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Tuesday, August 30, 2005
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"YOUR OWN PERSONAL JESUS"
This piece was written in longhand at work on Saturday 27 August 2005. As you can probably tell, it wasn't a particularly eventful day. This is unusual, as on most days, I don't have the time to write my own name. It's unlikely that anyone will find this essay as enlightening or entertaining as I do, but them's the breaks.
For the last month I've been temporarily working as a concierge in a fairly exclusive condominium in a very exclusive Toronto neighbourhood. In a couple of weeks, I'll have a building of my very own to rule with an iron fist. But there's a weird thing about the place I'm at now; as much as I hate how its being run, it's a veritable poontang paradise. I find that I'm falling in love 63 times a day. That's not shallow, is it?
EDITOR'S NOTE: As skippy finished the preceding paragraph, he was distracted for about 25 minutes by a blonde with the biggest tits he'd ever seen. skippy then decided to help her move in, which is something that he isn't supposed to do. But rules were made to be broken, particularly when giant-titted blondes are involved. Now, I'm not saying that skippy did it because of those magnificent mammaries, but they sure didn't stop him , either.
Now, where was I? Oh yeah, I highly suspect that a good percentage of this buildings residents are strippers. Try as I might, I can't think of another way that 23 year olds with such beautiful bodies happen across the $300,000 dollars it costs to buy the coffee table sized apartments in this place. I dunno, maybe it’s good, old fashioned "nose to the grindstone" hard work, but I'm not getting that vibe yet.
On the other hand, I'm famous the world over for not being that bright. So there's a reasonable chance that I'm wrong. If that's the case - and any of the comely young ladies in question are reading this - I apologize profusely and pledge to keep my face between your marble hard ass cheeks until you can find in your hearts to forgive me.
I've noticed that I've digressed again. Funny the frequency with which this happens, no?
Anyhow, there's this guy in the building that no one sees between Sunday night and Friday evening. No one, and I mean no one, seems to have any idea what this guy does for a living. Rumour has it that he's devoting himself to pissing away his father's money. If this is true, then he's doing it in style. And he's now my hero, my own personal Jesus.
If I were to describe him - and its important to remember that I'm a trained observer and former professional bringer of justice under licence of the province of Ontario and Her Majesty the Queen - I'd say that he's about 32, of Southern European or Middle Eastern decent. is longish, yet stylish hair is permanently dishevelled and the $200.00 shirts he favours are typically unbuttoned to his sternum. Oh, and he likes lifts in his shoes as he's very short, maybe 5'8" on the outside.
Much like Pink, when you see him coming up - usually at about 10:30 Friday evening - you instinctively know that you better part started. From the reports that I've seen, including police reports, these parties usually conclude at about 7:30 the following morning. Remember that I said that these units ae no bigger than a coffee table? I wasn't kidding. I'm not at all exaggerating when I say that you couldn't spin in a circle in the living room if you had and erection without banging your cock on each of the walls. Don't ask me how I know this, just know that I do. As you can imagine, this makes our friend quite a hit with his neighbours. The building staff and the police have heard quite a bit about him.
I should also note that our hero is galactically fucked up before, during and after his parties. On the rare occasions that I've spoken to him, he was incomprehensible - and not just because of his stupid accent. This guy makes makes Peter O'Toole in My Favourite Year look like Michael Keaton in Clean and Sober.
I've only seen the beginning of one party and the aftermath of another. Unfortunately, I'm far too important to be working the midnight shift. But the common element is that both ends of the parties involve the most beautiful women that any of you have ever seen. God's jaw would drop if he saw these women naked.
In the lead up to the first party, there were not one, but two such women at my desk. Both could be described as blindingly beautiful. The combined effect of them together lead me to believe that my penis was about to tear through my pants and punch me in the face. I actually wanted to rip my own eyes out so that their beauty would be my final visual memory.
Imagine the hottest porno star you've ever seen and then multiply her by four. That would give you an idea of what ONE of these women looked like. Consider that there were two of them right in front of me and neither was what polite society would consider to be decently dressed. They even had porno star names. The blonde was named Paris and the brunette, Heidi. I've named my testicles after them and when I stroke them, I like to call their names. Frankly, I feel that my brain is melting just at the memory of those two.
And that was but two members of the vast pussy parade that marches through this guy's place. You never seem to see the same one twice and they rotate in and out, almost in shifts.
As I mentioned earlier, the cops were here investigating a noise complaint from his suite at 7:30 this morning. At noon, I had to escort a liquor store delivery man to his place. I didn't have the heart to deny our hero his constitutional 40 ounces of vodka. Even a monster like me isn't without sympathy.
So, LCBO boy and I were knocking at his door and waiting. Then we knocked and waited some more. Finally, the door opens and an angelically gorgeous head pops out from behind it. I instinctively knew that my Blonde Headed Queen was behind that door. Well that’s not entirely true. She could've been wearing bondage gar. In my fevered imagination, it was a combination of the two. Thigh high leather boots and matching corset, with chain mail teasing her toned breasts and large brass rings surrounding her glorious pink nipples. If Our Hero is any kind of a man at all, he would have also had a clamp on her clitoris and a butt plug in her ass.
I immediately felt my cock begin to twitch. Instinctively, I knew it was struggling to break free of my pants so that it could punch her in the face before beating me to death, finishing me off once and for all.
Once we identified ourselves and our precious liquid cargo, she excused herself and momentarily closed the door. Not a moment too soon, either. By the time the door latched, I was in imminent danger of cardiac arrest. Besides, I was rapidly approaching the point where I could no longer be held legally responsible for the mayhem my meat puppet could unleash on the blonde's - and my own - skull. My genitals have of their own and quelling the rage within them is physically exhausting under the best of circumstances. And, as you can imagine, these circumstances were far from ideal.
When the door reopened, my Princess was draped in an oversized sweatshirt and merely looked adorable. This went a long way in quelling the pestilent fantasies that swam through the sewer of my mind. Then the delivery guy and I beat a hasty retreat.
It was only when I returned to my desk that I realized that it would have been impossible for the blonde to get dressed AND remove the clit clamp and butt plug in the short time that the door was closed. And the burning in my loins began anew. I could only imagine the indignities my Blonde Angel would suffer with that bottle once Our Hero drained it of its contents.
And you kids thought I couldn't write erotica....
I guess what I'm getting at is this, I'd spend the rest of my days as a transvestite, junkie whore in a Calcutta prison just to live Our Hero's life for a week. He gets to live it all the time! I've only known the dude for a few weeks and I've already placed in penis in nomination for the Congressional Medal of Honor.
Do you have any idea what I'd give to be fucked up all the time and surrounded by the finest quim known to man in my $300, 000 closet? I think you do.
In fact, I probably wouldn't be so aggravated by the whole thing if he were at least good looking. Our Hero is even uglier than I am! And remember, I require several sharp blows to the face every morning just to look normal!
The worst part is that Our Hero and I will end up exactly the same way, as brain damaged messes. The only difference is the means by which this happens. Some day, Our Hero's pleasure centers will overload to the point that the snap, crackle and pop, while I'll be destroyed by frustration, stupidity and spite. For some reason, I think that his downfall will be much more entertaining than mine. Come to think of it, it'd probably be more fun to read about too. I should get this guy to start his own blog.
In any event, I hope that you teenagers are enjoying my new job a whole lot more than I am.
Postscriptum: No sooner did skippy complete the last sentence than Our Hero came up to him, smile and gave him what passes for a firm handshake these days. An hour afterward, yet ANOTHER beautiful woman showed up at skippy's desk to visit Our Hero.
skippy is beginning to feel that life is no longer worth the effort.
PermalinkLabels: Life With skippy
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