"Street Basketball in NYC" (photo by Flickr user Bob Jagendorf)

Since meeting last Friday at this park, we’ve been playing almost every night.  From the little that he’s shared with me, I gather he’s at least 30 and some sort of IT entrepreneur who lives with his sister.  When I barely knew him, I won my share of games.  Candidly, I’ve played much worse since I realized that I liked losing to him.  I’ve definitely begun posting up more and more, which isn’t really my game.

He wins tonight’s first game 11-3.  While he drinks from his water bottle, I blather about my dad giving me shit about not taking any community college courses this summer and how I really want to see the Transformers sequel, even if the critics call it despicable.

As usual, Carl just listens and occasionally nods.  I don’t why, but I can’t seem to keep my mouth shut around him.  The past week, I’ve told him about dropping out of college two years ago, how pathetic I feel bagging groceries every day, how my mother’s death five years ago still keeps me up some nights, and a shitload of other inane tidbits.

He wins the second game 11-1.  I put my hands on my knees and shake my head.  “I give up.  You’re too good.”

He laughs. “That’s what I like to see, a guy who knows when to submit.”

He’s looking at me, I can tell.  My neck and face burn, so I stare at the cracked asphalt and start talking about my asshole manager at work who always makes me drag down the replacement stacks of paper bags.

I check my watch.  It’s 11:15.

Carl puts his hand on my back.  “Dude, a retard can bag groceries. Why don’t you come over and see the place?”

The little hairs on my forearms feel warm.  “Sure.”

At his house, we each drink a beer and a few shots.  I’m going on about my friend Tony and how he’s at the University of Maryland and how he won’t accept my Facebook friend request.

Carl sighs and then stands in front of me.  He unzips and grips my hair.  His cock is sweaty and enormous.  He sticks it in my mouth, finally shuts me up.

XXX

David Erlewine lives and loathes near Annapolis.  His blog is whizbyfiction.blogspot.com.

Friendly Girl (photo: Flickr user i_want_some15)

While both of us were gainfully employed, it wasn’t so one-sided. There were nights I’d get up during dinner and stick my dick down her throat. I’d sometimes stick it in everywhere, even her bad left ear. Often I’d just stand over her, slapping my dick against her face, bragging about how much more money I made. Inevitably, and stereotypically, I ended every such night by cumming all over her face.

Alas, three months of being unemployed has distorted everything. I haven’t cum in weeks. Things reached a boil last night when she ignored my frantic taps.  I passed out.  I woke up to find her pounding my chest, apparently convinced she and that sweet ass were going to get locked up for years.  I gulped air and gasped, ”You could have killed me, you crazy bitch.”  I wanted to point my finger in her face but realized I was still tied up.

She hugged me, tight, and then crawled on top of my face until all I could see was purple thong.  For the next few minutes, as I nearly suffocated, I berated myself for having forgotten Dad’s birthday last year, for not going all the way at prom, for being such a dickhead to my younger brother, and for dying like such a damn loser.

And then she was yanking my hair, lifting up as she came.  As I took in sweet breath after sweet breath, she fell asleep.  A few minutes later, bound and drenched, I did too, unsure what tomorrow would bring.  When I woke up, only one of my arms was tied to the bed.  After a few minutes, I got up and walked around the condo, realizing all of her stuff was gone.  A little note in the bathroom said, “Good luck on the job search.  I can’t be with someone so sweet.”

XXX

David Erlewine lives outside Annapolis with his poor wife and kids. On the train to and from work, he scrawls little stories in a notebook. At night he gleefully types them into an old computer while his family sleeps. His stories appear in approximately sixty journals, including The Pedestal, SmokeLong Quarterly, Elimae, Titular, Flash Fire 500, Flash Shot, Tuesday Shorts, Word Riot, decomP, 971 Menu, and In Posse Review. His sad little blog is whizbyfiction.blogspot.com. He edits fiction for Dogzplot. He hasn’t come up with a good pseudonym like Richard Bachman.

"In&Out" photo by Flickr user bass_nroll (for more: http://temp.sickgirl.it)

My wife used to tie me up and burn cigarettes on my ass and thighs. Her old babysitter, Craig, did that to her years ago. My wife has concluded regular therapy and/or support groups don’t help. Usually, while we’re both still crying, she begins jerking me off really fast. When I start to cum, she aims it at my face, for obvious reasons.

Today I left work at 1:00 because I just felt overcome with malaise. When I got home I thought I’d walked into a bad 80′s movie: all sorts of loud moaning and yelling from upstairs. In the guest room, I found my wife fucking Carl, the college kid who cuts our lawn every Saturday morning. She had Carl bent over the bed and was going to town with the red and green dildo I’d bought her for Christmas. His eyes widened when he saw me and he yelled something into the ball gag, which I hadn’t bought her.  She smacked his head and then pointed at me.

“Get out!” I got hard as hell when she yelled that.

I hung around the basement until Carl left. Later that night, my wife and I had a long talk. Well, since I stutter, my conversations veer toward the long side so this was a longer conversation. Shortly thereafter, I was in the bathroom scrubbing her Christmas gift while she rinsed the ball gag in the sink. A few minutes later we were in the guest room.

We found a new kid to mow our lawns, one who was short, but long on acne.

One night, while drinking, I decided to find Rose’s phone number. A friend e-mailed me that Rose’s speech therapy license had gotten yanked and her husband walked. My friend mentioned seeing her at the mall. ”She still has that a-a-ass.”

Rose didn’t remember me but said I had a genuine stutter. “Come on over.” Since then, I’ve been going
to Rose’s condo every Wednesday night while my wife thinks I’m at Toastmasters. From 7 to 8 pm, Rose sits on my face, making me practice deep breathing techniques and easy onsets into her multi-colored thongs. As she cums, she tells me that I’m almost cured.

XXX

David Erlewine lives outside Annapolis with his poor wife and kids.  On the train to and from work, he scrawls little stories in a notebook.  At night he gleefully types them into an old computer while his family sleeps.  His stories appear in approximately sixty journals, including The Pedestal, SmokeLong Quarterly, Elimae, Titular, Flash Fire 500, Flash Shot, Tuesday Shorts, Word Riot, decomP, 971 Menu, and In Posse Review.  His sad little blog is whizbyfiction.blogspot.com. He edits fiction for Dogzplot. He hasn’t come up with a good pseudonym like Richard Bachman.