The Dildo

This is just a little two-parter based on a sudden idea I had. Unlike much of my body of work, it has zero correlation to any real world experiences of my own... except for the crushing lameness of time spent on a trade show floor.

As always, please: If you care about gritty realism or higher human truths, don't bother. I aim for stories that are plausibly ridiculous, and nothing more.

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THE DILDO

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"Oops!" Lynda said, not fully paying attention. Her distracted comment came as I felt her purse roll off her lap in the Uber and land against my thigh.

My brain, instantly triaging the incident as not involving her hot coffee spilling on my lap, looked down idly, my hands moving to help.

Lynda started to grumble idly at the fumble, when the purse strap caught on one of the phone charger cables the driver helpfully supplied for his riders. The overly large purse, practically a briefcase, just opened further when she tried to lift it back up.

More of the contents spilled out...

*

Belinda Wells and I had both flown into Denver that afternoon from our respective offices in Portland and New Orleans, to take over duty on our firm's small but very expensive booth at the Great Plains Educators' Summit. We were to be on duty for the last two days of the trade show. We met up with each other at the convention center, and with Freida Cummings and Desirée Daniels who had worked the booth the first two days, as the day ended.

The four of us made up exactly half of our company's salesforce nationwide. This fortunately meant that none of us could be spared for more than two days in a row. That was good because two days in a booth on a convention trade show floor is soul-crushing for me... for any of us. Four days on a convention floor, and George Romero shows up to cast me in a zombie movie.

As we shared insufficiently chilled beers in the snack bar of the creatively named Colorado Convention Center, Freida and Desirée briefed us on the rich and robust lack of quality leads they had managed to accumulate over the first two days of the convention. We all, perhaps optimistically, reassured each other that people with serious needs would likely put in follow-up appearances in the later stages of the convention... Sure.

Beyond the disheartening scarcity of prospects, I found myself rather wishing that I had drawn the early days with either Freida or Desirée. Freida was always a stitch, even now, with a warm beer in her hand and two days of waving pamphlets at passers-by who did not want to read them weighing on her soul.

And Desirée... I surreptitiously let my eyes rest on her, even though her figure was anything but restful to take in. God had apparently blessed her with those things for the holy purpose of helping her sell grading and parent communication software, and she always seemed to feel this meant that too many closed buttons or zipped zippers up top would be blasphemous...

Lynda (Belinda) was pretty enough, I supposed, but the few times I had worked with her face to face had been like watching grass grow. She was smart, nice, insightful, but in my past experience, she had all the spark of a bowl of slightly over-cooked ramen noodles... without the flavor packet.

Desirée and Freida both bolted from our hand-off meeting as soon as they could. The lure of the standby lines for earlier flights home was far greater than that of the prospect of a second warm beer at the CCC snack bar.

"We should go check ourselves in, Davis," Lynda said, the moment they left. "I would like to make about six quick phone calls, then drink a large glass of wine that doesn't suck like this beer does... in that order, unfortunately."

See what I mean? Pleasant enough, though that was what passed for rip-roaring humor with Lynda. But that itinerary of hers obviously left no openings for going out to sample Denver's cool cocktail bar scene with me. I doubted I would manage so much as a simple nice dinner with someone to talk to, either night. Room service it would be...

Fuck it. I'd go out on my own the next night if I had to.

We tossed our cans in the recycling, Lynda grabbed a fresh coffee and led the way to the Uber pickup point. As I followed along behind, I consoled myself with the fact that, even in her boxy suit, the view from behind Lynda was actually about as nice as that from behind Desirée. There were definite advantages to working in a company with 85% female employees, all of whom except the owner and CTO were in their twenties.

*

So yeah, halfway to our rental condo hotel, there was an oops, and an uncontrolled unloading of Lynda's voluminous purse in the back seat of the Uber.

Again, no hot coffee or anything like it, so it was hardly a crisis. My mind instantly went on auto-pilot, working as background process to corral all her stuff and help Lynda get it back in her purse.

But one of the last things to fall free bounced off my thigh and spun to a stop right on my lap. It was purple, and flexible, and seemed heavy for its size... and it was moulded into an exact representation of a thick, veiny, ketchup bottle-length cock.

So yeah, I suddenly had Lynda's purple, but otherwise alarmingly life-like, dildo in my lap. Lynda Wells's big purple dildo...

Lynda sucked in air with such loud distress it was a bit like a reverse shriek. Other than that, we both froze at the enormity of the situation.

Then we both broke our paralysis at the same moment... unfortunately. Lynda's hand shot out like a snake to reclaim her purple-hued warrior of love, while I simultaneously jumped at the realization of where the fucking pseudo-dong was lying. That meant that my movements bounced the dildo up into the air. Lynda's hand shot out in panic, right to where the dildo had been a split-second earlier, leaving her grasping at my empty lap.

Thank God that my dick wasn't fully hard right then, though I will admit that it was hardly placid either. Before the spill, I had been mentally reviewing the tape of the day's cleavage display from Desirée. Then the dong hit the fan. Whatever the exact state of my engorgement at that moment was, Lynda was suddenly very informed about it, as her fingers clasped on my bulge in a panic. I wear loose, light-weight wool slacks for business travel, and they did damned little to stop Lynda's panicked fingers from desperately wrapping almost all the way around what was very much not her dildo.

The slow-motion train wreck just kept developing.

Her mind registered what she was about to try to yank back into her purse before I did, and her eyes opened wide a noticeably long space before her fingers started to do the same.

There was a tiny, high-speed sliver of my brain observing that 'impromptu hand job from Lynda Wells' was not in my day planner, and that soon, but most definitely not now, this was going to be extraordinarily funny... to me.

Most of my slightly slower-speed brain was preoccupied by how horribly mortified poor Lynda had to be. My free hand shot out and snatched the flying violet phallus in mid-air.

Great, now I was brandishing a giant cock at my co-worker. Okay, not giant, but a damned sight bigger than what she'd just been holding ever got.

I quickly decided that this whole godawful situation could only start to ease when we were both no longer staring at this purple selfie stick. Now panicking almost as much as was Lynda, I grabbed the opening of her still tangled purse and jammed the fucking dildo as deep inside it as I could manage, letting go almost spastically when I hit the bottom, then yanked my hand back out as fast as I could.

I exhaled deeply, but Lynda only moaned in even deeper panic. My eyes automatically dropped back down, to see that I had dislodged almost everything left inside the purse when I had yanked my hand free, including three lipsticks, a hopefully precautionary package of Immodium... and a small, pink, insertable vibrator.

Oh goody. And there on the seat close by was what had to be its god-damned matching remote control... Oh...

In my panicked movements, I had turned it fucking on.

The rosy bean was buzzing away contentedly against my thigh.

The good news for Lynda was that she was no longer the most mortified occupant of the back seat of Rasheesh's Honda Civic.

I literally could not move now. I just stared in horror down at what I had done.

Lynda, whose hand had not yet fully released me, shed her paralysis and grabbed desperately at the remote, which was closer to her. She fumbled it and juggled the little round device as she tried to get a grip on it. Apparently, simply twisting or turning the device was enough for it to adjust the rate at which the device on my leg buzzed. As the remote spun in her hand, the vibrator was spasmodically ramping its vibrations up and down.

As she finally managed to get a grip on the remote, she effortlessly used it to turn off the vibrator one-handed, while she snatched desperately for the suddenly quiescent little bean, gathering it up in her questing hand.

She really was quite adept at using that remote...

She plunged both device and control back into her purse. Then, as it disappeared, we both came out of whatever shocked, time-at-half-speed zone we were in, and began to rummage around to grab the rest of the numerous contents of her purse, as if it had just been a normal thing.

The only nod I gave to the earlier bizarreness was that I handed everything I picked up to her, rather than risking dumping it directly back into her purse.

"Everything all right back there?" Rashesh asked sharply. "Nothing spilled did it?" he asked, concerned for his upholstery.

"My purse fell over," Lynda reassured him. "No liquids spilled!"

"Just the beans," I said under my breath.

Instantly, Lynda stared at me in pained, embarrassed, shock. Then, as the double nature of my words sank in, she involuntarily snorted a laugh so hard that I was afraid she was going to need to go back into the purse for tissues. She actually smiled at me, a little wild-eyed.

But we both still sat silently the last three minutes of the ride, each frozen in our seats, half because we were both embarrassed as hell, and half because we were both terrified that the purse might somehow spill again if we so much as lifted a finger.

The Uber let us out at our hotel and as we entered, we saw a cocktail bar was attached to the lobby.

"Still plan on calling clients, then having a glass of wine?" I asked, looking longingly at the bar. I was heading directly there the moment I checked in, that was for sure.

"God, no!" Lynda said with the kind of mental exhaustion a person would display after nearly being hit by a bus, then making it to the safety of the sidewalk. "No phone calls! I can't have clients talking to me in this state." She looked at the bar. "And no wine either. I need tequila," she said grimly.

"Sensible," I observed. "Since I also need serious medication, I am going in there too. Mind if we sit together?" I asked, genuinely wanting an answer to the question. Either way was okay with me, but I hoped we might restore some shreds of our former, albeit meager, working relationship. "Fair waring, I will be drinking bourbon... cask strength if they have any."

"Come on," Lynda said. "You can slow me down."

Spoiler Alert: I failed to slow her down.

We sat at the bar, and Lynda instantly ordered two shots of Patron for herself, and two of Knob Creek for me. It was not cask strength, but at 100 proof it would do.

Lynda put away both her shots with speed and aplomb. I would not have expected a woman like her (by which I mean, boring) to be able to take hard liquor like that. Of course, I would not had expected a woman as boring as Lynda to carry around the better part of the inventory of a Lion's Den in her purse, either.

God, what else did she have in there? Handcuffs?

I made my first shot disappear as fast as she had hers, then made my second almost disappear. I saved a sip or two at the bottom to actually savor, once my throat recovered from its sudden antiseptic bath. My stomach warmed, and while it was far too soon to actually feel the effects of the alcohol, my brain went ahead and warmed up its fuzziness mode anyway.

"Menu, please," Lynda croaked at the bartender, who had watched us bemusedly as we hammered forty bucks worth of booze into oblivion in seconds. "I am not getting off this stool until I'm ready to pour myself into bed," she said to me firmly, "so I need some food. Then, with luck, I will black out and remember nothing that happened today."

I was not at all sure that I wanted to spend an evening in Denver in the quiet bar of a condo hotel, eating beer nuts for dinner, but I realized that that might indeed be what I was about to do. Lynda seemed serious about getting totally hammered, and I was not inclined to leave her on her own to do that. Not even with the elevators just fifty feet away. She was going to need someone to watch her back. I just hoped I was going to be able to keep her back in focus while I drowned my own memories of the last twenty minutes.

"Water, please," I instructed the bartender. "Big glasses."

Lynda looked at me.

"One full glass of water every two shots," I said firmly, killing the last of my Knob Creek too fast. "We've got ten hours on the show floor tomorrow. If we have to have a puke bucket in the booth and the both of us are screaming at everyone to, 'quit walking so loudly,' it will not attract customers."

She laughed at that, and slammed down the water the moment it came. "Thanks for the reminder," she said, looking as if she had enjoyed the water more than she had expected. "And you don't forget two Advil before you go to sleep either."

I nodded in agreement.

We ordered more dishes than we really needed from the surprisingly interesting menu, and Lynda gestured for two more shots for each of us. The bartender refilled both her glasses, but I placed my fingers casually over the top of one of mine.

Don't get me wrong. I had been brandishing a huge purple cock at my work colleague in the back of an Uber thirty minutes prior. I needed the one shot... badly. But Lynda needed both shots, and someone was going to have to get to the convention floor on-time the next day.

The food was just as surprising as the menu, in the same good way, and the two of us fell upon the pretzel bites with fancy flavored salt, and the shrimp bites. I even enjoyed one of the deviled eggs she insisted on ordering. The salads we ordered were good but largely ignored, possibly because the simple use of a fork entailed a level of manual dexterity that was already becoming a lost cause for both of us.

I particularly loved the chicharrones, fresh from the fryer and still audibly popping. After I rhapsodized drunkenly about them for too long, Lynda almost snarled, "Man up, Nancy! Call 'em pork rinds, like an actual dude."

Drunk Lynda was both more entertaining and more likable than workaday Lynda...

I figured that I ought to get the whole sex toy-palooza out in the open and apologized for. "Look, Lynda," I said diffidently, "about back in the car. I am really..."

Lynda just shot out a hand, index finger raised imperiously for me to shut up. Then she swung that finger over toward the bartender, who was hanging nearby since he had dick-all to do otherwise in the mostly empty joint. She crooked that one finger to beckon him, then pointed it down at our shot glasses and swirled it in a circle to demand another round.

It was a remarkably articulate finger, and she may have relied on it because I suspected that her mouth might be far less articulate already. Her mouth still functioned to down the two fresh shots. I was too slow with my hand, and got two more shots as well.

Oh well, can't waste good Knob Creek, can we?

How is it that when a person gets drunk, their previously perfectly coiffed hair somehow gets disheveled in perfect synchrony? Even if they never touch it?

Lynda was not one to play with her hair sober, nor apparently while drunk, but her pretty, blonde, shoulder-length locks were well on their way to a mess anyway. She did touch her hair, to the extent that she was constantly brushing one loose curl out of her eyes, but all over her head, stray hairs floated free in the air. The pretty amethyst hair clip she wore had slipped out of place, and dangled just slightly loose.

The woman had a thing for purple, apparently...

I couldn't tell if it was the booze, or if the disorganized look just countered my uptight impression of her, but she actually looked better this way.

Yeah, I was getting drunk. She was already there.

"Lynda, time to head up to bed," I said, hoping she'd be biddable. It was only 9:30, even sober Lynda might have argued it was a little early.

"One more round," she countered, waving over the bartender again.

"Just one each," I countered. We are both born negotiators, and wrangled back and forth in front of the confused and amused bartender.

Somehow, we settled on one more for her and fucking two more for me... Lynda may be a better negotiator than me, at least when drunk.

With two more shots of Knob Creek in my belly, resting there uncomfortably, I said, "Okay, now it is time to get you to your room, Ms. Wells." Lynda gradually began to work her way off the bar stool.

The bartender seemed to be having sudden qualms about me taking this drunk woman up to a room. We traded looks. "She's a work colleague," I said, surprising myself at how only marginally slurred my own words were. "There was a traumatic incident in the Uber over here."

The bartender brightened in what he thought was understanding. "Heard that," he said. "I almost died with a psycho Uber driver once..."

"Not that kind of trauma," Lynda half giggled, half shuddered.

"No need to get into it again," I said, firmly steering her toward the lobby and the elevators. The bartender did not need that information.

Our suites were on the same floor, about eight doors apart. I steered Lynda to hers. When she had difficulty getting her key folio out, I made myself wait, rather than go into her purse to get it. When she finally extricated the card, and only the card, thank God, I helped her get in her room.

Yeah, I had definitely needed to stay with her at the bar. She couldn't get the card in the slot without me!

I pushed her suitcase into a corner, and looked at her gently weaving form, grimacing.

"Okay, Linda," I said firmly. "I sure as fuck am not going to undress you, so you will either have to manage it on your own after I leave, or sleep in your clothes. Give my your jacket though, at least."

I worked my way through getting her jacket off. I hung it in her closet. I had literally never seen Lynda without a suit jacket on, and... well, her torso was a lot more appealing than I had expected, now in only her light, white, cotton blouse. I could just make out a fairly plain bra, in flesh tones.

Fucking bourbon goggles...

"Bed!" she croaked happily and moved to collapse.

"Um," I asked diffidently, carefully cracking open a complimentary bottled water on her bedside table. "Do you want a bucket for... just in case?"

"Oh, I'll be all right," she replied airily, and with reassuring confidence. "Just get me a trash can. No need to go find a bucket," she added considerately... and alarmingly.

I grabbed both trash cans in the room, and put one on either side of her bed.

"See you on the show floor? 9AM?" I asked her.

My only answer was a snore.

Swell. I had no idea if she had alarms already set, or for when they might be set. And waking up naturally for her tomorrow was not likely, not at the time I was going to need her. Grumpily, I opened her key card folio and took the second card, the useless one they always give you despite you specifying only one occupant, and put it in my own pocket.