Meaningless
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58 – Meaningless free porn video
[Hello metaphorical Mr. and Mrs. Claus of Literotica. I have here another piece which could use italics for the first four and last two paragraphs. Chapter titles in bold would make an excellent stocking stuffer. This one is part of my 69 Love Stories series. Thanks!]
Alrighty, this one is different. I have no idea where most of it came from, but I was thinking about another story that I read which was really good (totally different than this one, though) and the thought occurred to me that Christmas is coming up, so why couldn’t the girl be a Christmas gift from someone? Except for the obvious reasons, of course. That line of reasoning led to this very short story.
Fair warning: There is a lot of profanity in this story! When I started to write this from the perspective of an author that’s trapped in his own nightmare world of raised expectations, he turned out to be a profane son of a bitch. I don’t particularly like it, but I just rolled with it.
Last note, although this story is about a desperate author who is rescued by a proverbial hooker with a heart of gold, it is not actually some sort of private fantasy of mine. I don’t expect you to believe, I just wanted to say it. With that, enjoy and have a Merry Christmas.
All rights reserved.
Chapter 1
Never write a novel.
I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that. Let me try again.
Never write a fucking novel, you idiot.
I was happy with my life until I did. And then as soon as it published, everything turned to shit flavored frozen rain.
And this is the most important thing…
Whatever you do, never write a goddamn successful novel, you fucking idiot!
*****
As you might have expected, I speak from personal experience. And now, in the time honored tradition of shitty novelists everywhere, I am going to take you all the way back to the beginning, whether you want it or not.
I grew up the last of a family of six kids in a frightening little neighborhood of South Philly. I mean, this was the kind of neighborhood that you don’t want your kid walking through, not to mention growing up. But for some reason, which I still don’t understand, the kids in my neighborhood grew up successful. Maybe it was the extra fucking lead we had in the water. Who knows?
Two neighbors older than me ended up becoming congressmen. The fat kid who lived in the house behind me, he’s the president of a Fortune 100 company. He’s alone in that, but two more of the kids are now VP’s at Fortune 350 companies. Fucking underachievers.
Even with all of that, the most successful kid from the neighborhood is definitely my brother Bobby. I haven’t spoken to him in fifteen years, and I avoid the damn news as much as I can, but the last I heard Bobby runs most of the underworld on the east coast. Like I said, I keep my head down.
So with all of that success to look up to, I decided to become an English major. What can I say? I’ve always been ambitious.
I spent six years working at publishers, writing my novel on the weekends. It was boring, and stressful and it was the happiest that I’ve ever been.
When I finished the novel, I submitted it to a few other publishers hoping maybe one of them would bite. The first six turned me down before one agreed to take it on.
Karma repaid those first six pricks, because my book became an overnight, fucking, sensation. I can’t tell you how many copies we sold, all I know is that my book was everywhere and I made enough money to buy a nice big house. It was great.
Of course, once all that happened, then I got the pressure to write my next one. It was coming from the publisher, from the media, and from the readers. I ended up going into hiding in my house to try to isolate myself and write the next fucking one.
I spent a month writing notes and making outlines. Then in the next six weeks when I sat down to write it, I managed to type the word ‘The’.
Not a simple ‘The dog’ or ‘The man’ or the provocative ‘The fucking’.
No, just ‘The’.
I was happier in my old, tiny apartment, writing my novel on the weekends and weeknights using my ten year old laptop. Now, I was just losing my mind in a large lonely house, unable to type a sentence. And if I left the house, I had people everywhere asking me how it was fucking coming. None of them wanted to hear that I had gotten as far as goddamn ‘The’. So I stayed locked away, growing a beard that would have looked right on a motorcycle gang’s meanest member.
Never write a fucking novel.
Chapter 2
So I’m sitting and ‘writing’ at my computer, watching the slush that they call snow here fall, when I heard the doorbell ring. Nobody rings my fucking doorbell. At least not since I ran my last agent off with a golf club. Especially not on Christmas.
When I opened the door, golf club in hand, all I found was a very wet, very cold girl standing in a soaked dress and pulling a small rolling suitcase.
‘Can I come in?’ She asked, except when she did it her teeth were chattering.
I, because I am and will always remain a dumb son of a bitch, stood in the doorway staring at her for at least fifteen seconds before I let her in. You might wonder why I did let her in, stranger danger and all that, but I still had my golf club in hand. As bad as my handicap is, I felt pretty good about my swing with a driver from that range.
The girl walks in, looking like a drowned mouse (that’s been beaten with a baseball bat). As soon as she was inside, the mouse asks if she can change and then, without waiting for a damn response, walks back to the bathroom to do it.
I took a minute to consider the situation and couldn’t make heads or fucking tails of it, so I did the logical thing and went back upstairs to continue writing my novel.
*****
A half-hour later (I had gotten as far as ‘The’) the girl walked into the room. She sat down in the chair beside me and offered me her hand. This woman looked like a vision.
‘Hi,’ The now most definitely not drowned mouse said, ‘I’m Claire.’
She was a couple inches shorter than me and curvy, without carrying any blubber. Her hair, which was still wet, looked like it was blond. But her face was what drew me in. She was absolutely fucking gorgeous.
I spent a few moments making some kind of guttural noise, like when your dog gets something stuck in its throat, before I managed to force out my name. ‘Vinny.’
Claire smiled at me. And then we just sat there. I don’t know if she was waiting for me to speak or reciting the alphabet backwards to herself, but she didn’t move.
I’ve always been slow in talking to pretty girls. If you think I’m kidding… look, I once broke my wrist in a revolving door. I was just exiting when a pretty girl walked by (she wasn’t even that freaking good looking either) and said hello. I stopped to say hello myself while the door kept spinning. In the end, only my hand ended up inside the door, the rest of me was outside of it.
So needless to say, I had to wait a little bit before I could think of something suave to say to this beauty that just appeared in my computer room. Where I was writing my novel.
‘What are you doing here?’ It’s lines like that make the panties just fucking drop, you know?
She gave me an odd smile and said, ‘I’m your Christmas present from your brother, Bobby.’
I had no motherfucking response. To be honest, I just stared at her in what was likely an offensive manner. Unless, of course, women like it when your eyebrows make the McDonald’s arch.
‘You’re going to have to explain a bit for me.’
She gave me that smile again. ‘Your brother, Bobby, bought me for you.’
‘Like for the night?’
‘No. He bought me.’
‘Like at a bachelorette auction? Shit, is that even a thing?’
‘Not exactly. I’m yours, permanently.’
Again, I had no response. If you tel
l me that you would have had a clever follow-up to that, than you are one lying sumbitch.
‘You’re going to have to elaborate… Claire.’
‘I’m a… there’s not a very good word for it. Once, you would have called me a trained courtesan. Typically, clients would be charged by the day or month for my services. Your brother purchased them indefinitely.’
‘A courtesan? Like one of those fruity fucks who used to wear the shoes with the roses on them and pantyhose?’
‘No. A courtesan like the mistresses for higher.’
‘Then you’re not just here to do the dishes and change the sheets, are you?’
‘No, but I would be happy to do those things for you as well.’
It was at this point that I remembered the last time I saw my brother. It was on my way to fucking jail, because somebody found his dope in my fucking backpack. His gifts were always dangerous.
‘Look, Claire, you seem like a fantastic mistress, or courtesan, or whatever but I don’t think I can trust a gift like this from my brother. You are… umm… free to go or whatever.
‘I release you. Etcetera, etcetera, etcetera.’
She actually looked disappointed at that. Now I may have many faults (many, many faults), but false modesty isn’t typically one of them. I smelled like the last bath I had taken was in dirty dishwater. I had a wonderful beard and hair that could only be described as ‘disgusting’ or ‘stringy’. And I compulsively swore. I wasn’t exactly the type of man your average hooker is totally fucking bummed to miss out on, especially for a lifetime.
‘What does that look mean?’
‘What look?’
‘You look like I just ran over your dog… and then offered you a hearty soup I made from his tail. I don’t think I’m such a disappointment to miss out on… unless someone told you that I have a twelve inch dick. In which case, sister, more heartache would be coming your way if you stayed.’
‘It’s alright, Vinny. It’s just that I actually welcomed this assignment.’
‘Why?’
She stood up.
‘I was hoping it would both my first and my last.’
‘Come again for big fudge?’
This was, I shit you not, the most confusing conversation that I had ever had. I have held conversations about the socio-economical implications of Dali paintings that made more sense.
‘It’s a long story. I can just leave.’
‘Claire, do I look like I’m going anywhere?’
Claire sat back down.
Chapter 3
‘I was trained by a company that prepares girls for the use of wealthy men.’ She started. ‘I think it was somebody’s idea of a modern day geisha or something. I don’t know about that, I just know that I was eighteen when somebody dropped me off. I think it was my mom. Either way, people get paid a sizeable commission for girls that look like me.
‘They spent a lot of time over the last two years training me. I was supposed to be someone that a businessman could have on his arm all night at the restaurant and then fuck like a pornstar all night.’
This is a weird fucking world, I will tell you that.
‘They usually are careful about our first job because a couple of the richer guys will only pay for a girl’s first time.’
She was looking at her hands. It was the first time I saw her look uncertain… or whatever.
‘They were deciding my first client when your brother bought me. I don’t know what he paid, but it was a lot.’
She was having difficulty finishing what she was going to say.
‘I guess I just thought about the opportunity to have my own man, instead of being passed around, and I liked it.’
‘You didn’t want to be one of these fucking courtiers or whatever?’
‘No.’
‘Well, why don’t I just release you. Say the magic fucking words and let you be on your way. Make like a tree, and leave. All that shit.’
‘It won’t work like that. I’m too valuable of an asset for them to drop. Either they, or their competitors, will grab me before I’ve been gone twenty four hours.’
‘Are you serious?’
‘Yeah. I know a couple of girls that tried it. This isn’t exactly voluntary work.’
‘So you’re honestly saying that your choices are between me and being passed around like a bong?’
‘I think so.’
‘OK. Which fucking room do you want?’ She gave me a slight smile in response.
I got up from the chair to show her around, but I gave her a glare first. ‘You’re not fucking lying to me are you?’
She looked up at me, I could see tears in her big, green eyes. ‘No, I’m not.’
I sighed. Big fucking softie that I am, I could never refuse a crying girl.
Chapter 4
I showed the girl to her room, said a few more wildly fucking inappropriate things, then went back to my novel. Maybe now that I had a live-in guest, I could make some motherfucking progress.
Charlene found me staring at the computer the next morning. It had been a big night for my novel. I had made it as far as ‘The’.
Fortunately, I had also eaten three pages of my notes, so I wasn’t very hungry.
She sat down next to me. ‘Vinny, what would you like me to do?’
I wasn’t asleep, but it took me a few moments to get all of the marbles back in the jar.
‘Whatever your little fucking heart desires, Clarisse. There’s a box full of my last novel downstairs. I was going to burn it, but I didn’t think the book was worth the fucking effort to burn.’
I paused for a minute. ‘I’m going to go get some coffee.’
After that, I think I walked down the stairs. Honestly, I can’t remember. Charlie, or whatever the hell her name was, followed me down. I think she even made the coffee for me, it didn’t seem like I was quite capable myself at the time.
‘There’s a couch there for you to sit on if you’re into that kind of freaky shit. I’d say you can watch the TV, but it’s having some technical fucking difficulties.’
I pointed at the TV. In this case, the technical difficulties were primarily due to my 8 iron, which was still protruding from the screen.
She gave a little smile, the first I had seen from her. ‘Let me guess, book reviews?’
‘Nope. I just really fucking hate Barbara Walters.’
At least it was possible that Charis might be sassy, that would be nice.
I sat down on the couch to stare at the TV and pretend that the news program came on again. It seemed like it would be fun to put another club into the set when they discussed my book. My fantasy came to nothing, and thirty seconds after taking a seat, I was asleep.
*****
I woke up some time later, who the hell cares when. I didn’t feel overly rested, although the huge pool of drool on the pillow had felt sort of refreshing.
For the next few minutes I sat and stared. There was nothing left to do. I would never write another fucking word. My epitaph would just say: ‘Here lies Vinny Green, author of one shitty book, who died of meaninglessness at the age of twenty-eight.’
Cecilia broke me out of my pleasant daydream when she came downstairs. Without a word, she grabbed me by the hand and dragged me upstairs. I assumed she was going to ravage me, and I was so young and innocent!
Instead, she pulled me into the bathroom, which looked like it might have been cleaner than it was two nights before when I fell asleep in there… while taking a shit. OK, in case you haven’t noticed, the last couple of months had not constituted a high point for me.
The bathtub was full. Back when I was ambitious and cared about life and all that stupid fucking stuff, I made sure that I had nice big tubs that you could properly sit in.
Charlize pulled my clothes off, with a little help from me. It was not very sexy, probably due to the stench coming off of me and the frightening way I would sway when she wasn’t holding me up. But when I stepped into the tub, it felt… good. The soothing heat of the bathtub was the first thing in weeks that I was actually enjoyi
ng.
She sat on the edge of the tub and washed me. I don’t know if I expected it to be sensual or something, but in the end it was just comforting. She was gentle and patient. Twenty minutes later, she washed out my hair and I was done.
At least I had regained enough awareness to be able to dry myself off. Claire, however, was waiting outside of the bathroom and she was not done with me.
‘Vinny, are you able to understand me?’
‘I think so.’
She had pulled us down to the kitchen, while she talked, where she had a stool waiting.
‘OK, I’m going to cut your hair for you. How do you like it?’
‘Claire, I couldn’t give a flying weasel fuck what it looks like.’ To be fair, I didn’t give flying rodent fucks about anything else, either.
She didn’t get upset at the response, like any reasonable person would do. She just told me to sit down and she started to snip.
For the second time, I was enjoying myself. The feel of her hands on my head as she went about cutting my hair was… shit, I don’t know, nice… or something.
When she was done, Claire told me to look in a mirror that magically appeared in her hand. She had left my hair a little shaggy, but it was much more restrained. My beard had become a respectable bushy sort of thing, instead of the rat’s nest that it had been before. If I were some other person looking at me, I might think that I had gained a modicum of respectability… at least until I opened my mouth.
Claire nudged me towards the stairs. ‘Now go to bed, Vinny.’
I collapsed onto my bed a minute later, feeling more at peace than I had in eight weeks. I didn’t even notice that the sheets were clean.
Chapter 5
When I woke up the next morning, I realized that I had heard the beginning of my book in my dream. I finally had it!
It was: ‘The…’. Fuck! Where was the rest of it? I had just been thinking it, there had been a whole damn paragraph! Fuck! Fuck!
Needless to say, I was less relaxed than I had been when I fell asleep.
It was even fucking worse now. Before if I was miserable and self-loathing, being a miserable and self-loathing zombie had taken at least a little sting out of it. But now, I was cogent again. But I was still cocksucking wordless. Fuck!
I decided to try to force the words out, like in the old days when they used to try to make you sweat the fever out. So maybe if I just could find a sauna that I could sit and write in… What the hell was wrong with me? Oh yeah, I was going to sit at the computer and sweat it out there. Now I was getting distracted. Great.
Once again, Claire found me an hour later. I think she was speaking to me, because I didn’t hear anything until I could actually feel her tugging on my damn ear. Ouch! No wait… it was out loud.
‘Ouch! What the hell?’
‘I made you breakfast. You need to eat.’ Claire didn’t look nearly as angry as her ear snatching would have indicated.
‘So you decided to pull on my ear?’
‘I thought you needed something to break you out of that spiral you were in.’ Her expression was still neutral.
We went downstairs to eat a very tasty breakfast. Of course, the last breakfast I had eaten was four days before and it had consisted of a can of sardines and a redbull. That was right before I ran out of sardines. I sort of missed them.
Claire was smiling at me while she ate her eggs. The kitchen was actually clean.
‘Claire, why are you smiling at me? And for that matter, why are you being so nice to me? I am aware of just how much of an asshole I am.’
‘You’re not an asshole, Vinny. I mean, you sure act like one.’ She gave a pleasant laugh as she said that. ‘But you’re just somebody who hit the end of his rope… alone.’
‘So? You could have any guy you wanted. I mean, you could be on top of Richard Gere right now, with your panties in his mouth. You know, if you were into that. I mean… you are just that fucking pretty. You know that, right?’
‘If I was into Gere or into the panties’ thing?’
I found myself actually smiling at Claire.
‘Either/or, I supposed.’
She looked at me oddly.
‘You really don’t get it, do you, Vinny?’
‘Why you’re not into Richard Gere?’
‘No, why I’m happy here… but also because I’m not into Richard Gere, I guess.’
‘What am I not getting?’
‘Vinny, I was facing a lifetime of being used. Instead I get one man, maybe my own man if I’m lucky. And you turned out to be a sweet guy. You act like a jerk and I think you might have Tourette’s, but it isn’t hard to tell that you could be really easy to be with if you just decompressed for a little bit.’
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