Liuetenant Part 5
Sometimes there’s a warm afterglow. Sometimes there isn’t. I
have a bad habit of counting the times a guest’s entrances and exits, moaning
at varying tones every eighth or ninth penetration. I began counting with this
one, but due to…circumstances, I lost count at about fifty.
I feel pretty warm
now, and it’s nice that we both seem to feel it.
The room is warm too, nice darker reds and darker oranges,
like a womb or something, silk curtains around the bed like you’ve seen in the
movie. My boss doesn’t fuck around with interior decorating unless he’s too
bombed to deal with it as previously mentioned.
“Mm…how much is left?” his name is actually Peter something,
but he still looks a helluva lot like Hugh Laurie.
“Oh…like a bowl or two. Then we can get you an Espresso for
your…did you drive here?”
“No way. Too many jackers.”
“I saw that. The boss picks me up every morning in this
bulletproof Hummer, even the tires are bulletproof.”
“Makes you feel like a V.I.P.”
“The job has its perks.”
“Like me.”
He’s a funny guy or he makes me laugh or I’m doing my job
really well these days. On the second floor is our private rooms for napping in
between customers or providing services varying from doing laundry to playing
video games. We’re supposed to call them guests, my bad. We’re mostly girls,
some are ex-faces like me stuck in otherr people’s bodies, but we don’t really
hang out. Faces disappear quicker than others. The boss is shocked I’ve made it
this long which may be why he gives me the V.I.P. treatment, but he’s also
always begging me to sign a consent form saying he can rape me once in return
for a large sum and any hospital fees incurred.
As long as the guest has pot we’re his, but he can only but
a set amount per day, about two hours’ worth. Any extra services are charged at
the door according to the judgment of the employee. 20% of each check is
cash-in-hand to the employee at the end of the day. I don’t make millions, but
I stay afloat. If I wanted to get out –of-pocket, I guess I’d sign up to get
raped, but I’m still good for now.
“I’ve got an idea,” Hugh Laurie who’s real name is Peter
something says. I’m still stuck on the idea that everybody’s made up to be some
dead celebrity living celebrities having had their faces copyrighted and thus not
popular among faces unless you’re really ridiculously rich and want to pay for
the rights which this one super rich guy did to fuck with us at this one party,
but then the real celebrity’s sister was at the party and it didn’t go well.
Peter something/Hugh Laurie pauses for dramatic buildup.
“We should all be slugpeople and communicate by means of
androgynous sex.”
I packed this bowl and he says this while I was taking
greens so I nearly blow the bowl all over I snort so hard. Thankfully, this is
my job and because of extensive on-the-job experience with this such catastrophe
and angry guests I yank the bowl away from my face. There was also the day of bowl
safety training which was a lot more fun than it sounds. “A happy bowl is a
safe bowl.” “The guest wants his grass, not just ash.”
“Damn, that was slick.” And thus begins what it our
thirteenth or so giggle fest. Me lying face down laughing into a pillow and him
chortling and hacking in the fetal position.
“No,” he says after the fit passes, “but really we should do
that slugpeople thing.”
I turn to face him and wrap one leg over his chest. Another
important part of this job is watching obscure youtube videos like those of
slugs having sex. “So we’re slugpeople, wrapping ourselves around everybody we
see and inserting our respective penises into everyone’s else respective
vaginas while vice versa simultaneously, and how would we ever get any work
done?”
Peter shrugs with this faraway stare, “Why do people need to
work anyway?”
I count them off on my finger, “Food, shelter, and water.”
“Just that? C’mon we don’t have to work eight hours a day
for that.”
I’m pretty good at this job, right? We’ve been establishing
that, and I think being good at any profession comes from knowing what’s coming
next. Like being a good dress-up doll requires watching the trends to
anticipate what sort of celebrity is gonna be the next hit. Ugh. This guy is
stoned, not stoned enough to pass out and he’s not stuttering too bad, so it’s
time for the part of my job where the guest babbles and I ask the right
questions to keep him going which was going to be a training class, but really
ended up being a 8 hour lecture whereas the boss decided we must be good at asking
the right question already. Again, more fun than it sounds.
Peter’s body language is relaxed but tense. He’s been
staring at the old bubble butt for a while, and now he’s drumming his long fingers
on it, tracing the curves and maybe thinking of how I craned my neck back to
watch him, my mouth hanging open and eyes wide open not too long before he
collapsed on top of ye big old butt and I wiggled the rest of his cum out.
He’s skinny as fuck so I’m glad he didn’t try anything with
the latex. The last thing I need on top of the fall of civilization is to
grovel back to my mother with child or God forbid he’s one of those kids the HIV
retrovirals didn’t work on. Like I said, people disappear.
Overall I’m expecting a pretty good haul from this customer
and a pretty good tip as well. So I’ll be able to expand that organic garden
and maybe think about buying some pigs or starting a fish farm.
I stare him right in the eye while I take another toke from the bowl and
then deign to pass it to him. The smoke still in my lungs, I say, “So we should
be using those eight hours to fuck each other’s brains out instead? My voice
gets a little too loud on the word “fuck” and I feel a little embarrassed, not
too cool.
“No, I said we’d communicate by slug sex. Experiences, everything
we ever learned shared while we have a fun time at the same time.”
“I heard Facebook or somebody’s trying to develop that like
online, full-interface sex. Your whole body feels it. More intense than sex.”
“Expensive as shit too, right?”
I shrug and make babydoll eyes. His hip is against my wet
box and I wanna grind on it like I used to when Robert finished first and I
wanted to annoy him. I’m too lazy to do it now. Maybe I do need another job. Some
mornings I’m so bombed from the night before it takes me an hour to even get in
the shower. Some of my days off, I can’t leave the house! When I was Mom’s
American Girl, I was active as fuck. I ran triatholons…well once. I could do an
infinite amount of squats.
Mom wanted me to change face again, but I really like the
bubble butt and all the exercise you gotta do to keep it up. Sometimes I get
high and do crunches ‘till I feel like I’ve been sawed in half or some days I
get fucked up, find my old Ipod and run until I have to call my boss to pick me
up ‘cause I’m in some other state. Sometimes I lie on my floor staring at the
ceiling, hoping my roommate doesn’t come in.
I used to party like you wouldn’t believe. Robert and I
would often leave the party with different people then ditch ‘em and come back
to share stories at the apartment.
And we used to do a lot harder drugs than this, thanks to the mom’s medicine cabinet
and friends with really really super clean houses.
“That’s fucking ridiculous. That’s obscene actually.”
“Oh? Says the man who believes marriage is outdated?”
“I mean the money. You buy some ridiculous rig when what you
have already is ten times better.”
He’s on the bowl and it’s looking ready to cash. And I’m
digging the idea of a good nap after I escort him down to the cashier.
“Minus the sweat and disease and as many times as you want
it and what if what you’ve got isn’t better? What if you don’t like what you
look like or you want to be someone else?”
“Then you become a face like you, right?”
“Or you use Facebook’s less-permanent solution.”
“You’re a victim, you know? Of an incredibly diabolical
marketing scheme to get you to be someone you’re not.”
“No no no no. This isn’t me time. It’s you. We’ll save me
when I’m buying the weed.”
“You’ve been used and you’ve forgotten what’s important in
life.”
Peter Something/Hugh Laurie is a dick like real Hugh Laurie
on that uh…the classic one. I can’t remember, but they had that second series
where the doctor’s son was this troubled genius…and the name escapes me.
In the meantime, my body language is closing off as in I’ve
rolled off him and my head is now perched on my right hand with my left hand
pulling a sheet over. One time a guest had the nerve to suggest my surgeon had
never seen a J-Lo movie because my breasts were too proportional. So people
love to see faces as one of society’s greatest evils, but no one ever thinks
maybe we had no choice.
“Self-acutalization, the raising of the self to higher
spiritual levels.”
“Hmm…” so the act is I’m just pretending to be focused in on
the conversation and hiding that he’s hurt me when in actuality I’m really just
trying to find the fastest way to a nap.
“I know that’s why I came here.”
“To smoke pot?”
“No, here in the pocket, the state of nature where life is
brutish and short.”
“I’ve heard that somewhere.”
“People supposedly enter into a social contract with the
government, who provides them certain benefits as long as the citizen pays
taxes and follows the law, but who made the contract?”
I shrug.
“and when did we sign it? Did we have other offers?”
“Hmm…” again and packing the bowl again, again trying to
mask that hurt look with a look of interest and really just counting sheep
already.
“The Middle ages. Some rich prick comes to your town, says ‘you’re
a peasant on my land.’ ‘What the fuck, sir? I work this land to death, but
because you’ve got an army the land is yours? My word thou speakest some shit,
good ser.
“We’ve only had the contract of our parents. We had no means
to negotiate the terms from the beginning and nothing but the shit in our
drawers to bargain with, screwed into a parasitic agreement and then brainwashed
all throughout our free education into believing we did consent or we were
lucky to get to consent at all. Look at the history of our great nation-state.
Here you stand in a country of great
men.”
“…and women.”
“Right, my bad, but do you know any of these great people?
Are you related by blood? Do you share a resemblance? Well, your case is
special.”
“Why thank you.”
“What makes an American so good just by living in the same
general area as some other great dude who died before our time and we never
even said a word to.”
“I guess it depends on your patriotism.”
“That’s what I’m trying to say. Patriotism is a bullshit
concept. Why cheer the very thing that is using you more than you gain from it?
Why be proud of being fucked over by the self-proclaimed prettiest belle of the
ball?”
“Hmm…it’s looking like Espresso time for you.”
“And that’s another thing…people just don’t care enough. I’ve
talked with so many people about the same thing. They’re all ‘Yeah, yeah, man.
You’re right, but let’s go eat pizza.’”
“Well maybe you need a more sober audience.”
“We need to fix things. We need to rebalance the equation.
The government should be afraid of its people not the other way around.”
“Well…the government’s not too fond of the pocket.”
“But this is just the start.”
“I’m find enough just being out of the social contract
thingy.”
“It’s not enough though. We need to evolve as a society.”
“You’ve killed my buzz, man. And you’re out of pot. Let’s
take a short jaunt downstairs, shall we?”
My ridiculous green daisy dukes are on already and I’ve been
brushing my hair since the hotbox rant got started. I look good in the mirror.
Healthier. And my smile feels real.
“Why did I expect a whore to listen?”
“Aww…I did listen, honey, but look I’m a person too. A very
sleepy person. It’s been fun, baby. Come back soon. We can get fucked up, you
can swivel your kips inside me like you did before and I can coo and scream. Then
you can hug me close and tell me all that’s wrong with the world. I hadn’t
heard about self-actualization before. I gotta get on that, spiritually surfing
the clouds and all that. Don’t go home angry, baby, but you do have to go home.”
“Right…for what it’s worth I’m
sorry. I got heated up. I didn’t mean to…”
“Of course you didn’t. I get that
all the time. Supermarkets get shoplifters. I get the odd wisecrack and harsh
word. Life goes on. Check please.”
“Right. I’ll take care of it.”
I kiss him on the cheek and finish
my makeup. He dresses and steals glances where I smile at him from the mirror.
He grabs my arm as we head down the
stairs.
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