King of the Perverts
King of the Perverts
Steve Lowe
Published by Grindhouse Press
POB 292644
Dayton, OH 45429
www.grindhousepress.com
King of the Perverts
Grindhouse Press #010
Paperback
ISBN-13: 978-0-9849692-
5-8
Paperback
ISBN-10: 09849692
5X
Copyright © 2012 by
Steve Lowe
. All rights reserved.
This book is a work of fiction.
Cover design copyright © 2012 by Matthew Revert
Grindhouse Press logo copyright © 2012 by Brandon Duncan
No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author or publisher.
Also by Steve Lowe
Mr. Flashback
(writing as Son Porter)
Mio Padre, il Tumore
(forthcoming from Bucket ’o Guts Press)
From Michele Lowe, the author’s wife:
I would like to make it abundantly clear that none of the acts or situations contained herein are based on real-life scenarios, and that no spouse(s) were hurt, either physically, mentally, or emotionally in the writing of this “book”.
From the author:
Well, almost none of them…
The Golden Shower
Hearing the words coming out of my own mouth confirms that I have slipped into some alternate reality.
Up is down. Black is white. Peter Venkman’s voice echoes in my head. Cats and dogs and mass hysteria, all that jazz.
Before me stands, quite possibly, the hottest chick I have ever been in the same room with. She is five-alarm. Tall, dark hair, voluptuously rounded, and best of all, wearing nothing but a sheer lace thong. You really can’t classify them as underwear, more like the rumor of underwear. Like the eerie outline left on the ground following a nuclear blast. Saran wrap covers more skin than these babies.
And I am asking this woman to pee on me.
Her head jerks back like I had connected with a right hook to her jaw. “You want me to do
what
?”
Fuck me. Do I really have to say it again? Somewhere in the bathroom, my Albanian cretin cohort Mongo has planted at least one camera and quite possibly two or three to get different angles of this big moment. I swear I can hear him in the next room, on the other side of the paper-thin wall of this shithole motel he has found, stifling his laughter. I say a quick prayer, asking that he might choke on that laughter and die, slowly, and in agonizing pain.
I lower my head and concentrate on the scarred, faded bathroom tile under my knees. I wonder how many such acts have taken place in this very spot before I came along. I also wonder how often it has been cleaned after such acts have concluded. By the looks of it, quite a few, and not very often. I say another quick prayer of thanks for the heady decision to keep my pants on.
“Um… I said I want you to… pee on me.”
I can’t bring myself to look up at her and instead fixate on her lovely navel, which is quite lovely indeed. She stumbles back a bit and wavers, trying to balance through the fog of four appletinis. I was hoping that would have been a sufficient number of appletinis to keep her from running, horrified and disgusted, out of the room the second I told her exactly what I was hoping she would do to me, but now I fear she isn’t drunk enough just yet. Curse you, shitty Applebee
’
s bartender and your watered down, suburban-housewife-strength mixing skills!
I’m about to lose my nerve for good. This is it for me. If this doesn’t go down right here and now, there is no way in hell I can start over. It’s a small miracle I’ve made it this far. At this point in my life, I can hardly ask
any
woman out on a date and never a woman this incredibly attractive. Yet here I am wasting a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to get it on with a bonafide hottie by asking her to shower me with urine.
Asking her to pee on me would go over better than asking if I could pee on her. As far as I understand the rules of the game, a golden shower is a golden shower, regardless of the recipient. So, better me than her.
But I can’t honestly claim chivalry here. There’s a performance anxiety element to this, like trying to piss at one of those cattle troughs in a football stadium, where you’re shoulder to shoulder with dozens of guys, staring at the wall in front of you, forcing your eyes to remain locked straight ahead and not wonder if you had the guy next to you beat in the meat packing department. Nothing was worse than holding up the shuffling, drunken queue behind you because you couldn’t make wee-wee when the moment of truth arrived. There was this one tim
e –
“Well,” the girl slurs, snapping me out of my little daydream. “I guess so. If that’s what you want, baby.”
What I want?
No, this is not what I want.
But at the same time, it is.
Do I want a smoking hot babe to piss on my head? In the abstract, that answer is no, not at all. In relation to what I’m currently trying to accomplish, that answer is yes, that’s exactly what I desire.
I want to shout for joy and scream at her to stop all at the same time.
She tugs at her panties, fumbling to hook her thumbs into the dental floss-thin waistband. She wobbles again, falling sideways into the sink. I reach up to steady her and help guide the underwear down. She really is gorgeous, every inch of her, including her magnificently landscaped pussy. I can’t take my eyes off it. It’s like looking into the sun – glorious in its magnificence but dangerous to stare for too long, lest you go blind.
Which is exactly what happens. I fail to heed that sage piece of advice, and now I’m blind.
She does as I have requested. She pees on me.
It burns my eyes, shoots up into my nose. My mouth is slightly open, too. For a second , I’m drowning a little, coughing and spluttering on piss.
Waterboarded by a babe.
She had to wizz like crazy, too; it just doesn’t stop coming. It sprays like a fire hose and knocks me back on my ass. The stream goes down the front of my shirt, onto my pants, spatters a little on my shoes before slowing to a light trickle dripping from her short pubic hairs and running down her gorgeous, gnawable thighs.
I cough and blow urine from my sinuses, gagging on the bitter burning in the back of my throat. When I can see again, I look up at her. She’s dry heaving, holding her bucking guts with both hands, preparing to add an appletini chaser to my golden shower. I scramble, slipping on the soiled slick tile flooring, spinning my tires in the puddle of piss beneath me. I almost get away in time.
Almost.
There’s no sense in staying after that, so I don’t. In fact, I can’t get out of that room fast enough. And now I’m standing outside, here at this shitty roadside motel in Muncie, Indiana, still within view of the very Applebee
’
s from whence this awful experience began
–m
y front saturated in some hot chick’s piss, my back coated in same hot chick’s vomit
– w
aiting for my personal cameraman, a hulking beast from some backwards mountainous region in the Urals or some shit who I’ve nicknamed ‘Mongo’, to open the fucking door so I can dive into the shower and try to wash off the filth and shame of this evening.
I’m wet, soaked through with a beautiful stranger’s bodily fluids, stinking something awful, but I’m also strangely satisfied. I proved something to myself tonight. I proved that I could actually go through with this stupid game. I’m not the pussy I thought I was.
I can confidently debase myself as thoroughly as anyone else.
I am pervert, hear me roar.
This is a strangely good feeling and I’m sure I will properly reflect on it at some point in the evening – I’m in the game, baby! But that shall come later, perhaps over a cocktail. Right now, I have to get cleaned up before I go completely apeshit.
“Mongo, open the fucking door!”
I hear the faint sounds of retching from the room next door, number 26, and feel sad for my poor, drunk, sick, hot babe. I pound on the door to Room 27 again until the lock finally clicks. Mongo opens it only as far as the chain will allow.
“Goddammit, Mongo, I’m covered i
n
piss and puke and if you don’t let me in right now, I’m going to kick this fucking door into your face.”
Mongo grins and says nothing. That’s all Mongo has done since I met him at the airport two days ago.
Grin. Mumble. Chuckle. Silence. Vacant stares. Creepy fucker.
I’m still not sure if he even speaks English because I haven’t heard him utter a sound classifiable as anything other than a grunt. He’s not cowed by my idle threats, either. He knows I won’t kick the door in and, even if I did, I would not be able to inflict any appreciable damage on him. Mainly because he outweighs me by at least a hundred pounds, all of which is almost certainly steroid-inflated muscle.
He closes the door, fiddles with the chain, and opens it again. I step forward to go in, but his meaty fist blocks my way, a bucket filled with water dangling from his hairy knuckles.
“You wash up outside,” he garbles in a deep, thick Russian-ish accent. Definitely Soviet Bloc in origin. “You are nasty motherfucker.”
He smiles at his little joke and closes the door. The lock clicks back in place and I can hear him laughing on the other side
– a
deep, guttural sound like a growling animal. As I peel off my sopping shirt and lift the bucket above my head, I make a silent vow to get even with that shithead at some point. But that will come after.
First, I have to win this contest.