Another Day at the Office

This scenario was written in honour of a friend’s entrepreneurial scheme, his infectious obsession with the "sexual underclass" of New York and a sex toy known as the Real Doll.

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"How many men have you fucked today?"

"....9...?"

"10. And it isn't noon yet. What does that make you?"

"...a whore."

"A fuck-ing ho."

Bored female voice over the telephone intercom. "The next one's here sir. His name is Schlomo."

"Send him in."

Body odour enters first, then Schlomo, wheezing. Hair slicked down with brilliantine or sweat; knotted paws; yellowed dirt crabbed under the fingernails; sweat scrambling off of the forehead, dribbling down neck, settling in tinted rings under the arms. Insincere puckered eyes looking horny. The girl on the bed shudders involuntarily.

"Ah, Schlomo." Hump-A-Real-Doll Inc., sole owner and proprietor smiles genially. "Do you have your ticket, sir?" Scholmo produces his receipt and Wet&Wild He-Man Sized condom….owner takes a note.

Schlomo looks suspiciously at the female. Pitched, phlemgy whine: "Wh-wh-when's the re-re-Real Doll coming back? I like the re-Real Doll you know."

"One more day at the shop Schlomo. This stand in's outfitted to match the best of them though."

Schlomo sniffs the air. Smells female perspiration.: "Sh-she smells. Is she sanitary?" Girl coughs.

"She's sterilized just like the Real Doll-"

"Sally."

"Just like Sally between customers...This one is prepared to do anything a bone fide Real Doll can, my man, and she's all yours for the next....15 minutes." Expansive gesture towards the female. The owner leans back in his chair.

Schlomo considers her with a once over, lingering on the tits, the face. "Well, she's _almost_ a body 5, head 11." He's sweating again. Fumbles with his fly....girl whimpers, involuntarily. No bedsheet to hide under. Schlomo's knee sinks into the bed, an awkward struggle to straddle her, stained Fruit of the Looms pulsing with tainted cock. Girl catches the owner's attention, eyes gesture desperately towards the condom on the pillow, then wander to the doorway possibly praying. Eyes light up when Schlomo stops suddenly. He seems to be re-considering. The corners of his mouth wrinkle.

"s-Something isn't right...I like Sally's legs to be up, up behind her head. Can this one do that?" Both look at the owner. He's already on the phone.

"Gwen, be a doll and bring in the nylon cord." With all the efficiency of a Girl Scout leader, Gwen brings the cord and has the girl trussed up past her ears. Girl stifles a squeaky moan, but Schlomo looks at last pleased. Slicks on the condom. Braces himself. Pants over girl's spread arse cheeks. The owner in his chair near the bed can smell Schlomo's breath. Tomato-onion soup and a peanut butter sandwich.

The owner leans forward, pulls out a stopwatch, "You don't mind if I time this eh? For experimental purposes." Schlomo, in fantasyfuck land, shrugs. He is ready.

Crammed bits into bits, frenzied humping, 11.2 seconds, done. Female looks confused. Owner frowns. Both eye the condom for Schlomo's leavings. Schlomo beams, relaxed, satisfied.

The owner says, "Nothing like a man of purpose." Mentions the possibility of a follow up interview and performance summary as he sees Schlomo out.

Opens a window. Quietly from the bed: "Can I get my legs down now, please?"

Epilogue~~

The owner soon opened a chain of Hump-a-Real-Doll outlets across the land and later retired to a hermitage on the Greek island of Spetses with five other like-minded brethren, eleven Real Dolls between them.

The girl went on to become disillusioned by her pursuit of false doms, but wrote her story and made millions on the American talk show circuit.

Gwen now works at K-mart.

Schlomo’s Sally never did return from the repairs shop, but was instead replaced with a RealDoll of the redhead variety. Scholmo, heartbroken, exhibited all the signs of loss…denial, despair, blinkered rage, until he struck out on his own to relieve that build up of a particularly toxic strain of deadly venom* growing exponentially in his ball-sack; roaming the back alleyways of the Lower East Side and the far reaches of the Bowery, at first attracted by the scent of availability there, but put off by the take no shit demeanour of the ladies on the stroll; ‘til at last he found solatium in another pocket of the squalid under-city of Manhattan; the New York Metropolitan subway system. There, late at night and in the early hours of the morning he took respite in the sous-trolley, in the first or second car, in the company of the memory of commuters or sometimes, if he was lucky enough, some other passive lone traveller. Underground leaning his head against the flashing plexiglass window, his stumpy legs wide and outstretched, his feet splayed, he took time to jack finally, ferociously, openly, at will.

* note. thanks to rosco rathbone for use of the term deadly venom