well either; but she was willing to bet that we would get along, because he was a hard worker with a nice face, and because Ellen—the friend who had made introductions—was a great judge of character.
Of course, I knew Ellen—knew her well. She was our supervisor, someone Marjorie had flattered and petted and done everything but go down on—the very same supervisor I had run afoul of once or twice, most notably when I threw her kid against my cubicle wall (he asked me to do it), and again, only a week before, when I stopped her from reaching into my bag of spicy peanuts.
(Ellen doesn’t realize it, but she has a nasty habit of itching her armpits when she’s thinking. Deep, prolonged, sandpaper scratching. She does it everywhere, at any time. Sharing my peanuts would have required that I share in her musky dew.)
I offered my skepticism about the whole thing, mentioning Ellen’s soured attitude toward me; but my intrepid coworker added that she had met Daryl and found him winning, friendly and sweet; that he was worth taking a flier on, whatever his relationship to Ellen. Eventually I agreed to see this man for the sake of ending the conversation and gave up my phone number so she could arrange the rendezvous.
Two days later I met him for dinner at a sushi place. He was good-looking, I suppose—filled out in all the right places. His hair wasn’t moussed. Thankfully. He had a blue shirt that wasn’t too blue and dark pants that hung loosely over fit legs. As a plus, he was shod in shoes, real leather shoes. Most of the men I date only wear sneakers. I felt optimistic.
He greeted me warmly and went through the typical compliments, dress, hair, face, etc. I returned them in kind, and we sat down. The first hint of the trouble to come was in his smile. It was insistent, forceful. Denying it seemed sacrilegious.
We ordered, and he kept his smile on me. I put my elbow on the table and plopped my chin in it.
“If you’re looking for a staring contest, you won’t win. I have a record of 55 minutes.”
“You don’t say.”
“I do say. It cost Hitchcock four Mars bars once.”
“Hitchcock. He’s a friend at work.”
We continued staring at each other. His smile remained the same throughout, never twisted or skewed, even when he spoke.
“A good friend?”
“Who? Hitchcock? I’d say he is.”
“Are you flirting with me?
I laughed. “Nope.
“It seems like you’re flirting with me.”
“I’m not that original. I flick my hair when I flirt.”
“Then what are you doing?”
I shrugged. “Staring.”
“All right then. I give.”
He turned away and dramatically covered his eyes with his forearm. I sat back. “That’ll be a Mars bar.”
“I thought it was for four.”
“Uh uh. Hitchcock is special, a sucker for double or nothing. I’d hope you were wiser.
Daryl nodded and laughed. He still had that smile, but he wasn’t staring at me as intensely as before.
“What do you do for work? Anything interesting?”
“Not really. Just counting numbers, recording hours. Sometimes I get to travel, though. That’s fun.”
I added, “I once stayed at a hotel where there was a stripper convention.”
He laughed. “You did? They have stripper conventions?”
“Yep. I got my picture taken with a pair of attendees. They signed my address book.”
I reached in my purse and showed him the autographs.
“Nice. Got the picture?
I smiled. “No, and it isn’t that sexy, either—if that’s what you’re interested in. They’re both wearing fleece pull-overs and swishy pants.”
“A shame.” He snickered..
Dinner followed. It was good and Daryl’s smile became easier to take, if only from my extended exposure to it. After that we went to a movie. Then he brought me home.
It had been a nice night, all things considered. I decided if he were to call and ask, I’d accept a second date. He took me to my door.
“This is going to sound like a line, but could I come in to use the bathroom?”
I gave him an appraising look. “That’s it? Just the can?”
“Yes, I swear.”
“All right. Come on.”
I opened the door and flicked the light switch. I looked around. The place was as I left it, and I pointed toward the bathroom. Daryl nodded and scurried by.
Purse, keys, and coat all went on the kitchen table. Then I grabbed my cell off its catch and checked my messages, having to punch the keys twice due to my tired fingers There were a few from Candy, just nonsense mingled with faltering static from her speaker phone; and one from Sarah, yet another of my coworkers, checking up on my date. Unsatisfied, I deleted them and I sat down to a bottle of water. Daryl didn’t come out right away, and I guessed why.. I rolled my eyes and took a healthy sip. The silence continued in its menacing way, portending doom, and I almost called out before finally hearing the rush of running water on the other side of the wall, behind my sink.
It bothered me. He had taken a shit in my house on our first date. It seemed presumptuous to expect that his crap can mingle with mine. But it wasn’t a deal breaker. People gotta shit. Hell, I’ve written about it. He took a while cleaning up, though, and that seemed more unsettling. I began drumming the table with the half-empty bottle, an attempt to drown out the noise from the sink
Finally, at least 20 minutes after he went in, he came out.
I pushed my seat back and went behind the little wall separating the kitchen and the living room. He was smiling. And he was naked.
“Nope! Out! Out!”
His pubes were wet. Christ.
“Are you ready?” He was smiling and—save for his neck and face—very, very hairy. He looked like the Bigfoot from Harry and the Hendersons with his cashew penis, jingling pathetically as he walked, barely exposed beyond a tuft of wet, matted hair.
“Out! God help me if you touch anything. Cover up. Put your clothes on. It was a nice night. Put your clothes on!
“Please….With all that “hand-cock” business, you knew. Enough games.”
“Hitchcock! “Hitchcock!” I stammered. “Out! You have five minutes. Oh God.”
I zipped through the living room, passed the groping naked man newly added to my furniture scheme, and made it to my closet. There I grabbed my softball bat, still rich with the blood of other less nauseating suitors.
“Cover up and go! I had 10 homeruns in my senior year!”
I thrust it over my head like a samurai sword. He inched back.
“I was going to show you—“
“Nope. Don’t show me anything!” But I did see something. He lowered his hands, and like plucking a dove from a thorn bush, exposed the rest of “It.” I didn’t notice it before—don’t ask me how I missed it—but this wasn’t just an ordinary cashew. It was a pale, powdery, moss-green cashew.
( There was a post on here, one with a variety of penises being all pointy and happy. None of those could come close to this. None of those was flaccid and green and jingling, jingling like an uncooked piece of lobster meat)
I shivered and swung my bat, just missing him. “Out, or so help me!”
His smile vanished and he retreated back to the bathroom. While he was in there, I grabbed my phone and punched in 911, ready to press send if he came out, cashew flying. But he didn’t. He returned, dressed as he was before, and walked slowly, deferentially to the door. As he passed he didn’t look up, but gave me a tremulous nod. Finally, door closing, he spoke to the jam, thanking it, in lieu of me, for a fun night.
First thing I did was lock the door. Then, bat in hand, I went to survey the bathroom. It was clean. There weren’t any pools of water or stray bits of sasquatch hair. Still, I decided I would clean it thoroughly the next morning. That night, the bat stayed under my bed.
In closing, I think I should mention that Ellen gave me a very curious look the next morning. I don’t know if Daryl had told her what had happened, but she seemed to know. And she smiled.