Thursday, March 04, 2010

The mustachioed man with the brim of his fedora pulled low…

posted by Bill Arnett @ 11:43 PM Permalink

…trench-coated, dressed in a nondescript, inconspicuous manner, furtively casting suspicious glances at every one he passes, reaching up to tip his cap's visor in the manner of old, as much to further conceal his identity as to display the manners of old.

As he approaches the entrance to the place of business lit with garish lights, cars parked a discrete distance, men with their miniskirted women, make-up caked on their faces as if in a Kabuki dance known only to them and the men accompanying them, gentlemen also playing the game, that of chivalry, opening the car door for the long-legged beauties that they obviously hoped would be in the mood for some wild lovemaking, abandoning caution, throwing it to the wind as they would discard any doubt of their loveliness or the drop dead gorgeous visage of the man, anxious to enter their cars and leave for places more quiet and isolated in the certainty of consummating their relationship, no matter how fleeting, seeking the release that only strikingly attractive, cupid sent males, swathed in a sexy cologne, moving with a certain precision and confidence of experience, no doubt in their minds of the events to unfold this very evening, and she, she of the heaving breasts, her lipstick beginning to smear from the passionate kisses they shared as they slowly left the parking lot, no doubt heading for the easiest and fastest to get to place to achieve the Nirvana each expected the other to provide, the sweaty, hot, steamy lovemaking of lovers grown to know each other's deepest desires and able to arouse the other with speed, agility, and the long-lasting touches and kisses by now so familiar and wanted with such burning desire for hour after hour, seemingly without end, through the timelessness of heaven itself until exhaustion depleted them entirely of the energy to continue.

The man in the hat watches these events play out, silently wishing for them to leave and pursue their obvious desires elsewhere. He continues his approach into the garish light of the establishment he was to enter, stopping to take a deep breath in an attempt to raise his courage to the point of being staunchly unafraid of entering an establishment such as this, known by everyone for the variety of "toys," other items and, of course, the video material sold behind long black curtains, stopping their length two feet from the ground so the ever observant clerk could insure no one would get carried away, out of control, and do something unseemly, downright nasty, unable to contain themselves until they purchased the DVD that appealed to that secret, dark, lonely, but somehow exciting inner space that lies within the purview of all the inner minds of men and women.

He pretends to look at random items, so unaware of their nature as to not remember which particular item he had fondled, held, caressed, eyes glazed, his vision so blurred by what he sought to purchase that he could not remember a single word, not one title, not even the genre of the DVDs which he had no intention to purchase. He turns, sees the clerk assisting a cute little lady in jeans so tight the outlines of that most precious area of the female body was easily perceived, and so his chance to do what he had come to do and do it without drawing the suspicions and deprecating looks, the snarling sneering of the cretin behind the register, a man so uncouth, foul-smelling, and ugly in both appearance and character it was glaringly clear that there was no other occupation suitable or even available to one such as he; but there he was, occupied with the sweet-looking lass that was probably bent and given to prostitution, ever having sex in the back seat of a car or, as was apparently happening here, intending to engage the clerk in an act of oral sex right there at the cash register's counter. Though disgusted and repulsed the man knew this would be the one certain opportunity for him to bring the DVDs upon which even a cretin such as this would heap naught but scorn and derision to the counter for check out.

As he had thought, the clerk, a poor pitiful specimen of a man, hardly even glanced up as the man handed him the DVDs, had them scanned for price, and carefully counted out the sixty dollars and twenty-eight cents in recompense so that there would be no delays or distractions for the clerk to have to give him change and further delay his departure from this semi-den of iniquity. The instant the clerk placed his purchase in a brown paper bag he left as quickly and anonymously as he had entered, walking ever faster to his car, parked a block away so no one who knew him and saw his car would know where he had been. At breakneck speed, just within the speed limits, 'California rolling' through stop signs, it being late and traffic light, jamming the accelerator pedal to the floor at every light turning green, even risking a sure stop and possible search of his car by running through all the yellow lights as well, he somehow was lucky enough to make it to his driveway bathed in the warm yellow glow of the high pressure sodium lights that acted both to completely illuminate the driveway and front of his house, but also to block vision of any of the inside parts of his home and castle and to guarantee his privacy after dark.

He frantically searched for his purchase which, due to his almost reckless driving style, had fallen from the seat and slid under it from the centrifugal forces generated by his high speed turns. He finally found them and, breathing a sigh of relief, he quickly made the entry to his quarters quietly and swiftly. He stopped in his living room to turn on his DVD player and large screen television then made his way to his bedroom, disrobing as quickly as possible, leaving on only his silken boxer shorts that made him feel as if he, too, was one of those men he had witnessed leaving the store's parking lot with a beautiful woman at his side. He tore open the packaging of the DVDs, almost savage in his haste, opening up the fold out cases within, found the first disc of the series that so stirred his passions, almost bursting with excitement as the menu finally came on screen, began fondling himself as almost erotic rockets of pleasure shot through the skies of his mind as Chevy Chase finally appeared on screen, saying:

"Live from New York, it's Saturday night!" whereupon the man gave himself completely and wholly up to the whims and vagaries of his favorite television show ever, although in his late fifties he could never make such an admission to anyone but himself, in the privacy of his home, out of the view of others who would laugh, jeer, and make fun of his predilection.

The End of Another Bill Arnett Saga, a Tale of a Lonely Man and his Particular Fetish.

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