
Sandpaper Handjob: Your gramma's special friend

Send us your stupid comments and nude photos of your wife

Picture of the Day


Fuck that shit.


8 The Cleveland Indians are now eight games out, and sure to be fifteen out by the break. Is it time for Red Jackets hockey yet?

8

The Cleveland Indians are now eight games out, and sure to be fifteen out by the break. Is it time for Red Jackets hockey yet?

The Country Place

Thursday, May 28, 2009 12:00 AM

Mark Howard finished his third drink just before the women hit him with her purse and stormed out, not at all interested in going back to his hotel room across the street. "It's the third one back from the tittie bar. I'm at the Express Lodge," he had added helpfully, pointing out the tinted glass to a strip that went back north alongside the Interstate. The tacky looking club was on a service road that gave way to four motel and extended stay joints popular with unlucky salesman types and coke dealers dropping in for business. Mark H., as he was known, stayed ten days a month, rotating chains on a monthly basis. It was much better to film away from home, and he enjoyed shooting in the different styles of each hotel. His two partners had gone home, but he liked doing smaller shoots by himself. He could sell copies of those to the small carry outs all over the north end. Many of them were the kinds of places with iron on the doors and windows, and a guy close by who can get things.

The two bartenders came over, the shorter one pouring him more gin. "You're a creep, Mark H."

He nodded. The taller one made three of something or another and they drank to Mark H. avoiding another fifty rejections in a row. His streak eventually stopped at sixty-two, but that was a month later and a story for another day.

"I would've let you film me if you hadn't asked another fifty women before me," Shorty laughed as the taller one grabbed a Lone Star for a guy across the oval. Shorty refilled his glass. "I got this one, but you're on your own after that."

He smiled. "Long as you don't run out before close, Karen, that should be fine."

He walked the three miles home, drunk and hoping to beat the rain that would be coming. When he reached the tunnel he scampered up the side of the hill to the railroad tracks, his last chance to piss out of view. He finished, pulled out his vial and took a toot. He staggered, steadied himself, and staggered again before putting the vial back in his pocket. He then stepped forward and tripped over the rail, his book flying into the grass.

He came down the other side of the hill moments later, brushing leaves off of the library book and stopping briefly as a Columbus police cruiser passed under the bridge. Should've gone back to the room, he thought. It would be difficult to get a cab this late and this drunk, walking down the side of the road at three in the morning like some crazy.

He was half a mile from home when the cramps hit. There had been hours of drinking and nothing to eat since mid-afternoon. The sign from the Country Place restaurant was about two hundred yards away, but Mark H. didn't think he was going to make it. He ran behind one of the few cars parked next to the small office building and pulled down his pants, sliding down the rear panel. He released and left an unspeakable mess on the tire and oil-spotted asphalt. It was starting to rain. Desperate, he ripped the last page out of his library book and attempted to wipe his ass. It was a somewhat successful attempt, but he had a feeling he was horribly ill and would need to stop in the restaurant.

He stopped in the entryway and took two large toots, took a look at himself in the mirror and walked in. The hostess greeted him. "I'm meeting a party in the back, thanks," he slurred. His nostrils were numb and the room was spinning. Heading through the dining room, everything was blurry and he almost missed the turn for the restrooms.

After the longest ten minutes of his life and another toot of coke, he finally emerged from the bathroom. He felt a little better, and much more composed. He could finally go home.

He passed the pay phone, stepping out into the dining room. He looked around. The dining room was completely empty. He headed back the way he came and saw that all six or seven of the employees were standing or sitting at the counter area to the left, wondering what this strange and disheveled man was doing. He looked away and headed out the door, down the hall, and into the parking lot.

He crossed the street and ran for the small path that cut between the houses, the path that would eventually lead him through the park and the chance to sleep in his own bed for the first time in over a week. As he disappeared out of view from the man road, another cruiser pulled into the parking lot of the Country Place.

March
Sun	Mon	Tue	Wed	Thu	Fri	Sat
	1	2	3	4	5	6
7	8	9	10	11	12	13
14	15	16	17	18	19	20
21	22	23	24	25	26	27
28	29	30	31

Sandpaper Handjob: Your gramma's special friend

Picture of the Day

8

Short Fiction

Dear Jorgé

Drunk in the Booth

The Truth

Sponsored by:

The Country Place

Thursday, May 28, 2009 12:00 AM

Sandpaper Handjob:
Your gramma's special friend