Navigation Menu+

The Labrador & the Concierge

Posted by in I'll Be Fece'ing You Later Ol' Chap | 0 comments

Men age differently than women. Women mature into young adults, from girldom to middle age, and then their transitionary period before the golden years, in an intrinsic and very dramatic way. Ladies with class hit menopause and either explode with discontent or go through middle-aged life solemnly, maintaining their keel. Conversely, most boyishly charming young men will earn their furrows and become distinguished gentlemen. A very acute group of men keep a slated goofiness and gregarious naivety well into their later years (men and women with no social electricity just aren’t relevant enough to mention).

Eric was certainly a member of the ‘Lifetime Charmer’ club. Even as a knee-high he showed definite signs. In the fifth grade, some kids were good at math; other kids were hard at work following their reading assignments; Eric could be found studying anatomy, feeling up his older sister’s friends in his closet every day after school. He just had that ‘thing’. It was an unexplainable, unattainable (by those who didn’t already have it) magnetism. Girls could feel it when they stood near or spoke to him. They stirred in their loins when he spoke, and ‘he isn’t even very attractive’, they would say. He had his high times and droughts like any guy, but his were manic when he was on a roll. Never was the psyche affected by a petty discrepancy of difference in taste.

“You have a NO Mexicans policy?! Shit, I’ll rearrange your policies while I’m rearranging your reproductive organs!”

He’d relegate to being offensive when turned down. The fact of the matter was, he couldn’t be beaten. Win, or even lose, he seemed to come out ahead.
She was 12 years his minor, but Stacy, the receptionist at Eric’s work, invited him to attend her sorority formal dance. Her invitation was delivered as soon as she had the details. She’d had a crush on him from her first day of employment and thought he would look great with his arms around her in the photos, and the next morning waking up in her bed for a wake-and-snake. Eric knew nothing about sorority life. Hell, he had never even set foot on a College campus before. The Greek system was as foreign to him as the City of Athens. Regardless, he RSVP’d as a ‘Yes, I will attend’. In the back of his mind he also realized that Stacy would be one of his easiest conquests.

Stacy had a pie-face, which would have been okay had she also a chocolate cake heart. Her tits looked like a pregnant Labrador Retriever’s donation. Her nipples pointed floor bound and they swayed when she walked, bra-less. This served a very important purpose; her feet were directed where to step. She was as sure-footed as a llama; uncommon for someone who can’t see their own feet. Her cheek bones were uncharacteristically high for a Pacific Islander, which is terrific on a waify model. On her face, it tugged her smile nearly to the tear ducts revealing a canine tooth with dying roots, darker than the rest in her grizzly grill. When she was young, she had an accident swimming in a pool at night with no lights. Concerned parents gate their pools… That’s all that your humble narrator has to say about that incident. Her head was a sunbaked and burnt Chia Pet. A significant cache of neatly feathered midnight black pubes covered her testicle shaped head. Stacy bathed, but not as you and I do. Her permeating antacid smell was a result of one afternoon’s affairs: On her lunch break, after too much chili con queso, she purchased and swigged a bottle of delicious, soothing bismuth from a local drug store. After losing the cap, the bottle was still returned to her purse, completely neglecting the physics of fluid escaping an open container. At the end of her shift at work, her purse had a chalky green puddle coagulating in its trough. Mechanically, she dumped it out and shook out what amount of medicine she could. Nobody noticed before the spill that it was the only purse she had ever used. Everyone noticed that it was the purse she continued to use thereafter. The queer guys would have been fucking mortified.

Stacy was in no physically evident hurry to get laid. But, her hormones were singing a different tune. Her sole redeeming factor was that she drank with purpose. She could drink the sweet rain like the Saharan deserts. Do you blame her for her vice? Most people hated Stacy because she was good at finding different quirky ways to piss people off, and she never seemed to get zinged back, though she more than deserved it. It was common for acquaintances of Stacy’s to ask themselves, ‘Is she smarter than she looks, or much dumber than she seems’?
She was articulate and did fine in school, so how could she rationalize popping chin zits in the company of customers, greasing a portion of the floor where the displasiatic janitor may walk later on, or making penises out of washers and bolts and super-gluing them to desks, laughing obnoxiously all the while?
Gross Story Picture

The frat guys wanted nothing to do with her. Part of her suspected this as so.
You could convince Eric to put his penis in a deep fryer alongside a batch of zucchini sticks if you convinced him it felt like the warm, hollowed nautilus of a vagina. He assumed, though nobody he knew, had confirmed a visual on Stacy’s vagina.

His type of lady: He likes them with a pulse, with hair of some sort, and a vagina. A limo was waiting for Eric at 7:30pm. It continued to wait until 7:45. He had been drinking since 4. His physical degradation and acetone breath remained as by-product to the hours spent driving his liver through Cirrhosis, Pennsylvania. His once finely polished and proper suit now fit him like an ass-raped concierge. Stacy looked ugly and just a shred more annoying than usual. Those accompanying them in the limo tried not to look at her. They were repulsed by her smugnitude. She remained chipper through and through, never with any self doubt or pity. The accompaniments hated her, as they knew her to allow life’s unavoidable obstacles to roll off of her shoulders. Though, the site of Eric’s atrociously slumping suit and failing motor skills contented them for the time being.

An exorbitant amount of drinking loosened up the ride en route to the formal. Stacy smelled of horny after only a few shots. Horny leaked from every part of her body. Eric could sense it even through the overwhelming scent of bismuth; like a large hunting cat trailing a senseless and retarded prey wandering from a pack of gazelles that didn’t care much for it in the first place.
Gross Short Story

The night pressed on beyond popular comprehension. Shots were fired down throats and chased with tongues. There was NO dancing at the dance. Finally, though nearly unconscious, Stacy took Eric in the palm of her greasy, ashy hands.
His legs were getting heavy but he kept his eyes on the prize. Eric braved the elements of accompanying the least sexually provocative date, to a formal dance that he had no business being at in the first place. He was driven solely by the inevitable consummation of the evening. Each step he took tore more of the connective tissue of his muscles from tendons and bone. Eric’s prizes’ arms hung over his shoulders like scarf ends. Her legs, built to be that of a strong-side linebacker, were at his waist and his arms were flexed as they struggled to support her weight. To keep his momentum, Eric was nearly doubled over. Together they resembled springtime frogs, beginning their annual courting dance. Every step was a fall for him, gracefully recovered by his lumbering size 13’s.

Finally, his strength gave way and his knees buckled at the foot of her door. She staggered off of his back taking an extra moment to hold the doorknob of her room, #38, in order to steady from an inebriated case of vertigo. Stacy’s eyes were being held open, figuratively, by the prospect of having a male member penetrate her most neglected tissues. The provider of the member was 4-on-the-floor, following her into the bedroom; the lower portion of his body temporarily paralyzed. In the room, there was no thinking, talking, or wasting of time. There only remained an unspoken understanding. They undressed in front of each other without any passion. If dissected in a court of law, it would be difficult to discern who was actually insinuating this trick. Was it Eric; cummerbund slipping from his back pocket as he unbuttoned his shirt, grunting like an injured boar?

Or Stacy, the barrel breasted Polynesian princess whose hormonal urges only slightly outweighed her unearthly desire to fall into a sudden hibernation?
They collapsed on top of the bed and after making several clumsy attempts at locating each other’s genitalia, managed to produce a very unique brand of intercourse. It was two pairs of hips moving intermittently with sporadic intervention from an aggressive man-paw slapping and re-adjusting a pimply ass, followed by a deep sigh. Then another series of uncalculated movements righted by a basic grappling hold, and then a deep sigh. This wasn’t reproductive sex, pleasurable sex, or your parent’s brand of missionary sex. This was more of a jousting match; each pugilist armed with a q-tip in complete darkness. After a long enough time, both combatants decided that ‘it counted’ and sex was forgotten as quickly as sleep commenced. The quaint dorm room was as penurious by design as you might expect for a 60’s built domicile for the estranged. It was a 10ft by 12ft diorama with a 4ft by 4ft viewing hole. Its only human nature that passerby’s would peer into her bottom floor window. It was easily eye accessible. Stacy frequently changed remorselessly in front of it; the top drawer of her teak dresser was positioned a mere 4 inches below the window pane. The coincidence of this was debate worthy; but it certainly wasn’t Feng-Shui. Stacy’s glaring amenity, shared by all of the other girls on her floor, was sole possession of a bathroom. They both lay disheveled in bed like smoldering flames. Crackling; the old frame was supporting one more hefty body than usual. Wheezing; with an occasional alcohol induced fart sputtering between them. The culprit could be identified by the movement of the minimal clothing covering the bottom halves of their respective bodies. Upon farting, either Eric’s boxers would ripple like a taut flag, or Stacy’s once floor-laden track shorts would twist and snap against her buttocks with a low frequency whistle.

If a tree falls in the woods and nobody is around to hear it, does it still make a smell? My definitive answer is, ‘YES’, based on private corollary research on sleep-farting. Though, gas expellation during sleep is an under-funded research emphasis. The secrets that lie within the crevasse of a colon during REM may unlock histories of knowledge about the human body that the Smithsonian has only dreamt of stealing. Stacy and Eric’s asses became dueling banjos in the waning hours of the night. Had they been awake, their mutual shame would’ve been truly unbearable. Eric was not forcing gas out of his body; it was slow rolling out like prairie tumbleweed. One after another they would roll out from between the valley of taint and the hairy hills. This gas-a-palooza was quite harmless and none would be the wiser come morning, but the shark was soon launched over via trebuchet. From Eric’s ass, behind sleepy, rolling tumbleweed, inched out a pretentious little crapapillar. No more than a quarter inch in length and completely indigenous to the rectum. Crapapillars serve an important purpose in human waste containment. They function in very much the same manner of a wine cork, keeping delicious bottled contents from spilling senselessly on your kitchen counter, or dorm room bed in this instance. Eric became uncorked. Alcohol will do uncharacteristic things to a man’s body. One just hopes that it’s not at 3am in a date’s bed.
Gross Story Story Picture

A slight tremor erupted from Eric’s ass. It was a bugle alert that the royal court was approaching the precession, but it set precedence, as a few ounces of wet fecal matter splashed against his boxers and creamy lava flowed down the back of his thigh. He scratched at it involuntarily and then tossed over from a relaxed fetal position to his stomach, still in a catatonic state of sleep. Three short trumpet blasts then sounded from his zealous asshole and the backside of his boxers remotely told the gay story of a jester playfully bouncing upon a pogo stick beneath a silk parachute. The brown death was seeping in every direction and freezing in place on Eric’s boxers. His underclothing and the portion of the bed around him were now completely saturated. The saturation made for a much easier getaway for the next jailbreak. The trumpet sounded once more. This was the Gedolah, the King and Queen’s arrival had been sounded. Eric’s ass gushed like the Clampet’s oil rig. Khaki colored crude, the most impure and unusable of all the earth’s natural fuel was spackling the sheets and through to the mattress, wetting Stacy’s back as she slept helplessly. After rolling and tossing around a bit, her back looked like it had been vomited on by someone who had overindulged pork carnitas. And, had a black and white photo been taken looking down on the bed, it would have been a stirring salute to the Japanese flag. The room smelled of the plague; as did a block of the 6 dorm rooms and hall that surrounded #38, where the magic was happening. By daybreak, most of the sorority floor would be curious what transpired at the smell’s epicenter.
At dawn, a single tendril of sunshine pierced the poly-fibrous slat of mini blinds, reflecting off of an errantly placed makeup mirror, and directly into the corner of Eric’s right eye. He remained asleep, though the warming sensation on his cornea lifted his mental consciousness, causing a long, drudging, deep breath. He cringed as he tasted the back of his throat. He wondered if he was dreaming or did someone actually shit in his mouth while he slept? Lying on his side, his hand fell behind his back, onto the mattress and into a bowl of pudding. He then dreamt lucidly of pudding. His fingers swirled as his mind raced. He was galloping about on a horse named Cocoa through a land where Belgian chocolate flowed in rivers, and little men in purple suits were dancing in puddles of rich goodness. It was lightly raining and as the rain touched his face he tasted how sweet it was.

‘Pudding…pudding…pudding…pudding in the bed…why is pudding in the bed?’ He pinched a small amount of the pudding between his fingers, and brought it to his face for closer investigation. His answer was conclusive; it was shit. He knew right away that HE shat the bed. He had done it only once before after an incredibly long day of drinking on Cinco de Mayo. He lay there, emotionless for a few moments, expecting Stacy to rollover into the puddle of defecation. She did nothing of the sort. He glanced back at her over his shoulder. She was breathing but he was unclear whether or not to feel relieved that he hadn’t strangled her, causing a posthumous bowel movement.

Eric was no stranger to escaping sticky situations. His survival skills were keen as a result of encountering compromising positions on a more regular basis than most. His risk taking knew no boundaries. Using only coat hangers and personal lubrication, he narrowly escaped the clutches of a suspicious boyfriend (whose girlfriend he just finished boning to pieces); first by fishing his keys out of a bathroom sink and then repelling a two story tall drain gutter with his jeans. Could he have simply hung around and kicked the boyfriend’s ass? Probably.

On another occasion; quickly disguising himself as a homeless person, he evaded the long arm of the law after an exaggerated sexual assault claim. In his reality; ‘old-fat-whores’ had no civil rights. One day past their prime of being socially accepted ‘young-fat-whores’; these miscreants could be susceptible to any number of public humiliations. Eric should have been able to legally display his ass while menacing them with their earned monikers and not pay any legal consequence. Likewise, he could have simply taken his unjust desserts and not succumb to too terrible a punishment. But, at times, being hunted was as rewarding as being the hunter.

His current mess was much less perilous than adventures he had faced and conquered in the past. This allowed him to take a few unnecessary ‘creative liberties’ in planning the great escape. He could have just as easily walked straight out of Stacy’s front door before anybody stirred from their slumbering. That wasn’t chivalrous enough for his tastes.

Eric was clearly a trophy date for Stacy at the formal. He knew that regardless of any goings-ons in room #38 after the dance, his reputation would remain intact with all of the potential sorority honeys that he could approach at another time down the road. Stacy would indubitably be gloating to everyone how long and great and hot and heavy the sex was, even though it wasn’t. Work was his sole concern. Stacy wasn’t as much in her element there. She had no reason to protect Eric. There wasn’t a person at that dealership that she would hesitate defaming. Eric had even witnessed her sabotaging the poor unassuming janitor at least once a week. Stacy was conniving enough to challenge him over this surreal incident at work. No, he couldn’t let that happen. He valued his job, and he wasn’t prepared to lose it because he shat on some pug-nosed sow.

Working with speed, grace, and stealth, Eric took to his finest ‘Victor the Cleaner’ impression once again. The removal of evidence attaching him to the crime was his priority. First, he reached between the mini-blinds and raised the window up as deliberately and steady handed as he could manage. Not a sound was even fractionally produced. No more light than before crept in through the blinds. He then stripped his boxers and wiped his ass out with the cleanest remaining portion of them. Through the gap between the window and blinds he dropped the boxers, leaving them in a sloshy heap at the base of the white stucco exterior wall of the dorm. He pulled his tuxedo pants back on, bearing the discomfort of dry feces on his leg crumbling off against the seams of the material. He pulled them on just as he had nine hours prior. Though, before he wasn’t overlooking the mud pit of a pig.

‘Man, are her tits gross.’ he curtailed to zipping his fly.
He felt a tease of vomit tickle his tonsils but choked it back down. The remaining pieces of clothing were dropped out of the window, one by one, as carefully as the boxers. They created a small pile. He picked up Stacy’s handheld land line phone that lay on its receiver on the desk in front of him and also dropped it on top of the pile. He then turned his attention back to the bed in order to cover all of his bases and apply a few finishing touches. Still sound asleep, Eric tickled Stacy’s back, right between her shoulder blades.

‘Yahtzee!’ She reached to scratch it as he expected and her momentum carried that massive body completely flush over top his ‘Arc de Triomphe’. The feces smashed in all directions. Had it not smelled like sewage, Eric was vaguely reminded of smearing creamy peanut butter over a slice of thick wheat bread. In position, Eric took a quick photo on his mobile phone and saved it as ‘dirtywildabeast’. The job was not yet complete. He dug through the random belongings in her desk drawers looking for a simple post it note and something to write with. He did one better by finding 3×5 index cards, a black marks-a-lot, and krazy glue. Krazy Glue; the same kind that touted the ability to stick a midget in a hard-hat to a steel beam.
This was to be an Eric Malteca swan song. The card was fixed, with the caution of pulling a Jenga log, to Stacy’s receding five-head. Drenched with merciless amounts of glue, and beautiful Bergerac-esque penmanship, the card read:

You are a disgusting whore. Last night you shat all over me and the bed.

Like a boss, he escaped to dawn through the open window hitting the ground with his bare feet. It would eventually take scrubbing and paint thinner to remove the card from her head, followed by weeks of Aloe Vera to manage the skin damage from the sore that would be left behind. Then, potentially an indefinite amount of psychiatric help to settle Stacy’s wounded credo. In the meantime, Eric had the foresight to realize Stacy could wear a hat in the days to come, covering the hateful message the she now wore. Someone had to witness his handy work, no matter who it was. With the assistance of a 24 hour pizza delivery, a final crushing blow was delivered. It would in turn destroy every last security that Stacy cherished. From her phone Eric ordered an anchovy and olive pizza, deep dish (his favorite), to be at her door in 30 minutes or less. He reached back into the room and slid the phone onto Stacy’s desk, closed the window and strolled lazily down the street, humming a joyous tune before catching a cab a mile down the road. He immediately showered in steaming hot water when he returned to his apartment, but really, he was bathing in cold-hearted glory.