The Derrick

Spying his clothing on the nearby chair's armrest, he grabbed them. "Aww," she said quietly, "can I at least get your number?"

"Isn't it on my paperwork?" He didn't have time for this clingy slut. She clearly didn't care about him, just his Super Penis.

"No, I don't have access to any of that stuff. I just flick the dicks," she joked, chuckling.

He didn't respond at first. Donning his underwear, pants, and shirt, he sat on the chair to work on his shoes and socks. Ignoring her request, he spoke: "Can I get that manual?"

She must have realized that he wasn't giving up his digits. Clearly upset, she spoke, "fine." Heaving her portly body forward, she stood and walked over to the chair. She ignored the jizz dripping slowly from her prematurely-empty pussy. Not prematurely, he corrected himself. He came right when he wanted to.

Grabbing a small white card from her purse, she thrust it into his hands. "That's the fucking manual?" Her eyes were glassy, but she wasn't crying. Good. He didn't need that kind of bullshit today. "Is there anything else I need to know before I go?" he asked.

She responded coldly. "Everything you need is on that, apparently. Call Customer Service if you have any questions." With that, she grabbed her lab coat, donning it and whirling toward the curtain. She ripped it open, threw it to the side, and strode out.

Crazy bitch.

--

Riding in the vehicle, empty but for himself and another male passenger, Oliver used the time to glance discreetly at the embossed business card she'd given him.

There were no other HitchARide passengers at the hospital. He had been unwilling to pay for two seats, so he'd walked to the nearest alternative pickup spot, over a mile away. The added mass trapped in his underwear had made comfort unexpectedly difficult to achieve on the route.

The card read:

"Too tired for a chubby? Don't worry; it's a snap!

Too eager, your hubby? Just give him a smack!

Featuring Integrated Physiology (IP), your new tool comes equipped with state-of-the-art technology to arouse even its most frigid recipients.

Give it to her already-snap, clap, crack, smack, pose, and whisper your way to release today!

Powered by Mojo"

On the back was a reference guide listing the "cost" of each perk:

"Snap (erection on/off): 1 Mojo/Min [increasing]

Clap (select color): 5 Mojo [stop clapping to select]

Crack (extend): 1 Mojo/Min per knuckle crack, max 5 [increasing]

Smack (Titillation(TM) personal lubricant, 1 mL): 1 Mojo

Pose (Superman, full extension): 10 Mojo/Min

Whisper (it knows what you want, just tell it): 20 Mojo

Questions? Customer Service can be reached at any time at (800) MNSTRCOK."

Subtle.

Good God, he realized, the doc's assistant had used a metric fuckload of his Mojo! Typical woman, he raged silently, always spending his money. He tried to do mental math, but he didn't remember how long the various perks had lasted in the disappointing rendezvous. He wasn't sure that would have helped; he'd never been very good at math.

Hoping he could check his Mojo balance, he raised his right hand to his ear. He felt incredibly proud using his new device next to the stranger. Everyone had a Handheld, so the man would have no idea of its secret purpose. He could fuck this guy's wife, if he wanted, with his implant-enhanced finger AND the dick. That'd show him.

Aware that the man would hear him, he tried to act nonchalant and censor his side of the conversation. He stuck his middle finger in his ear and spoke the direct "number" on the back of the card, careful to transpose the letters to numbers. He hoped the man did not realize what embarrassing letters he was spelling out.

"You've reached Bodyaug Customer Service. How may I lend a helping hand?"

Gross. "I'd like to check my balance."

"Excellent, Oliver. Let me bring that up." Momentarily uncomfortable that the man had known his name, he paused. It made sense, though. It's not like anyone else was going to be calling from his hand.

"I show that your initial balance was 100 Mojo, and at 1:25pm this afternoon I show you starting a session that consumed 71 Mojo. This leaves a balance of 29 Mojo. Is there anything else I can help you with today, Oliver?"

"Fuck." Oliver was glad the man hadn't used the opportunity to try to upsell him. "No, I'm good. Well, wait. Is there a way for me to check my balance without calling Customer Service?"

"I'm sorry, sir. I'm actually pretty new here. I'm not with Technical Support; in fact, I'm unable to even see what, um, device you have. I'm sure you understand, sir."

Oliver did. Makes sense; he didn't want some dude knowing how much lap luggage he carried. He would just have to remember the balance.

"Fine. Just so I know, how much is the first package?" He skipped the word "Mojo" and avoided using "cheapest." He had company.

"Sir, are you referring to the Bronze Mo Mojo Minutes package?" He didn't reference the price. Of course.

"Yes." The man's excessive deference had been pleasant at first, but he was getting tired of all the sirring.

The man launched into a canned response. "Excellent, sir! I'm happy to let you know that right now, we are DOUBLING the normal 50 Mojo Minutes you would receive in the Bronze Package. Until 6:00 p.m. this evening, you will receive a full Silver Mo Mojo Minutes package for the same low price of $100. Can I count you in for this limited-time offer?"

That's not bad, he thought. Oliver was a savvy guy; he had to be, to make his plasma money last the week.

"Sounds good."

"Wonderful, sir. I have added the Mojo to your account, and your monthly payment has been increased to $50.72."

"Wait a minute, what?"

"Oh, I'm very sorry, sir. Most people choose to add the balance to their no-interest loan, but I'd be happy to charge your credit card for the full $99.99 now."

"Hold up." Blindsided, Oliver stopped. He had to make sure he wasn't being taken advantage of by this smooth-talking "customer service rep."

The man continued, unfazed, "Of course, the amounts are identical in the long run, because of the zero interest loan. Personally, I'd rather pay a bit at a time, wouldn't you, sir?"

It made sense. "One second." He realized he had a chance to kill two birds with one stone. He casually reached into his pocket for his wristpad, tapping out the instructions to open his calculator.

"What's the duration of that, again?" He omitted the word "loan." He didn't need his vehicle companion thinking he was broke.

"Again, sir, I'm unable to pull up those account details here. The amount and duration of the loan would give away what, um, device Bodyaug has supplied you with."

"You mean the one I bought."

"Sir, I have no access to your payment history." The man was missing the point, but he was tired of dealing with this idiot.

"Doesn't matter. Seventy cents, or whatever, is fine." He hung up. Or was it twenty-seven cents? Whatever. He had enough information to keep track of his own balance, 129 Mojo. Hoping that the man would process the payment without any additional information, he removed the finger from his ear. Before it reached his lap, he heard a faint "cha-ching." Good. He was a paying customer, and should be treated as such.

--

The Leaking Clam was hot, but uncrowded. The owners, wishing to save money on electricity and make more on drinks, generally left the A/C off, leaving the room sweltering. Its occupants pounded drinks to help them ignore the heat, but it meant they generated even more on the dance floor.

He had gone home to measure the thing once and for all, but he realized along the way that he'd have to spend some of his 129 Mojo to do so accurately. Shit, he'd thought; it'd have to wait. Today was going to be expensive, but he was treating himself. He had just bought himself a new lap hog, after all.

Dressed in his sharpest outfit and wearing his special XTALL 2.5" lifts and custom shoes, he'd headed to the Ramara. But without a girl on his arm, he hadn't been allowed entry. The bouncer, a black, six-foot-six brute, had looked him over disdainfully before telling Oliver they'd be full for hours. Right before he let a group of four women in, of course. Lifted would hear about this sizeism. So would the Ramara, on Yelp, he thought bitterly.

Just then, he met eyes with a woman across the bar. She'd been sitting by herself, clearly waiting for someone. While Oliver had been sitting there nursing his Miller High Life, two other guys had approached her and asked her something, but she'd declined them. Turned away, both had returned to their respective tables. Losers.

She was now looking at him and speaking, but he realized that it wasn't to him. She was on the phone, angry. It looked like someone had stood her up. Serendipitous.

Grabbing his High Life and subconsciously adjusting his pants, he headed over to her. She'd hung up the phone and was sipping her mixed drink moodily.

"Hey, is everything okay? I couldn't help but notice your face." Realizing how this sounded, he appended, "I mean, how red it was. But you're very pretty, too." He was finding it hard to think clearly.

She blushed hard, embarrassed. "Thank you. I'm fine. I thought I was going to be better, but that's how it goes."

"Stood up?"

"Yeah."

"Me too. Looks like it's our lucky day!" He was feeling pretty smooth. His confidence had been boosted with his manhood.

She looked at him more fully now. He seemed to pass whatever test she'd mentally applied, and she spoke: "Oh?"

"I mean... Sorry, I'm Frank." He never used his real name with hookups, choosing something new every time to avoid developing a reputation. He'd have to consider an alter ego now, though, because these women were sure to advertise him by word-of-mouth. He smiled, amused by his own joke. He'd have to post that.

He reached out his non-beer hand.

"Cheryl."

"Can I buy you a drink?"

"Sure. Vodka cran."

Holding her eyes, he waved his right arm over the counter and spoke aloud: "Vodka cran." A clean, frosted glass rose from the bartop and began to fill from the bottom with a rosy liquid. This fuckin' remote was sweet.

Her eyes widened at his casual gesture, not knowing that he'd set it to tip 0% automatically, every time. Bet the owners hate that, he chuckled to himself. Another way the "have"s stick it to the "have not"s. Well, now HE was a "have," goddammit.

"Thanks. New Handheld?"

He winced. "How could you tell?"

"You're holding your drink in your other hand kinda weird. Plus, you winced a bit when you shook."

He'd have to be more careful. These women were too good at reading his body language, looking for a leg up on him.

"Yeah. I went to Bodyaug to increase my sperm production." He'd read that women were biologically predisposed to choose more virile men, so he'd made up this story to test out. If it didn't work, he'd just pick something else. He wanted women to know he was confident enough in his height to leave it "au natural."

She wrinkled her nose. "That's pretty... um, gross, to be honest."

"Sorry. I don't feel like beating around the bush. When I want something, I go after it. I want a big family."

"Huh. That's nice. I really don't like kids."

Shit, he thought. Of course his luck would mean that he got some Princess that only wanted to be doted upon. "I mean, I'm not real big on kids, but I just love love." He'd try another tactic.

"Oh?" she asked again, apparently surprised that a man could have feelings.

"Yeah, I just like the idea of coming home to a family that loves me, you know?" Of course she did. Who didn't want to be loved?

"Yeah, I get that. My dad's a jerk, so I guess I kind of fantasize about that sometimes, too."

Nice-he had his "in." "I mean, it's kind of romantic to think about your kids growing up in, like, a cloud of hugs and kisses and shit, right?" He knew girls liked cheesy metaphors.

She laughed. "I guess." This new Oliver must be a pretty caring, witty guy, he thought. Time to "press the issue."

"Want to dance?"

She laughed again, smiling uncertainly, and shook her head, resigned. "I guess."

After watching him set his drink down and turn toward the dance floor, she set hers down and allowed him to lead her to the stuffy corner. It was uncrowded this Monday evening. He realized he'd chosen a slow weeknight in his haste to test out the new dick's chick-magnetism. Oh well, no matter, he thought to himself. Moths to a flame.

It took a couple of songs for them to find an orientation that worked. When he would turn to face her, she would slowly pivot around him to his hip or behind him. Frustrated at be treated as "little spoon," he would spin in place and try to grind against her, but she would use the break to move away from him, foiling his plans.

"What are you doing?"

"Just dancing," she replied. "I don't want to hit you with my elbows."

"It's fine. I don't mind getting close," he said suggestively.

"I can tell. You're a very, uh, passionate dancer."

He'd show her his "passion," he thought.

"I'm gonna go get a drink." She used the song's outro to head toward their drinks.

"Alright, want another?"

"Nah, I'm still working on the last one. Thanks."

Slow drinker. He could work with that; at least it would be a cheap night. He placed his hand on the small of her back as he escorted her to their seats at the bar.

--

They talked for a while as they sipped at their drinks, seated at opposite sides of the booth they claimed after realizing the noise in the bar made it too difficult to hear each other. He wouldn't remember the topic of conversation later, but it didn't matter. After pregaming at his shabby apartment to save few bucks, and a fourth (overpriced, but untainted by an unearned "tip") drink from the bar, he was feeling pleasantly buzzed.

She continuously parried his verbal advances. Clever girl. He saw why she nursed her singular drink: this one maintained a high barrier wall. No problem; he was an accomplished pole vaulter, and now he had an even better apparatus to work with.

He slowly wore down her guard, sticking to neutral topics like work and school. He unpleasantly noted that he was giving her too much attention. Mustn't get attached to the help, now, Oliver. He wasn't looking for a girlfriend tonight.

It's not that he didn't respect women. He wasn't like one of the more unabashed Lifted moderators, TripodTerry, who referred to women as "cum dumpsters" and "fuckdolls" in the private Moderator-Only sections of the site. Oliver just felt that maybe feminists were being too heavy-handed in their quest to turn back the tide of perceived "oppression."

Complacency won the day for Oliver. Claire, or whatever her name was, had allowed the alcohol and inattention to mask the fact that he was slowly creeping closer along the bench. She was almost sitting in his lap, and his arm had crept along the backrest behind her. Smelling his deodorant and the faintly nostalgic odor of his breath, she had let her guard down and placed her hand on his knee.

The proximity should have made him hard, but he realized that it had only been eight hours since his release at the hospital. He noted disappointedly that the blood requirements of his new instrument were more demanding, as well. He'd been unable to get firm on the dance floor. Maybe if she would have let him actually press against her...

"Whew, I'm feeling that second vodka cran." So she'd only had the one before his. No matter; that was the tell-she wanted something, either another drink, or something... stiffer.

"I was gonna get another. You want one?"

"No, I'm good."

His manhood surged. "Okay, then I'm good. I'm having a good time with you; I don't feel like drinking."

"Yeah, me too."

"I mean, I feel like we've got a real connection."

"Yeah." She looked into his eyes. He could tell she was debating. Steeling himself, he thought: no hesitation. He leaned in, closing his eyes and trusting in a combination of her baggage and pity. It worked! She leaned into his kiss, her hand just barely tightening on his right knee. Warmer, he thought. The small movement was enough to cause his pants to barely tighten, as well.

He broke the kiss momentarily. "I feel so close to you." His arm, effortlessly casual, grazed her back. Her torso twisted slightly away from his hand, turning her chest toward him. Kissing her again, he stealthily opened his eyes to see that hers were closed. In the privacy, he checked out her body again. Not bad.

To get more comfortable, the girl had swiveled her hips toward him, causing her hand to slide onto the bulge of his quadricep. Warmer. The club was nearly empty, the time having progressed almost to 11:00 p.m. Good thing, too, he thought. Nobody would enter the bathroom and catch them having sex.

Her eyes shot open. In her excitement, her hand had begun to travel slowly up his inner thigh. Without much extra space, it bumped almost immediately into the tip of his prominent cylindrical lump. It was she who now broke the kiss, looking down and retracting her hand by an inch.

"Jesus, fuck. What's wrong with your dick?"

Umm, not the reaction he was expecting. Confused, he could only manage to say, "What?"

"It's all swollen and shit. Do you need a HitchARide to the hospital or something?"

"What? No. It's just...", he paused, confused. "...it's just my dick." He shrugged, trying to act nonchalant, like this was the thousandth time he'd explained it.

"No fucking way. Is it a condition, or something?"

Fuck this girl's judgmental questions. It's not like she could afford to be choosy. She was still staring at the mound on his leg, which had begun to soften again. "Yeah. It's called Bigdickitis. Better be careful; you might catch it."

She looked up, embarrassed. "I'm sorry to offend you; I've just never seen anything like it."

"I bet." At least that part of the doctor's consultation was accurate. She'd looked back down. Of course he'd get the one in a million girl who didn't want to ride this thing posthaste.

"I mean, it's medically fascinating. How do you have sex?" She clamped a hand over her mouth, then allowed herself to speak again. "Oh my God, I'm so insensitive. I'm a psychology student, so sometimes I forget my filter."

"It's fine; I'm used to it," he recovered craftily to her almost-apology. "I forgive you. It IS pretty fascinating," he said, playing along and gazing at it for a few seconds. "Would you like to examine it?"

Big mistake. She straightened and looked up at him, "Oh no, I don't want you to get the wrong idea..."

He already had his hands up apologetically. "I'm sorry. That came out all wrong. I meant, you know, I was playing along with the whole psychiatry thing..."

"Psychology." She had taken the bait.

"Yeah. Sorry, I don't really know much about it." Multiple birds, meet stone.

Glad to have a subject of conversation to steer toward, the woman launched into a university-style lecture about the differences between the two. He wasn't listening, using extreme amounts of eye contact to drive her to look around the room, so that he might steal glances at her scant cleavage. He twirled his finger behind her head. Wrap. It. Up.

--

"Fascinating. So what would psychology have you tell me about being a man with a 99th percentile penis?" he asked, steering the conversation back the way he wanted.

"Huh. That IS an interesting question, but you don't want me to diagnose you. Between you and me, though, it's pretty interesting that you upped your, uh, production." Did she just lick her lips?

"Interesting?"

"Yeah. Strictly biologically speaking, of course. Because of genetics, and all that. One might wonder if you were predisposed to seek extreme virility because of your... what did you call it?"