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From: MrM1KE@aol.com
Subject: Under Cover - by M1KE HUNT
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Oop. Here we go again. Another stupid story for another stupid day. I
sure hope you're at least 18, because there's a stupid law that says
you can't read this if you're not. Stupid. Not if you're not stupid,
if you're not 18. Stupid law, I meant. Sorry for the confusion.

I guess I have to learn to be more clear in my prose, 'cause I'm practicing
to become a journalist. First, I suppose, I have to get bad breath and
not shower for a couple of days. And it would probably help if I got
a little more stupid, too.


Under Cover - by M1KE HUNT


In my never ending quest to become a part of the media (Deborah Norville
is my idol!) (Uh, she's also a target.) I have decided that I need to
learn the skills of doing an undercover investigation. All the big reporters
do it so it must be important. After all, without undercover journalism
Richard Nixon would probably still be in office and Gary Hart might be
President! Whew, imagine having a lech like THAT running the country!
Anyway, how else am I going to impress Debbie?

So that's what's next for me. But you can't just "go undercover." It's
much more complicated than that. You have to have a purpose or a mission.
Otherwise you're just sort of homeless, and then the welfare people put
you to work and you can't get anything done!

For instance, you have to have a target for your investigation. Besides
Debbie, I mean. I thought about doing a screaming expose on condoms,
but I never use them, so what would I know? I suppose it's possible that
some TOTAL SCHMUCK would go to the drug store and stick a needle through
the Ramses boxes and puncture a whole bunch of them which would make
them all useless and defective. Boy, some scandal that would be!

CONDOM SHORTCOMINGS UNROLLED! (I'm practicing my headline writing.)

But I can't find June's sewing kit, so I'll try something else.

I also thought about trying to find some medical evidence that proves
brassieres cause saggy tits, mostly because I hate brassieres. Who thought
them up, anyway? It'd be great if we could convince women to return to
the 70's and not wear bras anymore. That was great; all those beautiful
boobies bouncing along the boulevard. But I can't figure out how to "prove
it", and anyway who wants to look at a lot of saggy tits? Not me, I'll bet.
So I'll  leave the "breast" stories to Barbara Walters. (By the way, Barbara
is NOT a target, mostly because of her, uh, well, you know.)

Finally, I thought of it! The Phone-Sex industry! I'll do an expose
on phone sex! It's perfect. Everybody sees the commercials on late night
TV. There are endless pages of ads in the back of dirty magazines with
pictures of pretty girls saying "Dial 555-CORNHOLE" and things like that.
Who hasn't seen the spots at the start of a porno movie? It's an industry
that I have some experience with. I mean, uh, not a lot. Probably less
than $2500 worth, anyway. And I've always wondered what the girl looked
like on the other end of the line. Haven't you?

So away I went. Down, down into the murky depths of the phone sex industry.
$3.99 a minute. Send me the money! Now the first job of an investigative
reporter
is research; and I allotted just over $100 in that budget; it would've more,
but I
was out of work at the time. The $100 gave me 25 phone sex minutes, or
"units"
as they are called in the industry. A "unit" at my house usually referred to
a part of my anatomy, generally the one in use while using some of those
$3.99 a minute "units."

Here are the rough notes for my expose. I'm just practicing my writing, here,
remember. You'll see the finished draft in "Detective Stories", probably.

Didn't think I needed to spend anything on other equipment. Was pretty
well prepared: already owned a telephone and had a dick. Still do. Went
to the closet and picked out a recent issue of one of the classier men's
magazines I subscribe to, "Double-D Heavy Hangers", and flipped to the
back pages.

Picked a number at random and dialed.

"Hello?"

"Uh, hi. Is this 'Eat Me, Whip Me, Strip Me?'"

"Yeah."

Personality plus, I could see right from the start.

"Am I bothering you?"

"Nah, I had to answer the phone anyway."

I was down a dollar. It was going to be a long night but a short call.

"Yeah, well, I'd like you to talk dirty to me."

"Oh baby, that's original. Any special requests?"

"Uh, not really. What do you like?"

"Honey, I like whatever you like."

"Yeah, well, why don't you tell me what you look like."

"Sure, sugar. I'm 5-foot-2, you like 'em short?"

"No, actually, I like taller women."

"Like I said, I'm 5-5, almost 6 foot in heels. Is that better?"

"Yeah, sure. Fine."

"You like blondes?"

"Actually I like redheads."

"Funny coincidence. I'm a redhead."

"I'm sure."

"No really, sugar. They called me 'Cherry' in high school."

"Where was that?"

"Where was what? School?"

"Yeah."

"En-Jay. New Jersey. Parsippany, New Jersey."

"No kidding! I know where that is!"

"Then maybe I shouldn't have said that. Make it Dover."

"No shit! I went to Dover! We moved during my sophomore year."

"Omigod. Uh, I mean, uh, let's change the subject. Don't you want to
talk about my tits or something?"

"Yeah, we can do that, but I'm curious. When were you in school? High
school."

"Oh, about 10 years ago."

"Dover High School? 10 years ago?"

"Yeah, can we get on with it?"

"Are you Jenny Sue Walters?"

A shriek let me know I'd hit home. A home run. Knocked it right out
of the park. Talk about a great coincidence! It had to be, or this story
wouldn't be going anywhere. Still might not, actually.

"You ARE! You're Jenny Sue Walters! I knew it. Now I recognize your
voice! No shit! Jenny Sue Walters. I'll be damned."

"No, I'll be damned. How'd you guess?"

"The red hair. You really *do* have red hair. 'Cherry.' And 10 years ago,
and Dover High School. Just a wild guess."

"Yeah, well a good one. So who are you? Do I know you?"

"Uh, well, yeah. I was in your science class. Mr. Peepers, remember?"

"Oh my god, Mr. Peepers! What was his real name? Jennings. Johnson.
Jerky. Started with a J, I think."

"Jensen. Mr. Jensen with the creepy eyes. 4th period."

"Yeah, that's it. Jensen. Ole Peepers. So, like, who ARE you?"

"OK, I'll come clean. M1KE. M1KE HUNT."

"I should have guessed."

"Why do you say that?"

"Cause you were the nerd always snapping my bra when I wasn't looking.
They'd arrest you for that now, probably."

"Yeah, different world. Hey, listen. This is costing me a fucking fortune.
I have to get off."

"That's why most guys call..."

"No, I mean, I have to hang up."

"No, no don't do that! Let's talk a while."

"Why, do you get a piece of the action?"

"Well, uh, yeah. I get a fee for each call, but if I keep a guy on more
than 10 minutes I get a bonus, and another one for every 5 minutes after
that."

"Well, I'd love to help, but I don't have that much money. Got a proposition
for you."

"That'd be a first."

"Yeah, well, how about I interview you. Not here, not on the phone.
In person. Maybe watch you at work. I'm doing a piece on the phone-sex
industry. This is *perfect*. You could really help."

"And...."

"And what?"

"And..."

"Uh, and?? And...Oh, I get it. Yeah, I'll pay you something."

"How much?"

"Fifty bucks."

"Hundred."

"Sixty."

"Seventy."

"Sixty five."

"Done. For old times sake. And sixty-five bucks."

We sealed the deal, and I looked at the clock. My little telephone soiree
had taken four minutes. Sixteen bucks. And if I was going to give $65
to Jenny Sue, I had, uh, let's see, 65 plus 16 is 81, subtract from 100,
is a 9, uh, carry the 9, 8 from 9 is 1, oh shit, I didn't have a lot
left.

My math is not too precise, which always used to make ole Peepers crazy.
Like the time I was supposed to pour an ounce of methyl dioxide over
some aluminum particles, but I poured a pint instead. I knew it was one
"unit" of methyl, I just forgot what the "unit" was. The reaction was
the same, of course, except the small flame which should have been produced
was actually more like a HUGE FUCKING BLOWTORCH, and it burned the shit
out of old Peeper's pants. Just another time my problem with "units"
got me in trouble.

Sorry, I think I got sidetracked there. That's one danger that investigative
reporters have to watch out for, otherwise they spend their whole life
in a bar or with some girl somewhere instead of rooting out all those
terrible facts that you read in your morning paper to help start your
day on a bright note. I'll try to do better.

Luckily Jenny Sue and I lived in the same city. Luck plays a big part
in my life, and in my stories. Since I only had $19 left (I found my
calculator, thanks), I could hardly afford to fly someplace exotic to
meet her, and anyway I used up all my airplane jokes in the "Identical
Twins" story.

Think I got sidetracked again. Damn.

So just a couple days later, I went to Jenny Sue's apartment. She had
some kind of telephone switcheroo thingie that let her work from home,
which was quite convenient, because she didn't have to get dressed every
morning to go to work. Come to think of it, she wouldn't have had to
get dressed anyway, given the line of work she was in.

She lived quite well, apparently. The mottled gray steps leading to
the leaded-glass front door of her warm cottage glistened in polished
granite, well worn with the friction of a million footprints which ground
the stone over the years. A tarnished brass doorknock was the only apparatus
to announce my arrival, and as the frontpiece relinquished its kiss and
then slammed against its mate, a slight squeak cried from the tiny hinge
in delicate counterpoint to the heavy "crack" that reverberated through
the massive wooden frame.

That last paragraph doesn't particularly advance the story, I'm just
practicing a different style of writing in case "The New Yorker" wants
to pick up the piece.

"Hi. M1KE, I presume?"

"Yep. Hi Jenny Sue. You haven't aged a bit. You look great."

"Thanks. Come on in."

She turned, motioning me to follow, and I did. The hallway was dark,
which was surprising, especially considering the amount of glass in the
old door, but a soft glow reflected from a banker's lamp on a telephone
table, and it was enough to erase the shadows, if not fully illuminate
the hallway. There was an odor of stale coffee mixed with others that
I could not identify. None were noxious, but none were pleasant, either.

We walked up a flight of stairs to "her room." It was her office, but
she didn't like to call it that. Didn't put her in the mood, she said.
I remembered the boredom in her voice when I had first called, but I
didn't say anything. If that was "in the mood," I wondered what she sounded
like when she wasn't.

Jenny Sue and I played high school reunion for 15 or 20 minutes, reliving
Science Class, remembering our classmates, talking over old times. We
were interrupted by the insistent ringing of the phone in "her room."

"Come on in," she said. "Hurry. I have to catch it by the fourth ring
or it jumps to someone else."

She reached for the phone and caught it halfway through the last burst.

"Hi there, honey," she said, grimacing at me as she sweet-talked the
mark at the other end of the line. "What are you in the mood for today?"

"mumblex thumbl mumbel" was as much as I could make out from the other
end of the conversation.

"Sure, sugar. You just make yourself comfortable now, and I'll tell
you a story. You want to hear how I lost my cherry? Sure. Sure, I remember."

She winked at me.

"It was a guy named M1KE. Nice looking guy. It was the night of our
junior prom. I'd never gone out with him before, but we had a nice date,
and he had his mother's car and we went out with some kids afterwards
and had some drinks, and then went parking."

"muggyle yuwepxx flitllem"

"Sure honey, I'll give you the details. Of course. You playing with
yourself? Good, that's good. We started making out, and he started feeling
me up. You know the dress was pretty low cut, but the top was made out
of this really thick material, so he really couldn't feel anything..."

"gollpxy wccmxmm mussrles, plimjabn crenovatz"

"36. C-cup. I always had big tits," she said, pointing to her obviously
smaller breasts and giggling at me. "So he's trying to grab my tits,
except the dress is in the way, so I slipped down one of the shoulders,
and you should have seen his eyes bug out. Mr. Peepers, I should have
called him." She giggled again.

I couldn't help it. I laughed, too.

"I always liked having guys feel me up. I know some of the girls didn't,
but I sure did. It was exciting, knowing how hot and bothered I could
get them, and man, did they love my tits. So anyway, he helped me push
my dress out of the way, and then fumbled for about an hour trying to
get my bra off, and then it was Palm-City. I could feel my nipples just
popping right into his hands, and I loved it."

I started getting an erection.

"You still playing with yourself, handsome? Good, no that's good. Well,
suddenly one hand leaves my tit and he slides it right up my dress, and
his fingers are dancing up my thighs, and I slid down a little in the
seat, which pushed the dress up, and he takes that as a good sign, and
he jams his hand right up against my cunt. You don't mind me saying 'cunt'
do you, sweetie?"

"TRUlpxy FLoCKxy QUillIAM"

"Well, his fingers are scratching against my panties, and my cunt is
getting wet, and then he pulls the elastic to one side and I can feel
him inching his way through my pubic hair down to my pussy, and then
he's touching me and I'm loving it. I didn't usually let a guy get this
far on the first date, or even the second or third, really, but it *was*
Junior Prom night and I'd had a few drinks, and well, it just felt so
good."

I shifted in my chair.

"It does feel good when you touch a girl there, doesn't it?"

"Yutrlix!"

"Yes, it feels good to me, too. He hooked his finger in the crotch of
my panties and started tugging, and it just felt so damn good I lifted
up my butt and the panties slid right down my legs, so I just lay back
against the car seat and opened them up and let him at me. We were making
out, and he's a pretty good kisser, and he was rubbing my tits with one
hand and playing with me with the other, and then next thing I knew we
were lying down on the front seat of the car and he was in between my
legs."

Jenny Sue saw my, uh, condition and did a silent "tsk tsk tsk" as she
waggled her finger at me.

"I thought we were just dry humping, but my dress had gotten pushed
up out of the way, and we were lying there with him on top, and the next
thing I knew he had both hands on my tits... Did I mention I like to
have guys hold my tits? Oh, yes, I think I did. And then I felt something
warm playing around the entrance to my cunt, and so help me I didn't
really even think about it until I suddenly realized he was partway in.
I felt like the Jiffy-Lube girl, I'll tell you. I don't know when he
unzipped himself, but he sure had..."

She pointed at my zipper and waggled her finger again, only this time
with an up-and-down motion. I looked back, surprised, and pointed to
my crotch. She nodded. I stared her in the eye as my hand went to the
metal tab and pulled. That's a trick I can pretty much do without looking;
I've had some practice with that particular move.

"And, well, honestly, I freaked out because I didn't know we were actually
going to be fucking. I'd played with a few guys, and even given a blow
job to a couple of my boyfriends... You don't mind me saying 'blow job'
do you? But I hadn't really prepared myself to go 'all the way' if you
know what I mean. But there I was lying on my back with my dress pushed
up and his dick hard as a hammer handle and already partway in me."

She smiled at me and used her finger to signal again, this time curling
her finger to coax my little one-eyed trouser snake out from behind the
folds of cloth that hid it.

"So, as they say, I just lay back and waited for it. And as soon as
he saw that I was 'his', he plunged in, real hard, and tore me up good.
It was very painful, but only for a second."

"tykopls vukmads vilop"

"I would say it was like getting a vaccination. A sharp sting, and then
some residual discomfort. OK, maybe a lot of discomfort, but it passed,
and I could hardly concentrate on it what with all his weight on me and
him banging away at me for all he was worth. Bango bango bango, he fucked
me up down and sideways, but it didn't really take long... You getting
ready, honey? Good. And then just before I thought he was going to do
it, I told him he had to pull out, because I didn't have any protection,
and I didn't think he'd put on a rubber... You close, darling? And he
did, and he must have come a bucketful all over my snatch and my belly...
oh, there you go, oh, nice, oh yes, go baby go...

"MTUPLEX VREPLEXM PLYVOISH AHHHHHH"

"Thanks for calling."

Click.

I heard him hang up, he hadn't even waited 10 seconds for a polite goodbye.
And I was sitting in the chair with my dick sticking straight up out
of my pants. This was a weird way to end a sexual experience, especially
since I hadn't ended at all.

I stood up and began trying to stuff my erect cock back into my trousers.

"Don't be silly," Jenny Sue said. "Sit down."

"Like this????"

"Sure. You embarrassed?"

"A little."

"Calm down. We'll talk."

"We'll TALK?"

"Sure, what'ja think?"

"Uh, I don't know. I didn't think, exactly." She grinned. "So was it
true? What you told him, I mean."

"Sure. Why not. He wanted a story about how I lost my virginity and
I told him. All right, it wasn't all true. The guy's name wasn't M1KE."

"I know that."

"And it wasn't on Junior Prom night, I just added that for dramatic
effect. It was actually after a date on a Friday night. We went to a
movie. And it wasn't in a car, it was down on the football field. And
it..."

"OK, OK," I interrupted. "It was almost all true. I get the idea." Actually,
I've used the idea as you know if you've read any of my other stories.
Close enough for most reporters, I figure. "So why am I sitting here
with my dick sticking out of my pants?"

"Well, I just figured for $65 you should get a little more than just
an interview. Don't you think? And maybe you'll help out a poor girl
with a nice fat tip."

"Poor girl? Shit. This place must cost a fucking fortune. How do you
do it?"

"The telephone. A girl's best friend. No muss, no fuss. No cops. Bell
Atlantic does the billing, I get a nice check every week from the service.
If I don't feel like working, I just let the phone ring and it jumps
to the next girl. If I'm in the mood, I pick up the phone and I'm off
and running. I clear around $900 a week."

I whistled a noise of surprise. "No shit?"

"No shit. No taxes, either. Of course I pay something, because I don't
want to get caught, but I keep most of it. It's pretty sweet." She smiled
as I tried to do the math. Or maybe she smiled because I started to go
limp. I knew I had a scoop: 

"Call Girl Doesn't Pay Taxes!" Maybe not Pulitzer prize material, but
at least as good as some crappy expose on Marv Albert. Like nobody knew
he had the world's worst toupee. Headlines are best if they have a pun,
like "MARV WIGS OUT" or some snappy saying to catch the reader.

I looked into my lap and thought of another: "MATH AND DICKS DON'T MIX".
It's a catchy little ditty, but I didn't know how to work it into a story.
Just did, actually.

Sidetracked again. Fuck.

"So you like your work?"

"Mostly. I get grossed out when a guy calls and wants watersports. Enemas.
Let's see, what else. Oh, I can't stand it when they want a horse story.
I play along, cause it's money, but I always do such a shitty job that
I hope they never call back. But most of the guys are nice, they just
want to hear me say 'tits' and 'cunt' and 'pussy' and fake an orgasm..."

"You fake an orgasm?"

"Of course, silly. Twenty times a day at least. It's part of the drill.
You can't fake an orgasm, you can't work here."

"But you didn't with that guy."

"No, he didn't want that. He wanted a story. You know, you play the
cards you get. You can't be a one trick Jenny in this racket."

"I guess not," I said.

"Get you a beer?"

"Uh, sure. I'll zip up while you're gone."

"Don't you dare do that. Next time that phone rings, I want you working.
It gets lonely sometimes, and I think maybe it would help me get in the
mood. It's Friday, and I've got a long night ahead of me."

"What, you want to do research on me? I should charge you!"

"I don't think so, Mikey. You're paying me, remember? Why not get off,
too?"

I had to think about this for a moment. I was new at the journalism
game, and I wondered if this could be considered a conflict of interest.
You know, like when you're reporting on a particular stock and you own
the stock and you're trying to get the stock to go up? Well, I own a
particular, uh, stock, and it had just gone down, so I figured what the
fuck, make it go up. I reached for my penis and began softly massaging
it.

"'Lite' if you have it," I called into the next room. I heard the whoosh
of a tab top opening, and I knew help was on the way. At just that moment
the phone rang. "Jeez, does it always come like this?"

"You should know," she giggled as she walked around the corner, looking
into my lap. She grabbed the phone and greeted the caller, "Hi, I'm Suzie.
What can I do for you today?"

"tyoipjkx nesdt xciophs wasrm flopywz kowaliwiz"

"Sure honey, we can talk about that. Of course I've been with two guys.
Hasn't everyone?"

"xthiums weppvl sawcrm uipxisi"

"Well, some wives are just like that."

"yusiuix.s sqiuuzxo pf"

"Really, I have a friend right here. Jim?" She looked at me. I guess
I was Jim, for the moment. At least she hadn't picked some lame-ass
fake name like 'Piper' or something. "Jim? Say hi to my new friend."

"HI!" I called out, loud enough for him to hear.

"wsuitzxio gliop fxtwea"

"I told you. In fact he's sitting here with his dick out of his pants.
I like to see that. Is your dick out of your pants, too?"

"uixm"

"Oh good. Two dicks. That's the best. So, let me tell you about Jim's
dick. I wish I could be blowing him right now, but then my mouth would
be full and I couldn't talk to you, right honey?"

"uixm"

"No, I don't think I want to fuck him right now," she said, shaking
her head at me to let me know her "right now" meant "ever."

I started pulling at my meat, and in short order I was fully erect.
It's a cute dick, if I do say so myself, with a nicely formed umbrella
head atop the slender pink missile which poked out of my open fly. My
right hand was wrapped around my cock and was moving like a slow-motion
piston, up and down, with a slight twist on each stroke. The tip nearly
disappeared each time, but emerged proudly on the downstroke and jutted
confidently into the thick air of the sexually charged room.

Maybe Penthouse Forum. Gotta practice.

"He's jerking himself off at the moment. Aren't you doing the same thing?
Of course you are, you naughty boy. Hmmm? Oh, I'm wearing a skirt. It's
very short, about to the middle of my thighs, but my friend here is trying
to look up it, and I'm teasing him terribly. Yes, I'll open my legs just
a little and let him look. Oh, how I wish this was a picture phone, because
I'd love to have you looking up my dress too."

He did open her legs a little, and I was surprised to see that she wasn't
wearing underwear.

"Holy shit," I said softly.

"He said 'holy shit', honey. Did you hear him?"

"zeruimw thiwx"

"Speak up, Jim"

"Yeah, I'm looking up her dress," I said loudly.

"thris jkluit ghiwerx"

She slid down in the chair and the skirt rode up even higher. As if
that wasn't enough, she parted her legs further to give me an unobstructed
view of her snatch. I couldn't help staring.

"I told you he's here. I wouldn't lie to you. Yeah, he's staring at
my cunt. So am I." She chuckled. "I guess he likes it." She paused.
"Reddish blond. I'm a redhead, but the hair on my head is redder
than down below. Very fine, very thin hair. You like that?"

I couldn't hear the response, mostly because I wasn't listening, and
the thump thump thump of my pounding fist was loud enough to camouflage
the noise from the tiny earpiece of the telephone. I was now stroking
with abandon, and my eyes darted from her face to her pussy and back
again. She smiled at me as she continued her conversation.

"No, I've never had two dicks in my cunt at the same time, although
I'd sure like to try that sometime. But I have had two guys in me, one
in my ass and one in my pussy, and I've given a guy a nice blowjob while
his friend fucks me. Sure. I like guy's cocks. I like to have my hands
around them. Wish I could have my hand around yours right now. I'd be
grabbing at it and yanking on it. It's fun."

"xuitx flijix wliss"

"He's still jerking off. Wait, I'm unbuttoning my blouse for you." Her
free hand flew to the task. "Maybe when he's ready he'll cum on my tits.
I always like that. It's so much fun to watch when a guy explodes. I
know what it feels like for me to cum, it's a kick to watch someone else
do it too, don't you think?"

"WEIplUTX"

"Yes, I thought so. You working on it? Of course you are you dirty boy.
Why, I can just imagine you sitting there with your cock sticking out
of your pants, playing with yourself, listening to me on the phone as
I watch Jim, here, playing with himself. Oh my, I'm getting so turned
on by all of this. I think I have to play with myself, too."

Her hand sank between her legs and she pushed the skirt out of the way.
Her fingers found their target, and she began rubbing them in a gentle
circular motion. I felt myself start to build as she spread her legs
even wider.

"You getting ready, honey? Oh, tell me all about it. I love to hear
a guy cum."

"sdokxciof. WEvkopxmzioWE. UITHIOSJKXMXMw.T QWERTYFUCKINA"

Jenny Sue started making orgasmic sounds of her own, and I knew it was
time for me, too. I sprang from the chair and lunged to her side of the
room, double-stroking myself with every step. As I neared her her eyes
got wide and she exclaimed "What are you doing???"

But it was too late, my dick burst forth with a spray of jism that shot
directly onto her left tit, then dribbled down onto her skirt. As you
may know, once it starts it doesn't stop, and I unloaded a torrent onto
her other tit, then shot a nice fat load right into the valley between
her breasts. All the while she was sputtering and muttering, because
apparently I wasn't supposed to do that to her. My knees buckled and
I groaned as I sank down, my drool continuing to seep from my penis,
albeit more slowly than it had a few moments earlier.

She sat in stunned silence. Then suddenly she said, "You done, sugar?"

"xtuisi ahhh, wesopt." CLICK.

She looked at me and said, "You done, sugar?"

I nodded, weakly.

"I didn't mean for you to do that. This is fantasy, for chrissakes.
Shit, look at me. I'm a mess!"

I looked around for a towel or a hankie or something. No luck. "I'll
get one from the bathroom. Don't move." I ran from the room.

By the time I returned I had retracted the offending member of the party
and I offered her the towel. She was still sitting in the chair, covered
in cum. She took the towel from me and began wiping herself off.

"I didn't say you could do that!" she barked.

"Did too! I heard you!"

"I was just making it up for him. You weren't actually supposed to do it!"

"Well how was I supposed to know that? I'm new at this game."

"And stupid too!" she responded. "You blow your load on the first call,
what are you going to do for the rest of the day?"

"Uh, I didn't think of that."

"Yeah, and you make a mess during the phone call, and you screw up the
rhythm of the caller."

"Oh, well I didn't think about that either."

"And..."

"OK OK, I messed up. Literally, I guess. Sorry."

"Well, maybe I shouldn't be angry. I had a tough time of it my first
couple of nights, too. It's a talent, actually. Like writing, I suppose.
So, are you going to make me famous?"

"Famous?"

"Yeah, you know, big story in the Times? Maybe a follow-up on Hard Copy?
Maybe even get me booked on the Jenny Jones show?"

"Jenny Jones?"

"Yeah. Make me famous, like the Mayflower Madam. Then I can write a
book and chuck this shit."

"You write?"

"Sure. You think I'm in this for the long haul?"

"Well, I hadn't really thought about it."

"Yeah, I write."

"What kind of stuff?"

"Whaddya think? Sex stories. Maybe you've read some of mine?"

"I don't think so."

"'Softball'? 'Art Appreciation'? 'Walls Have Ears'?"

"Oh my god. You're Taria?"

"Yeah. And "Sucker" and "The Sad, Bad Man". I'm Bronwen, too. And Anne.
I do Mark Aster when I'm in the mood. I used to be Jordan Shelbourne,
but I semi-retired him a while ago. Thinking of making a comeback, tho."

"Get out!"

"Also Bombadil, Pendragon, and Quin."

"Now I know you're shitting me."

"NOT. I used to be Celeste, but I sold the franchise on that one. That
was the down payment on this place. Some broad in Michigan picked it up.
She's doing OK with it, I hear. I've started writing some other stuff,
too. A little more serious. Grisham. Maybe you've heard of it?

"Fuck you."

"Not in your lifetime."

I stood up and threw a hundred dollar bill at her as I stomped out.
I was pissed. I was there to do some in-depth research and she was yanking
my chain. ME! A serious journalist. How the hell would I ever turn THIS
into a world-wide expose, catapulting myself to international fame and
fortune?

Apparently, I wouldn't. Obviously, I didn't.
Maybe I shouldn't. Probably I couldn't.
La de doo dah.

Maybe I'll be a country music songwriter instead. Maybe Debbie will like
me anyway.

***

I never know how a story is going to end when I start writing it. Hell,
I hardly ever know how it's going to start or middle. Usually, though,
an ending pops up and I take it. This one didn't, but I didn't feel like
working too hard to find one, so I just threw that shit in and closed
it up.

I'm basically lazy, so I guess there's hope for my reporting career yet.

I'll keep writing, though, hoping for my big break. Bound to come along
soon. I mean if Time Magazine can put a full page story in about that
lame-ass on-line <nervemag.com>, I figure I'm due. Have you seen that
thing? Big name writers doing mediocre work. How about some equal time
for a mediocre writer doing uh, *really* mediocre work. I'm serious here.
My stuff excels at mediocrity. Why, I'll bet I'm the *most* mediocre
writer around. I've picked my category, and I'm going to be the best
at it I can.

I'm hoping my next one is even more mediocre. If you'd like to get it
by e-mail, send me a note and I'll put you on my e-mail list. Write to
MrM1KE@aol.com, and remember the 2nd character in M1KE is a "one" (1)
not an "eye" (I).

This expose is Copyright 1997 by M1KE HUNT, and if you try to put it
on a commercial website or publish it in the New York Times, you can
bet my goddamn army of lawyers will be down your throat faster than you
can say "injunction." I've got a team of Russian shysters and they're
tough motherfuckers, let me tell you. You don't want to get a subpoena
from "Whackinov, Jerkinov, Beatinov, Fuchinov, Slakinov, Sukinov,
Blowinov and Ripinov", so don't do it.

Hey, I added a couple of new stories my website on the Guest Author's
page. Maybe you'd like to visit it? Have I mentioned that it's a free
site? Yep. Password-free, banner-free, fee-free. It's even cookie-free
and content-free! I'll bet your snarky little browser can find it. It's
at <http://members.aol.com/mrm1ke>. If you can't locate it, please let
me know 'cause I'm keeping a list of morons for the internet police in
case they ask.

One of the best new stories is from our dear departed Kim. It's called
"Daydreams", and it's the last one she wrote before she pulled the
trigger. Maybe she'll even read it herself and check to see if I fixed
it up or anything, and maybe she'll be so happy she'll un-pull the
trigger and come back and we can all have wild and crazy sex together.

Maybe not.

Hey, I even added a link to "Hoot Island", a website that tries to combine
sex and humor. Sounds like an iffy concept to me, but you never know.
Of course they don't have any of my shit there, but who could blame them?
There's even one to the amateurerotica guide which has some funny stuff.
Sort of chortle-funny, not guffaw-funny. Not like this, which on the
funny scale of 1-10, is about a B-.

Oh, sorry if you were one of the asses who visited my webpage just bee-cause
I said I had a beaver shot of foxy June there. I didn't really have one,
I just wanted to goose the counter. I was horsing around, it was a lark. 
Just bull. Tell me you didn't gopher it. But this, time, boy, you should
come in and check out "M1KE's Country Music Shack", featuring, uh, me, and
some of my old time bestiality favorites. Where's that guitar?

Home, home on derange
Where the deer and my Aunt alone played...

Just practicing.


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