Giggling Into the Pillow (3 page)
Read Giggling Into the Pillow Online
Authors: Chris Bridges
Tags: #comedy, #humor, #sexy, #stories, #essays, #sexy stories, #erotica anthology, #silly
The dildo was stuck to the television screen
by the suction cup on its base and was currently turning David
Brinkley into a unicorn.
“So what are we going to do with George,
there?” I asked.
“George?”
“I need a name, I can't just deal with a
nameless dick.”
Dave started laughing. “Puts you one up on
Kim, then,” he said.
Teres glared at him. “That was rude. George
it is, then. So what are we going to do with it?”
I couldn't help it. “Let's sleep on it,” I
said.
The kids were getting dropped off home the
next morning, so we brought George upstairs and laid him,
reverently, on a pillow. Well away from the bed.
The next morning I came down to breakfast to
find Teresa sitting on the living room floor, making a sign. I
leaned over her head enough to read it.
Please call or contact us to identify.
being too embarrassing, just like our wedding pictures.”
“I thought so.”
“I think you chickened out by not including
an artist's conception.”
We posted the signs, all the while looking
about furtively in case the Religious Right was hiding in the
bushes, ready to leap out and arrest us for trafficking in penises.
It was an odd feeling, skulking about in the daylight like
that.
“You know no one's gonna have the nerve to
call, don't you?” I said.
Teres asked, “Would you call?”
“Of course.”
“So do you want to pass up the chance to
meet someone as twisted as you?”
Our public service done for the week, we
headed back to the house, confident we'd be throwing George out
within a few days.
throughout the day Sunday and quickly filled the 10 am to 5 pm
slots with only a very few gaps. “We can use those for sort of an
open viewing,” Teres said. She seemed to be enjoying this, so
rather than bitch about our lost Sunday I relaxed to the inevitable
and suggested we cater it.
First thing was to arrange for the
whereabouts of our boys. They're good lads, and very savvy about
the ways of life, but despite our open attitude and sincere
appreciation for honesty in parent-child relationships we still
didn't feel completely comfortable having them present as we
invited a series of forlorn sex maniacs into the house to inspect a
massive false penis, if only because rushed explanations would have
been unfair to all concerned. Arrangements were made to ship them
off to Phen's place to play with his daughter, hopefully in a
reasonably sex-toy-free environment.
Kim was contacted to stand by as a
consultant, in case she was required as an expert witness. She came
over Saturday night and the three of us spent an enjoyable evening
trying to decide on appropriate food to serve. Hot dogs or
bratwurst seemed gauche, but barbecue was too messy. Teresa
suggested tacos, as sort of a counterpoint, while I leaned towards
cheese logs combined with cheese balls for an overall effect. We
finally settled on fried chicken and chips to be the most neutral
food and the most likely to stay edible all day.
The rest of the night was used to set the
stage.
its rays through our windows to see what it could see, which was a
heavy-duty construction-size doohickey of the male persuasion lying
in state on its velvet pillow and surrounded by flowers and
ribbons. No word on how the sun felt about that. The rest of the
table had been cleared and polished and provided an elegant setting
for viewing.
“Shouldn't we have velvet ropes set up,”
Teres asked. “in case there's a line?”
“No need,” I said. “I think you could see
George from space.”
About five minutes before ten the first
appointment showed up. We were nervous; it was one thing to laugh
about this, but what kind of people were we inviting into our home?
Not that owning a sex toy equated to perversity (or, more to the
point, not that perversity was a problem in our household), but we
weren't sure what sort of person would face the embarrassment
rather than just buy a new one. Either these would be people
amazing in their mental stability and remarkably comfortable in
themselves, or…
Or, like our first supplicants, they were
too whacked out to care.
James and Martha (no last name offered)
weren't quite dead ringers for the people in the American Gothic
painting, but only because they weren't dressed as well. They were
so nervous it put us at ease, if that makes sense, and they seemed
relieved that we weren't out to blackmail them or take pictures.
According to James, their missing device was something they had
bought through a catalog after 46 years of increasingly boring sex.
Turned out that battery-operated vibration was just what both of
them needed and now not only were they at it night and day, they
had developed a seething rivalry (and a serious dildo jones).
“James here needed it for his prostate, you
know,” Martha confided in us, lowering her eyes. “And since I
insisted on boiling it after he did that, you know, before I'd
touch it, it got so we'd both try to make sure we were the first
one to get to it in the morning. In just a few weeks we were
fighting over it night and day, hiding it on each other and calling
each other the most dreadful names.”
James hung his head as well. “I'm ashamed to
admit it, but I once left it in me for three days so she couldn't
get it. Wasn't easy driving the truck like that, let me tell
you.”
Teres glanced back towards the table, then
at James. Her eyes got very wide.
I stood up and, with some trepidation,
offered my hands to both of them. “Would you like to see if this is
yours?”
Martha sat, clutching her handbag. “I, I
don't know.” She looked up at her husband. “We were getting to hate
one another. I don't know that we should have it anymore. I
remember locking myself in the bathroom for a whole week last
Christmas and I just can’t stand it.”
“She's right,” James said, and touched her
hair affectionately. “We've lost something in our marriage, and I
think we need to work on getting it back. The sex was great,
though.” He kneeled before her and took her hands. “C'mon, Martha.
Let's go get it and leave these good people alone. We can deal with
this ourselves.”
She nodded once, bravely, and then they
walked over to look at George. There was a long pause. Martha
crossed herself.
Finally James said, “Nope, that ain't ours.
We lost ours while we were fighting in the truck during our weekly
battery run. Looked for it for hours with no luck, but that one I
think we woulda seen, easy.”
“Does that one vibrate?” Martha asked, a bit
fearfully.
who entered our house, nodded at us, looked at it, shook her head,
and left without saying a single word. She was blushing bright
enough to set off smoke alarms.
Our 11:00 was a timid little man in a cheap
suit who introduced himself as “John.” “I like to look like I'm,
you know, packing, when I go out,” he said. “I slip a little extra
something in my pants leg and hit the town.”
He admitted that George did not belong to
him. I could tell; if he wore George he'd have no room for his
leg.
Kim stayed quiet until he started to leave,
and then her curiosity kicked her sense in the head and spoke up.
“Excuse me,” she said, “I don't want to pry, but why do you do
that? I mean, what good does it do to pick someone up on the basis
of something that's gonna drop off as soon as you drop your pants?
Doesn't that kind of break the mood?”
“John” smiled nervously. “I don't really
know,” he said. “It hasn't worked yet.”
Before he left he insisted we put him on a
list to claim it if nobody else did.
both named Steve. “It's pretty handy, actually,” the blond Steve
said, laughing. “I can yell my own name out without sounding
narcissistic.”
One of them (I forget which) had been
bringing a new present home for the other and lost it somewhere
along the way.
“You know how you see something in the store
and you just have to see it in your lover?” We agreed that we did.
“Well, this was just perfect. Perfect shape, perfect size,
perfect.”
The one we had, however, was not.
“Nope,” said Steve. “It was much bigger than
that.” The other Steve smiled sadly, and they finished their drinks
and left.
We left noon open to have lunch, but some
unannounced hopefuls showed up anyway and kept us busy. One
9-year-old boy who had stolen his mom's “massager” had lost it
while showing his friends (apparently, in a perfectly sensible
move, they had decided to see if they could get it stuck in a tree)
and now had to find it fast, was particularly devastated that this
wasn't it. He tried to talk us into giving it to him anyway, in the
hopes that she'd like it better and not kill him, but we told him
we needed parental permission before we handed a 10” lifelike dildo
to a minor. We’re just the old-fashioned type, we are.
A 6'2” man in full leather and chain biker
regalia hefted it experimentally but finally pronounced it wrong. A
lady Teres recognized as one of our younger son's grade school
teachers crept quietly in, shook hands with everybody, and then
burst into tears when she saw it. A gentleman arrived and announced
several times that it wasn't his; he was there on behalf of his
client who had described it to him perfectly. One woman that would
best be described as “trailer-trash” stormed in with a big book
under her arm, looked at the thing, opened her book, and compared
the dildo to the hundreds of pictures she had carefully arranged in
order of size and function. It wasn't hers, but I couldn't imagine
why not. A small group of elderly ladies, still in their church
clothes, milled nervously around the front door until one of them
was shoved by the rest into coming in to look.
“It's not ours, girls!” she called out the
door as she left. “This one's white!”
By three o'clock we had been visited by four
more women, three men, two couples, a youth group, and a city
council member who asked to remain anonymous. We were getting
discouraged.
“I don't believe this many people lost a sex
toy,” Kim said. “Suddenly I don't feel so perverted anymore.”
I sat down next to her. “Will you be all
right?” I asked.
She hove a deep sigh. “I suppose. A few days
and I'll start feeling dirty again, I'm sure. Do you believe these
people?”
“I know,” Teres said. “My favorite so far is
the lady that tried to shoplift it.”
I chuckled. “Or the guy who said he couldn't
recognize it unless he tried it.”
“What are we going to do if the real owner
never shows up?” Teres asked.
“If no one claims it within 30 days, it's
yours, hon,” I said. She snorted. “We could always take it to the
next PTA meeting and ask if anyone’s missing a dick.”
Kim suggested we auction it off. “We could
give the money to charity, like unwed mothers or something.”
Our 5:00 appointment was running late, so we
started packing up. “We can leave the sign up and people can call,”
I said.
Teres looked up, horrified. “Oh, no, I'm not
taking calls for this thing if you're not here. What if I get
attacked?”
“Hit 'em with George.”
Kim left to hit the bathroom, just as a car
pulled up in the driveway. “Whoops,” I said. “Your table might be
dickless tonight after all.”
The woman waiting outside our front door was
trim and elegant, well dressed and beautiful. She was in her late
40's, had auburn hair that looked natural, and was clearly fit. Her
eyes were hazel, her suit was Donna Karan, and she voted
Republican.
No, I couldn't tell that from looking. Kim
had told us once that her mom voted for Bush.
To her credit, she didn't seem as flustered
as I would have expected, not that I would have expected Kim's mom
to show up at our house at all, much less in search of cock. “Oh,”
she said. “Oh. My, I didn't expect this.”
Teres recovered before I did. “Won't you
come in, Mrs. Sullivan,” she said. “We were just cleaning up.”
Mrs. Sullivan entered the room with such
poise and grace that I momentarily forgot she was here to lay claim
to a rubber dick. “You've got such a beautiful home,” she
said.
We stood there uncomfortably for a moment,
and then she saw the table. “Oh my God, there it is.” She walked
briskly over and snatched the penis off the pillow, cradling it in
both hands and looking it over for marks, for all the world like a
she was judging a prize-winning zucchini. Maybe she was. “Not a
scratch on him,” she said, amazed. Next to me Teres was fighting
desperately to keep from giggling. I was simply in shock.
Not as much as Kim was, though, when she
walked back in to see her mother kissing the head of nearly a foot
of cock. “MOM! What the hell are you doing?” I assumed it was a
trick question.
Mrs. Sullivan stood up straight and lowered
her penis. “This is mine, dear,” she said. Kim stood there,
open-mouthed and breathing like a distance jogger.
“But… you… Daddy? Does Daddy know you have…
one of those?” she asked, pointing.
“I'm afraid he does now. He found it in my
makeup case Friday night and went ballistic. Yelled something about
him not being good enough for me and then he drove off with it. He
was right, of course, but that’s no excuse to steal my property. I
suppose he thought this was remote enough where no one would find
it, or have the brains to do anything if they did. No offense,” she
said.
by the suction cup on its base and was currently turning David
Brinkley into a unicorn.
“So what are we going to do with George,
there?” I asked.
“George?”
“I need a name, I can't just deal with a
nameless dick.”
Dave started laughing. “Puts you one up on
Kim, then,” he said.
Teres glared at him. “That was rude. George
it is, then. So what are we going to do with it?”
I couldn't help it. “Let's sleep on it,” I
said.
The kids were getting dropped off home the
next morning, so we brought George upstairs and laid him,
reverently, on a pillow. Well away from the bed.
The next morning I came down to breakfast to
find Teresa sitting on the living room floor, making a sign. I
leaned over her head enough to read it.
Please call or contact us to identify.
being too embarrassing, just like our wedding pictures.”
“I thought so.”
“I think you chickened out by not including
an artist's conception.”
We posted the signs, all the while looking
about furtively in case the Religious Right was hiding in the
bushes, ready to leap out and arrest us for trafficking in penises.
It was an odd feeling, skulking about in the daylight like
that.
“You know no one's gonna have the nerve to
call, don't you?” I said.
Teres asked, “Would you call?”
“Of course.”
“So do you want to pass up the chance to
meet someone as twisted as you?”
Our public service done for the week, we
headed back to the house, confident we'd be throwing George out
within a few days.
throughout the day Sunday and quickly filled the 10 am to 5 pm
slots with only a very few gaps. “We can use those for sort of an
open viewing,” Teres said. She seemed to be enjoying this, so
rather than bitch about our lost Sunday I relaxed to the inevitable
and suggested we cater it.
First thing was to arrange for the
whereabouts of our boys. They're good lads, and very savvy about
the ways of life, but despite our open attitude and sincere
appreciation for honesty in parent-child relationships we still
didn't feel completely comfortable having them present as we
invited a series of forlorn sex maniacs into the house to inspect a
massive false penis, if only because rushed explanations would have
been unfair to all concerned. Arrangements were made to ship them
off to Phen's place to play with his daughter, hopefully in a
reasonably sex-toy-free environment.
Kim was contacted to stand by as a
consultant, in case she was required as an expert witness. She came
over Saturday night and the three of us spent an enjoyable evening
trying to decide on appropriate food to serve. Hot dogs or
bratwurst seemed gauche, but barbecue was too messy. Teresa
suggested tacos, as sort of a counterpoint, while I leaned towards
cheese logs combined with cheese balls for an overall effect. We
finally settled on fried chicken and chips to be the most neutral
food and the most likely to stay edible all day.
The rest of the night was used to set the
stage.
its rays through our windows to see what it could see, which was a
heavy-duty construction-size doohickey of the male persuasion lying
in state on its velvet pillow and surrounded by flowers and
ribbons. No word on how the sun felt about that. The rest of the
table had been cleared and polished and provided an elegant setting
for viewing.
“Shouldn't we have velvet ropes set up,”
Teres asked. “in case there's a line?”
“No need,” I said. “I think you could see
George from space.”
About five minutes before ten the first
appointment showed up. We were nervous; it was one thing to laugh
about this, but what kind of people were we inviting into our home?
Not that owning a sex toy equated to perversity (or, more to the
point, not that perversity was a problem in our household), but we
weren't sure what sort of person would face the embarrassment
rather than just buy a new one. Either these would be people
amazing in their mental stability and remarkably comfortable in
themselves, or…
Or, like our first supplicants, they were
too whacked out to care.
James and Martha (no last name offered)
weren't quite dead ringers for the people in the American Gothic
painting, but only because they weren't dressed as well. They were
so nervous it put us at ease, if that makes sense, and they seemed
relieved that we weren't out to blackmail them or take pictures.
According to James, their missing device was something they had
bought through a catalog after 46 years of increasingly boring sex.
Turned out that battery-operated vibration was just what both of
them needed and now not only were they at it night and day, they
had developed a seething rivalry (and a serious dildo jones).
“James here needed it for his prostate, you
know,” Martha confided in us, lowering her eyes. “And since I
insisted on boiling it after he did that, you know, before I'd
touch it, it got so we'd both try to make sure we were the first
one to get to it in the morning. In just a few weeks we were
fighting over it night and day, hiding it on each other and calling
each other the most dreadful names.”
James hung his head as well. “I'm ashamed to
admit it, but I once left it in me for three days so she couldn't
get it. Wasn't easy driving the truck like that, let me tell
you.”
Teres glanced back towards the table, then
at James. Her eyes got very wide.
I stood up and, with some trepidation,
offered my hands to both of them. “Would you like to see if this is
yours?”
Martha sat, clutching her handbag. “I, I
don't know.” She looked up at her husband. “We were getting to hate
one another. I don't know that we should have it anymore. I
remember locking myself in the bathroom for a whole week last
Christmas and I just can’t stand it.”
“She's right,” James said, and touched her
hair affectionately. “We've lost something in our marriage, and I
think we need to work on getting it back. The sex was great,
though.” He kneeled before her and took her hands. “C'mon, Martha.
Let's go get it and leave these good people alone. We can deal with
this ourselves.”
She nodded once, bravely, and then they
walked over to look at George. There was a long pause. Martha
crossed herself.
Finally James said, “Nope, that ain't ours.
We lost ours while we were fighting in the truck during our weekly
battery run. Looked for it for hours with no luck, but that one I
think we woulda seen, easy.”
“Does that one vibrate?” Martha asked, a bit
fearfully.
who entered our house, nodded at us, looked at it, shook her head,
and left without saying a single word. She was blushing bright
enough to set off smoke alarms.
Our 11:00 was a timid little man in a cheap
suit who introduced himself as “John.” “I like to look like I'm,
you know, packing, when I go out,” he said. “I slip a little extra
something in my pants leg and hit the town.”
He admitted that George did not belong to
him. I could tell; if he wore George he'd have no room for his
leg.
Kim stayed quiet until he started to leave,
and then her curiosity kicked her sense in the head and spoke up.
“Excuse me,” she said, “I don't want to pry, but why do you do
that? I mean, what good does it do to pick someone up on the basis
of something that's gonna drop off as soon as you drop your pants?
Doesn't that kind of break the mood?”
“John” smiled nervously. “I don't really
know,” he said. “It hasn't worked yet.”
Before he left he insisted we put him on a
list to claim it if nobody else did.
both named Steve. “It's pretty handy, actually,” the blond Steve
said, laughing. “I can yell my own name out without sounding
narcissistic.”
One of them (I forget which) had been
bringing a new present home for the other and lost it somewhere
along the way.
“You know how you see something in the store
and you just have to see it in your lover?” We agreed that we did.
“Well, this was just perfect. Perfect shape, perfect size,
perfect.”
The one we had, however, was not.
“Nope,” said Steve. “It was much bigger than
that.” The other Steve smiled sadly, and they finished their drinks
and left.
We left noon open to have lunch, but some
unannounced hopefuls showed up anyway and kept us busy. One
9-year-old boy who had stolen his mom's “massager” had lost it
while showing his friends (apparently, in a perfectly sensible
move, they had decided to see if they could get it stuck in a tree)
and now had to find it fast, was particularly devastated that this
wasn't it. He tried to talk us into giving it to him anyway, in the
hopes that she'd like it better and not kill him, but we told him
we needed parental permission before we handed a 10” lifelike dildo
to a minor. We’re just the old-fashioned type, we are.
A 6'2” man in full leather and chain biker
regalia hefted it experimentally but finally pronounced it wrong. A
lady Teres recognized as one of our younger son's grade school
teachers crept quietly in, shook hands with everybody, and then
burst into tears when she saw it. A gentleman arrived and announced
several times that it wasn't his; he was there on behalf of his
client who had described it to him perfectly. One woman that would
best be described as “trailer-trash” stormed in with a big book
under her arm, looked at the thing, opened her book, and compared
the dildo to the hundreds of pictures she had carefully arranged in
order of size and function. It wasn't hers, but I couldn't imagine
why not. A small group of elderly ladies, still in their church
clothes, milled nervously around the front door until one of them
was shoved by the rest into coming in to look.
“It's not ours, girls!” she called out the
door as she left. “This one's white!”
By three o'clock we had been visited by four
more women, three men, two couples, a youth group, and a city
council member who asked to remain anonymous. We were getting
discouraged.
“I don't believe this many people lost a sex
toy,” Kim said. “Suddenly I don't feel so perverted anymore.”
I sat down next to her. “Will you be all
right?” I asked.
She hove a deep sigh. “I suppose. A few days
and I'll start feeling dirty again, I'm sure. Do you believe these
people?”
“I know,” Teres said. “My favorite so far is
the lady that tried to shoplift it.”
I chuckled. “Or the guy who said he couldn't
recognize it unless he tried it.”
“What are we going to do if the real owner
never shows up?” Teres asked.
“If no one claims it within 30 days, it's
yours, hon,” I said. She snorted. “We could always take it to the
next PTA meeting and ask if anyone’s missing a dick.”
Kim suggested we auction it off. “We could
give the money to charity, like unwed mothers or something.”
Our 5:00 appointment was running late, so we
started packing up. “We can leave the sign up and people can call,”
I said.
Teres looked up, horrified. “Oh, no, I'm not
taking calls for this thing if you're not here. What if I get
attacked?”
“Hit 'em with George.”
Kim left to hit the bathroom, just as a car
pulled up in the driveway. “Whoops,” I said. “Your table might be
dickless tonight after all.”
The woman waiting outside our front door was
trim and elegant, well dressed and beautiful. She was in her late
40's, had auburn hair that looked natural, and was clearly fit. Her
eyes were hazel, her suit was Donna Karan, and she voted
Republican.
No, I couldn't tell that from looking. Kim
had told us once that her mom voted for Bush.
To her credit, she didn't seem as flustered
as I would have expected, not that I would have expected Kim's mom
to show up at our house at all, much less in search of cock. “Oh,”
she said. “Oh. My, I didn't expect this.”
Teres recovered before I did. “Won't you
come in, Mrs. Sullivan,” she said. “We were just cleaning up.”
Mrs. Sullivan entered the room with such
poise and grace that I momentarily forgot she was here to lay claim
to a rubber dick. “You've got such a beautiful home,” she
said.
We stood there uncomfortably for a moment,
and then she saw the table. “Oh my God, there it is.” She walked
briskly over and snatched the penis off the pillow, cradling it in
both hands and looking it over for marks, for all the world like a
she was judging a prize-winning zucchini. Maybe she was. “Not a
scratch on him,” she said, amazed. Next to me Teres was fighting
desperately to keep from giggling. I was simply in shock.
Not as much as Kim was, though, when she
walked back in to see her mother kissing the head of nearly a foot
of cock. “MOM! What the hell are you doing?” I assumed it was a
trick question.
Mrs. Sullivan stood up straight and lowered
her penis. “This is mine, dear,” she said. Kim stood there,
open-mouthed and breathing like a distance jogger.
“But… you… Daddy? Does Daddy know you have…
one of those?” she asked, pointing.
“I'm afraid he does now. He found it in my
makeup case Friday night and went ballistic. Yelled something about
him not being good enough for me and then he drove off with it. He
was right, of course, but that’s no excuse to steal my property. I
suppose he thought this was remote enough where no one would find
it, or have the brains to do anything if they did. No offense,” she
said.
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