Giggling Into the Pillow Read Free Page B

shall rule them
all, and in the darkness fuck them,” Kim and Phen left and the rest
of us collapsed in the living room amidst the Cheeto bags and empty
Coke cans.
The dildo was stuck to the television screen
by the suction cup on its base and was currently turning David
Brinkley into a unicorn.
“So what are we going to do with George,
there?” I asked.
“George?”
“I need a name, I can't just deal with a
nameless dick.”
Dave started laughing. “Puts you one up on
Kim, then,” he said.
Teres glared at him. “That was rude. George
it is, then. So what are we going to do with it?”
I couldn't help it. “Let's sleep on it,” I
said.
The kids were getting dropped off home the
next morning, so we brought George upstairs and laid him,
reverently, on a pillow. Well away from the bed.
The next morning I came down to breakfast to
find Teresa sitting on the living room floor, making a sign. I
leaned over her head enough to read it.
     
Found: Very PERSONAL Item on B Street.
Please call or contact us to identify.
     
“Very nice,” I said. “Suggestive without
being too embarrassing, just like our wedding pictures.”
“I thought so.”
“I think you chickened out by not including
an artist's conception.”
We posted the signs, all the while looking
about furtively in case the Religious Right was hiding in the
bushes, ready to leap out and arrest us for trafficking in penises.
It was an odd feeling, skulking about in the daylight like
that.
“You know no one's gonna have the nerve to
call, don't you?” I said.
Teres asked, “Would you call?”
“Of course.”
“So do you want to pass up the chance to
meet someone as twisted as you?”
Our public service done for the week, we
headed back to the house, confident we'd be throwing George out
within a few days.
     
By 10:30 that morning we had 32 calls.
     
We had to resort to scheduling visits
throughout the day Sunday and quickly filled the 10 am to 5 pm
slots with only a very few gaps. “We can use those for sort of an
open viewing,” Teres said. She seemed to be enjoying this, so
rather than bitch about our lost Sunday I relaxed to the inevitable
and suggested we cater it.
First thing was to arrange for the
whereabouts of our boys. They're good lads, and very savvy about
the ways of life, but despite our open attitude and sincere
appreciation for honesty in parent-child relationships we still
didn't feel completely comfortable having them present as we
invited a series of forlorn sex maniacs into the house to inspect a
massive false penis, if only because rushed explanations would have
been unfair to all concerned. Arrangements were made to ship them
off to Phen's place to play with his daughter, hopefully in a
reasonably sex-toy-free environment.
Kim was contacted to stand by as a
consultant, in case she was required as an expert witness. She came
over Saturday night and the three of us spent an enjoyable evening
trying to decide on appropriate food to serve. Hot dogs or
bratwurst seemed gauche, but barbecue was too messy. Teresa
suggested tacos, as sort of a counterpoint, while I leaned towards
cheese logs combined with cheese balls for an overall effect. We
finally settled on fried chicken and chips to be the most neutral
food and the most likely to stay edible all day.
The rest of the night was used to set the
stage.
     
The Sunday sun rose proud and true, flinging
its rays through our windows to see what it could see, which was a
heavy-duty construction-size doohickey of the male persuasion lying
in state on its velvet pillow and surrounded by flowers and
ribbons. No word on how the sun felt about that. The rest of the
table had been cleared and polished and provided an elegant setting
for viewing.
“Shouldn't we have velvet ropes set up,”
Teres asked. “in case there's a line?”
“No need,” I said. “I think you could see
George from space.”

About five minutes before ten the first
appointment showed up. We were nervous; it was one thing to