By clanging six coffees, I fool my liver into another day of
empty process. Out I zoom, onto the sales floor, hungry for customer scalp and
stale Doritos. Bingo. I need to bury this man in jargon until he silently
His shirt is ruffled like tiny cock-bulges, traversing his
shoulders. Suddenly, Im fondling his little upturned penises, but
theyre soft and hollow and I say, indignantly,
arent for me...are they?
He doesnt seem to follow, or
notice Im blinking tears.
Im banned from the sales floor for something entirely
different. A scientific experiment, if you will, to prove if B-cup tits can
clap, but my conclusions are top secret, and my supervisor, Reginald, is ramped
to send me home again early, with no pay, and for no good reason.
him coming and scoop my multitudinously erect friend into my office to close a
deal. On what product, I could not tell you. So, Im pelting this talented
man with my usual gibberish, playing with my tie, smiling at my reflection in
the laptop monitor. Hes strumming those tiny boners in a way that makes
me think, among other things; he doesnt really know what were
talking about either.
I just want to share a pickled egg with this man and meet
somewhere in the middle.
I just want to strum him like a human xylophone
and feed his boners me.
I just want him to kiss me in a way that christens
my freshly severed cock-mound into burgeoning womanhood.
But no, I hear the microwaves beeping on, and the Reg- meister
floats past the door, brandishing a large cheese grater and pointing from me to
And now my man, who must have swam in radiation as a child, is slowly
backing out. I squirt nipple juice his way, and scream for his exit, in an
embarrassed rage of self-imposed rejection.
The clown-colored lights
coagulate through the exterior window of my office, which holds a stately view
of the now-filled parking lot.
I should be allowed to speak this way
to other humans! I yell to my well-crafted, minimalist office artwork,
then add, much more impotently, self-expression is more important than
As they approach, walking briskly, I throw open my desk drawer
and, instead of taking out the gun, I grab a notepad and start writing
© Sean Kilpatrick