A customer gets more than he bargained for...
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His Talented Shoulders

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 cries, “help!”

His shirt is ruffled like tiny cock-bulges, traversing his shoulders. Suddenly, I’m fondling his little upturned penises, but they’re soft and hollow and I say, indignantly,
“These aren’t for me...are they?”
He doesn’t seem to follow, or notice I’m blinking tears.

I’m 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.
I see him coming and scoop my multitudinously erect friend into my office to close a deal. On what product, I could not tell you. So, I’m pelting this talented man with my usual gibberish, playing with my tie, smiling at my reflection in the laptop monitor. He’s strumming those tiny boners in a way that makes me think, among other things; he doesn’t really know what we’re 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 it.
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 work.”
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 this.

© Sean Kilpatrick

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