To be submitted to all major porn sites.
Heavy breathing, soft grunts
“…You there daddy?”
Grunts become more audible “Say something else you bad girl.”
“Are you okay daddy?”
Grunts become intensified, loud panting “Thank you, sweetie. Now, can I put you on hold for a moment?”
Five minutes later…
“You there baby girl?”
“Yes daddy, I’m here. Is everything alright?”
“Oh yea, it’s great. I just had to clean up. This is the fifth time I’ve jerked off today. I needed a voice. God, these urges are so goddamn inconvenient. You know what I mean?”
“I do, daddy. I get wet whenever the wind blows. So I’m super horny in the winter, haha.”
“Oh you’re such a bad girl, I can tell.”
“I’m a very bad girl, daddy. I need to be punished.”
“How would you like daddy to punish you?”
“Please spank me daddy.”
“I’m slapping you with my dick. You like that? You like when my pink cock helicopters your pretty face?”
“Mmmm daddy! My pussy needs you!”
“You will wait for daddy. Put a finger in your ass and taste it.”
“I taste good daddy. You want a taste?”
“Yes. Put your finger back in your ass and feed daddy….that’s a good girl.”
“Can I taste you now daddy?”
“You…wanna eat daddy’s ass?”
“Sure, why not?”
“Stroke daddy’s dick first….that’s a good girl. Now, inch your tongue all the way down…oooooh you’re such a good girl..I’m gonna come…”
*Loud grunts, panting*
“How was that daddy?”
“You’re the best, baby girl. This is different from beating my meat to porn. The same, in a way, but also, different. You know?”
“I know daddy. Too bad I can’t give you the real thing?”
“You…you would be willing to give me the real thing?”
“That’s against the rules, daddy.”
“But you just said-”
“It’s part of the role, daddy. You should know that.”
“I do.” Teeth sucking noise “I just…it’s so hard to meet people nowadays, I- I have to put you back on hold.”
Five minutes later…
“Sorry about that princess. Like I was saying, it’s so difficult meeting someone. Work gets in the way, not to mention this…well, impulse of mine.”
“I understand daddy. You’ll meet someone who will fully satisfy you. I know it.”
“Will they stick a finger in my ass, milk my prostate like you?”
“Thank you princess. I needed to hear that. Look at that, my dick isn’t even in my hand right now. Progress, haha.”
“Happy to help daddy.”
“You’re a saint, baby girl.”
The short YouTube video finished and just as the next was about to play (stupid autoplay) he pressed paused, slid backwards in his chair, and left the table for his roommates room. He knocked on the door before entering where he found Marcus sitting in front of his TV with a PS4 controller in his hands. “You got a sec?”
Marcus paused the game and turned. “You’re lucky I’m stumped. What’s up?”
“Have you ever seen videos on this black chick on YouTube talking about feminist issues?”
“You’re gonna have to be more specific. I’ve seen far too many to stomach.”
“She sounds like a BuzzFeed article. Wuthering something…”
“Yes! That’s her. Have you seen her latest video?”
“Not since someone else debunked her idiotic narrative about toxic masculinity.”
“Okay, well, in this video she talks about sexual harassment, right. Basically she said catcalling is a form of it. Also, that men need to quote check their male friends unquote when they make sexual innuendos in private.”
Marcus quickly unpaused the game, defeated a few incoming enemies, then turned his attention back behind him. “Meaning what, exactly? That if I tell you in private that I wanna slurp some girls ass it’s your job to tell me to stop that?”
“I’m a nutshell.”
“That’s absurd. Everyone does that. Who’s it harming?”
“Well, I know a lot of guys who do it, but do women do it too?”
“You’re joking right?”
“Should I be?”
Marcus got up. “Have you never seen how women objectify men on the internet? In screenshots of group chat conversations?”
He shook his head.
“Women are sexual creatures just like us. You don’t think women are telling their friends- gay men, straight and lesbian women alike- how much they wanna deepthroat some guy or how they want him in their guts? Difference is, we don’t care that they’re saying it, but not for the reasons they think.”
“What do you mean?”
“Walking up to a woman is, by default, a sign that you find her attractive, no?”
“Right. So, there’s no need to actually verbalize this. It’s implied. Just like we know that they’re thinking about us in an objectifying way. Women know off the bat if they’re gonna fuck you unless you say or do something to completely fuck that up. They know we wanna fuck them so they wait for us to say something dumb. We know they may wanna fuck us so we try our hardest not to say or do something dumb. You follow?”
“So you’re saying, as a default state, we just let them objectify us so long as they don’t verbalize it because, like us, it’s normal.”
“Exactly. Why’s it wrong to tell your friends what you’d like to do to someone so long as we don’t turn said person into an object. Why should we vilify one set of people doing it while allowing the other to get away with it completely.”
Marcus sat back down. “This is why 3rd wave feminism is trash, dude. It’s making men look guilty for shit they themselves have been doing for as long as us. You think even during Tupperware parties these married women weren’t throwing innuendos about their husbands around? Of course they were. They’re human, we all love sex and talking about it.”
He left the room as explosions could be heard from the TV as well as an audible grunt from his roommate.
Chuck’s beam was especially bright that day, as was Nancy’s. It was like high beams on a late night drive. Must be a communal gathering, or perhaps the anniversary of their Death Day. Time doesn’t matter here, however. As newbies, we tried measuring it with each signal of someone remembering us by counting the beams indicating The Living were thinking of us. The older folks said to forget it, not in a grumpy matter but more for the sake of keeping the idea of normalized rituals as if we were still alive, well, dead.
The Council told everyone when our Death Day was arriving anyway. It’s been a year since I died. Car accident. I was alone, as was usual back in the Land of the Living. Not here, however. I’ve got what would be considered a clique. It consists of folks I never would have made friends with while alive. I’d laugh in the irony but most of my sense of humor died along with me.
As I said, it’s been a year since I died. Not only was I alone in the car but I’m an only child whose parents passed away early in my life. I was 28 that afternoon, a few months from another year added to my age. My father died when I was three, no memory of him. My mother died after I graduated college five Alive years ago.
I thought I had a couple close friends, we’d do things Alive folks eventually take for granted. But here I am, dead, and while I shouldn’t know anyone is even thinking of me I’m reminded that nobody is.
Only one other person is in my situation, Bert. But he’s in his late seventies and everyone he knew while alive are here. Well, almost. His wife isn’t. Rumor has it she’s still down there, in the In-between. The Land of the Not-So-Dead. The Council can’t do anything for him, it’s out of their hands, they say.
Bert tried telling me not to worry, that someone will remember me. But as I watch all the newbies have their lights go off on an almost continuous basis I’m forced with the realization that if I haven’t been remembered at that magnitude since passing, nobody will ever remember me.
Oh don’t tell me to be passive aggressive, almost every Alive emotion is dead. It’s more of a phantom feeling now, like when you lose a limb and think it’s still there. So I’m speaking as if I’m still Alive, something The Council said would happen and we all wouldn’t quite get over. But, I’m happy here (haha there I go again). I’ve got more now than I ever have while Alive. I’m not even what would be considered “upset” that my parents and I aren’t reunited. Sometimes having a “clique” even gives the impression that we can’t let go of our new Dead state.
Nevertheless, the Afterlife is pretty cool. No more trivializing over the things the Alive fret over. That’s probably the best part.
“How do you know?”
“I just do. I know that isn’t an answer but it’s how I feel.”
“Can you try explaining it to me?”
“Will it make a difference?”
“Probably not. But, I’d still like to know.”
I could hear the tears welling up; breaking up is always a delicate situation.
“You don’t just wake up and decide these things. Least I don’t think so. For me, it just,” I snapped my fingers, “happened. You ever get something and even if you don’t have it long you often ask yourself how you managed without it? That thing just becomes part of your life, every day, and you hold such an attachment to it you can’t imagine life without it or not having it any more? That’s how I knew I was sure about us. When your touch became like putting a shirt on fresh from the dryer. The scent of morning coffee in the kitchen before leaving for work. The first bite of your favorite dish. Maybe that’s what it’s like to have a phantom limb. I don’t know. But, not having you might be the equivalent.”
As a tear fell I could see the gears in her head asking “why me?” and I ask myself the same thing. Also, “why am I so lucky?” But then it’d just go back to her asking “why me” to which no answer could be made. She was home. Her smell, the crook of her neck when I hugged her from behind with her long dark hair obscuring my vision (how great it feels when it tickles my cheek!). The lingering touch after she’s run a finger across my hand (the thought of you makes me weak in the knees). The press of her lips.
You always go back home. Every place you live once leaving is temporary. How long it takes to go back, well, I knew I’d wait until it was time to return. This, in my opinion, is when you realize you’re not “in love” but the starting line to get there, just like how you “love” the thing you couldn’t be without.
I didn’t want the image of us no longer together to be cliched; we’re both “successful” and somehow find ourselves looking at one another from across a room thinking back to this very moment. The ache to reach out for each other growing more powerful with every breath, bringing us to near tears. Jeopardizing it all just to be back right here, in this moment, at its peak emotional capacity.
Something tells me that’s what’s supposed to happen. That it’s the only way to return home. Why does it have to be so complicated? I just want to stay home.
There are some things I just don’t get, you know? Science. Gum- what is it, and why do I like it so much? Some math, although my mom would have a second opinion on that one. I’m only 11; how much should I know? But, my parents themselves is what’s such a mystery to me.
My dad, see, he doesn’t go to work like everyone else’s dad. Sometimes he gets dressed, sometimes he stays home. I don’t know what he does. My mom’s a doctor. I just can’t tell you what my dad does. But every morning, no matter what he’s wearing, while my mom is making me breakfast, he comes up from behind and just holds my mom. I think I can hear him taking a deep breath too, like he’s smelling her. I don’t know what that’s about but, it isn’t something that’s strange. I’m just a kid but even I can tell that it’s meant to be…beautiful.
He always then helps my mom finish making breakfast then join us at the table. My parents talk but not boring grown up talk. They include me in it too. They both love cartoons and talk about stuff they found on the internet they’d like. My dad got me into video games so we play all the time. My mom bought me a set of her favorite book collection about a young wizard boy and the school of magic he goes to. My dad loves to read, he’s my go-to for English homework.
At night, when all my homework is done, and the three of us are watching TV, my mom is always sitting so close to my dad. She’s got her head against his chest the way doctors listen for heartbeats. My dad always has his hand in my mom’s hair, and there’s a lot of it. I call my mom Rapunzel sometimes. They laugh at the jokes, sometimes whisper things to each other, but they’re never apart. Sometimes, even in public, they hold hands. They don’t know it yet but when they have to let go for whatever reason, I can tell they can’t wait to be holding each other again.
My parents talk a lot, mostly jokes and about me; the future, I think. But when they aren’t talking I can still hear them speaking. No two snowflakes are the same, according to Mrs Davis the science teacher, so I guess since my friends don’t talk about their parents this way, no two loves are the same? Some parents yell at each other. Some hit one another, with hands or other things. My parents? They can’t shut up, but I like hearing what they have to say.
Mike stretched in his computer chair with a yawn after a hard days writing. Powering his laptop off, he stepped away from the desk to begin his nightly ritual of bourbon, neat, with a Parliament at his bedroom window. The ritual began as a reminder that his first successful novel, When the Tree Falls, was a stroke of luck. The market wasn’t fine tuned for that type of historical romance but somehow it became a runaway hit. Mike’s latest novel, Downward Spiral, is unlike anything he’s ever done before. Even he couldn’t describe it. His agent may frown upon that considering a hundred pages have been typed.
Finishing the bourbon and stamping out the cigarette in his ceramic ashtray, Mike climbed into bed dreaming about all the possible plot points he was considering adding to the manuscript.
Mike’s morning ritual consisted of two sunny side up eggs, two toasted pieces of bread with butter and jam (mom’s favorite) with a black coffee in his blue World’s Best Writer 18oz cup his daughter got him when he became a best selling writer. At his computer working on a second cup, the computer fully booted up, Mike clicked on the saved file and blinked along with the cursor as he stared at the screen.
Somehow an additional one hundred and ten pages had been added to the manuscript. Did I sleepwalk last night, or rather sleep write? Is that even a thing?
Mike read the new material flabbergasted that such a thing took place when at the halfway point realized the characters began living hypothetical lives based on the direction their lives were heading. His protagonist, a married man with a daughter modeled after himself, was presented with the option to have an affair with the buxom secretary from the office below him. Unlike Mike, presented with the same scenario several years prior, knew throwing his marriage away for a night of fun was just stupid. Sure Mike had his fun growing up and maybe, if the option had been there during his youth, may have taken the chance. But the protagonist chose to revert to Mike’s old self. So to speak. It read like a detailed blueprint on how to get away with infidelity since the protagonist had done just that.
This…self aware version of Mike’s protagonist even did something he himself had always wanted to do- sucker punch his old boss. It subsequently led to his being fired but that set off a chain reaction of adventures Mike had always wanted to go on. Snorkeling with dolphins, skydiving, using recreational drugs. Things Mike knew in his heart he should do but something always came up. Or maybe they were just excuses…
At the bottom of the newly written manuscript was a sentence in italics: this is how things should have been.
Mike typed under the sentence “what do you mean?” The cursor, after blinking idly for several seconds, began moving. “We’ve been watching you for some time. We know you better than you know yourself, or your wife. If you’re going to write about your life at least make it glamorous. Don’t sell yourself short.”
We’ve been watching you for some time…
He was quickly reminded of Phillip K Dick’s novel Valis; sentient-like beings communicating via radio waves and such. It that what happened here?… Mike decided to keep the new work. After all, there were no grammatical errors. Not to mention its new format made things sleeker. Why waste the effort?
He got to work.