Dinosaur Eggs

        It was by pure and fortuitous accident that Gertrude and I wound up in the elevator together at the 'End of Fiscal Year Party'. Both holding our dinosaur eggs, we reached the bank of cars simultaneously from opposite

directions, little boy's room, little girl's room, timed to the disco blaring from the screening area. When there's music in a place where you spend most of the time without music, it feels like a movie, so it was even funnier how Gertrude and I arrived together like that, mirror images with our eggs, and we laughed. She was hot and flushed and I could tell she had just splashed water on her face.

         When Henry throws a party, he really throws a party. This time the theme was the go-go 80's, disco, Reagan, laissez faire, greed is good. At six o'clock, two dozen gorgeous caterers entered the screening area where fund managers and top salespeople like me had just watched this video on the firm's spectacular performance over the past year. The movie screen went up, our chairs magically receded and, in twenty minutes, the caterers had transformed the screening area into a 'retro disco' with light show, sushi bar, raw bar, tapas bar and bar bar, and transformed themselves into tray bearers, servers and bartenders in black vests so small they were naked from the waist up, essentially. The caterers looked like Barbies and Kens turned into full sized people but still wearing doll clothes. It was a cute perk but touching was prohibited, of course. It was in the memo: Hands to yourself, Pigs.

         I ordered three Gibsons, shaken not stirred, so I could watch this one girl's beautiful breasts move in the strobing light, the music so loud I didn't hear the ice rattle. Noticing my fond attentions, she didn't hold back, my Gibson girl. I decided she was a real dancer and that Id give her my thousand dollar bill but I had left my dinosaur egg back on my desk.

         I didn't know Gertrude any more than to say hello and to complement her eyeglasses because they were the spitting image of my eyeglasses. It was my little joke every time we met: "Nice glasses." Sleek, rectangular and modern, titanium, steel blue designers. I was 25th floor. Gertrude was 24th floor. I was North America. She was South America. I was derivatives. She was commodities, solid stuff, metals, I think. I was pretty trashed on Gibsons. She was pretty trashed on Mai-tais. I could smell the rum and pineapple on her breath. Eh, a little overripe but I had whiffed a lot worse drunken breaths for sure. She had five pastel umbrellas stuck in her dyed red hair. Tilted at various angles, the umbrellas made it look like little people had landed and were now partying on her scalp.

         None of the three elevators was there. We held our dinosaur eggs up at each other like Tiger Woods holding a trophy after a victory. Another big Ha. We were winners too, just like Tiger.

         Each dinosaur egg contained the exact same four things: a thousand dollar bill to be given away to a needy person that night, an invitation for you and your significant other to spend the Thanksgiving holiday on Cancun all expenses paid, a plastic card with $100,000 surprise bonus coded onto it and three little blue pills, Viagra, for the boat ride on the bay where the party was to continue and go on all night. Henry advised (he's an advisor, he's advised you on TV) that the pill wouldn't go to waste on the voyage implying that there might be other caterers and servers aboard, touchable ones this time. Curious about Viagra, I popped them, just to see what would happen. I only managed to get two pills down; the third one missed my mouth, flew over my shoulder and rolled away on the floor. Good thing, it turned out.

         The party that night was to honor and motivate the fiscal year's top managers and earners. Like we really needed it. It was pure blood sport now, senseless lust, with the crowd roaring and us running up the score, backwards dunking and alley-oop passing on the poor doofuses who were falling all over themselves just to get down the court. We knew we were acting like pigs but this knowledge never stopped us acting like pigs. What a year but the real big celebration would be at calendar year's end, tens of millions in individual bonuses and a blow-out Christmas party. To top this one, Henry would have to fly us somewhere far away for a long time.

         The middle elevator arrived, ding, empty. Gertrude and I got in, the door closed and suddenly it was quiet, no music anymore.

         "Gertrude," she said, pretty loud.

         We shook hands.

         "Don't hear that name much anymore. I'm David. Can I call you Gertie?"

         "Call me Dirty, David, because that's what I'm going to be."

         "Okay, Dirty, but I know that's not the first time you've said that."

         Dirty laughed loudly out of a cavernous red mouth. She had big tits, a round tight bulge of a tummy and a large ass. Her face reminded me of Monica Lewinsky's face. On a good day it was a good face, on a bad day not so good, a bit loose and jowly, though it had what you might call a wanton slackness just like her body did, like she'd be content to lay there and let a regiment do whatever wherever whenever. I was wrong about that. Gertie was the regiment.

         Now, I didn't think Henry had put Viagra in our dinosaur eggs so employees could fuck each other, that was tolerated but not encouraged, and normally I don't like sloppy sex with another drunk and the boat on the bay beckoned and Gertrude wasn't my type, taller than me in her heels and a little hefty, but I had already taken the pills and I was now the game warden of this bad boy who wanted to penetrate and dredge every fold and fissure of the soft game in his forest and that was Gertie, immediately. I had never taken Viagra before but had heard wild stories of the wicked potency it adds to your natural potency, a multiplier effect like packaging sub-prime mortgages into derivative instruments at forty to one margins.

         "I see you took your little blue pill too," she said, looking down at my boy scout who was making a pup tent out of my pants like you wouldn't believe. Even I was impressed.

         "Two little blue pills."

         "Roger that. Let me feel."

         With her egg tucked under one arm like a football, Gertrude grabbed the head of my cock and started to work it like a squeeze-ball. With each squeeze, I throbbed and swelled bigger into her hand. I was already as inflated as I could get, I thought, but still she kept pumping me up bigger. Normally I'd feel like encouraging her but I was strangely numb down there, except still growing. Viagra.

         "Wow, I love when they squeeze back," Gertrude said. "You're not going to give me a baby shower, are you?"

         "I don't think so but I've never taken Viagra before so nothing would surprise me."

         "Me either. Look what it's doing to my nipples."

         Before I could undo the buttons, Gertrude tore her blouse open and yanked one of the bra cups down to give me a gander at her great steaming tit. Damn. Her nipple looked like a manhole cover that might blow at any second.

         "Wow, it looks like a volcano about to erupt. I didn't know Viagra worked on women too."

         She yanked my face down into her chest.

         "Don't be an asshole, David. Of course it does. Bite the fuck out of it. Draw blood. Rip it off me with your teeth."

         Whooa. Slow down, Dirty. Her nipple was tree bark. It was mummified Pharoah flesh. It was my first baseball mitt hardening for decades at the bottom of my old toy chest in my bedroom at my parent's house.

         Impatient, Gertrude pulled my head down with the crook of her elbow, hard. Obedient, I bit her. She growled for more, not out of her mouth, deep in her throat like a demon fresh from hell. I bit her again. She grabbed my cock and growled for more again. And again. Did she come like that? What kind of growling beast was she?


         I quick straightened up. A guy from accounting, who I'd met with once over some small matter or other, Milt, Marvin or Melvin, who knows anymore, was standing there in a cheap, disheveled suit and loosened tie looking exhausted and carrying a leather briefcase, old school bag ancestor of Dirty's mummified nipples. Milt saw immediately what was going on because Gertrude had not done anything to cover her exposed tit and had not, I repeat, had not, let go of my cock. She was grasping it like a handrail for balance, this woman who controlled tens of billions of dollars and the fates of millions of South Americans. She raped whole countries of their mineral wealth and had Indians kicked off ancestral lands. Marvin looked at me, raising his eyebrows and rolling his eyes.

         "Evening," he said, full of drippy irony.

         Melvin stepped into the elevator and turned his back to us.

         Now if I were this guy, personally I would have waited for the next car. And if I had a chance to do it again, I would have yelled out, 'Milt, this woman needs her nipples shredded without delay. No time to explain. You take the left one, I'll take the right.'

         Cradling our eggs and blowing past Marvin when we landed, Gertrude and I stumbled down the lobby heading for the doors at the front of the building. There are two kinds of doors there, the big revolving one and the regular ones manned by Maurice, a nice, older black guy in a maroon jacket. Maurice always has a white carnation in his buttonhole and a nice smile for everyone, very old South, Morning, Afternoon, Evening, Sir. I started fumbling with my dinosaur egg to give Maurice the thousand dollar bill but, before I knew it, Gertrude and I were spinning in the revolving door, same compartment, knocking around in there like coconuts in a clothes dryer. It was dangerous going and I blame her. You can't grab an erection like it's the tiller of a boat and expect it to steer a revolving door.


         Three or four spins deposited us on the sidewalk, swaying like drunken pirates, before we sort of got our bearings.

         White stretch limos stretched along the curb as far as eye could see, the transportation the firm hired to transport us to the boat. Gertrude threw me into the first limo so violently my glasses flew off.

         "The pier," she shouted to the driver.

         We started moving down the street. I was on my stomach feeling for my eyeglasses on the plush carpet. It was one of those limos with a long curved continuous seat and a large empty floor space in the middle, perfect for the very activity that was about to ensue, drunken screwing, maniacal and blind.

         Gertrude flipped me over and ripped my pants down. She herself was completely naked. Now had she had time to do that? Had I blacked out feeling for my glasses? Half blind, I couldn't see the details of her body but got an impression of voluptuousness, flesh flowing in generous curves and folds, baby fat and baby skin, silken and warm. After straddling me, she put me inside her hot, super wet cunt, and slowly sank fully down. Then she started pumping up and down on me like a furious, out of control machine. Man, she was strong and driven, like a wild piston about to crack a rod but who cared. My incredible hard-on must have been all up in her brains somewhere.

         Gertrude stretched her arms out like she was on a cross. I couldn't see but she must have been holding onto the door and the seat for balance, her knees acting as hinges, while she pistoned against me and her head thumped against the limo ceiling. Heat was building but not the regular kind that would lead to an orgasm, heat generally and some kind of magnetism in my entire body and my head too. As far as I knew my penis was made of wood. Fucking Viagra. It gets you hot then turns you into a vibrating magnetic baseball bat. Read the cautions. It didn't feel bad, it didn't feel good, just distant like it was happening down in South America where Gertrude was doted on by dictators and prayed for at Catholic Mass. She was moving so fast I couldn't corral her and feel what I wanted to feel, her great tits and their steaming manhole cover nipples. I settled for her ass and cupped my hands around what I could of it. I pictured the pumping of a horse at gallop.

         Gertrude only cared about one part of my body. It. On her own body though she lavished the most ardent attentions, once she set the mechanism on auto pilot and freed her hands. She slapped herself in the face, pulled her hair, put her fingers in her mouth, batted her tits around, gouged the nipples. Gertrude let out a growling cry that sounded like the death throes of Satan. The poor driver but I supposed he was used to this. Gertrude came on Stockton Street. She came on Folsom. She came on the Embarcadero.

         That was enough of that, apparently. She was played out in that particular position. God, bless women. I wish I was one. They're the whole universe compressed into an eroticized thimble, the packed nucleus of a black hole. The big bang theory is the righteous truth. For a man, it's backwards; the less pleasure you feel, the more pleasure you give. You're a fucking tool. All you have left is domination.

         Gertrude got on her knees, resting her face on the plush leather seats, presenting her ass to me. That huge, glowing white ass must have been visible from the moon through the limo sunroof. I plunged in. What the hell? It was all so absurd, it didn't matter to me or my wooden woodie what happened anymore. I fucked her down Howard. I fucked her on 3rd Street. I fucked her on the long avenue that ran along the harbor. Her body was just the right height for effortless humping at twenty miles an hour. After a while, I stopped hearing Gertrude's growls and screams. Any thrill of domination had long since faded. I was thinking of how to hide my $100,000 from the IRS. I needed nothing. My wife needed nothing. But the money was mine, not theirs. I earned it. Maybe I'd buy another house with a complete gym and a physical trainer full time on the premises. A different one because my wife was letting the lesbian she had now eat her between sets. Our kids and grandkids and great grandkids would be flush if they lived to a hundred and twenty. But damn, I had already forgotten the code for my plastic card.

         I won and I lost. Gertrude collapsed like an old bridge, failing infrastructure, hundreds killed. I lay down on the limo carpet, glad for the respite, but soon to thank me for the one thousand orgasms she'd just had, Gertrude turned her gigantic mouth into a tentacle cup to suck my brain out through my eye sockets, in other words, kissing my face in sloppy abject gratitude.

         Ow, I said. Ow, ow, ow. Stop that.

         Gertrude got to down work on my baseball bat. She gobbled me through four long traffic lights. She opened her throat hatch and tried to shove my probe into her stomach. Useless. I felt nothing. No matter what she did, Viagra wasn't going to let me finish. This thing was eternal.

         "Sorry, David. I'm going to give up now," she said. "Driver, head to the Inner Harbor."

         Gertrude lowered the window and yelled out.

         "We have an endless erection here, endless erection here, free to anyone who wants it."

         No takers. For all the lewd advertising, we got no response, not a jeer, not a whistle from the Friday evening pedestrians. Meanwhile I found my glasses and put them on.

         "Driver, pull over," Gertrude said. "My god what are we going to do with you?"

         "Are you talking to me or It?"

         "You are It. Wait. Wait. Hey, you guys," she called out. "Come over here to the car."

         A boy and a girl appeared at the back window. They had studded leather jackets on and all kinds of metal rings piercing their lips, noses and ears so they both looked like something in your tool drawer. And smeared mascara too.

         "What's up?" the boy said. He was the older of the two, twenty or so. I'll call him Neville.

         "Look, Viagra," said Gertrude, pointing me out. "I've tried my best but no dice."

         "Gnarly," Neville said with a sneer. "But that's your problem. Nothing to do with us."

         "A thousand dollars each for one hour."

         "Show me the money."

         Gertrude found and opened our dinosaur eggs and took out the bills and gave one to me.


         "Get in the car first."


         "Get in the car first."

         The boy and girl looked at each other and got in the car. I smelled ink and tobacco and, strangely, roses.

         After giving him the money, Gertrude swallowed Neville whole. He didn't have a chance and I sensed rather than saw them coupling in some fashion on the seat above me as I sat on the floor.

         The girl was waif-like, dark-haired and pale with big blue eyes and freckles and almost flat-chested, eighteen years old at the most. I'll call her Bat Girl. Black Irish maybe, in black jeans, a black tee-shirt and that black mascara and all those piercings. She had a bruised expression that told me she hadn't always been treated kindly.

         Bat Girl slid down next to me on the floor.

         "How are you tonight?" I said, pretty sober now.


        ;      "Passing. You?" "Look, this wasn't my idea."

         "I don't care. Wow, get a load of your thing," she said as she looked at my erection, throbbing like a sore thumb in the air between us. "It's prehistoric and petrified. A prehistoric dick with cold reptile eyes."

         "Exactly. It's ridiculous. You don't have to do anything. It won't work anyway. Viagra. I'll give you the thousand, in any case."

         "No, I want to."

         "You do?"

         "Sure. I've always wanted to suck a lizard's dick."

         "What are you saying?"

         "Don't you rule the world?"

         "Look, I don't want any trouble."

         "No, you don't understand. I like being a slave."


         Wary, I gave Bat Girl the thousand. She drew a chain from her pant's pocket. At it's end was a metal cylinder for keeping matches dry. She undid the screw top, placed the rolled bill inside and rescrewed the top, in a hint of the attention to detail I was to experience later.

         Our shoulders touching, her arm along my arm, Bat Girl and I sat a while, giggling at the muffled strangulations behind us. Poor Neville. Poor Bat Girl. I wanted to know her story but how could I ask with the issue throbbing between us, pulsing my heartbeat into the air of the limousine. Tell me about yourself? Right.

         "Are you hungry?" I asked her, thinking I'd get us some food.

         Bat Girl took it all wrong, like it was time to get to work but who cares because she gave me sweetest blow job I've ever had in my life. Even Viagra surrendered to her careful ministrations and attention to detail. Her tongue stud gouged hot ravines in my flesh as it traveled her mouth and throat and then out again through her clinging lips for a little kiss before she opened for my next fiery journey in. I could tell, by the little bat squeaks she made, that she was enjoying herself, at play with a new toy. She was an artist, a witch, primitive and enchanting and her mouth a cave hung with torches and lined with urns of glowing embers, a pleasure cave draped with the molten flesh of her cheeks and ruled by her silken tongue, and that stud, that metal clit, burning white hot, for a crown. I'd never felt such heat and this time the heat was actually translating into pleasure, the way it's supposed to, pleasure as intense as the heat was hot.

         Where all Gertrude's effort failed, like an engine revving in place, getting things louder without bringing them closer, this waif of the streets succeeded and, when I pumped my magma into her, she vacuumed me for every last shuddering squirt. Bat Girl drank and she sucked, she sipped and she licked to get every drop as if it was precious to her. My temporary obedient slave. Her bruised expression, her rebellion against reality and all the disappointments they spoke of didn't stop her from reveling in this weird experience and I knew there was a weird movie I would never be able to comprehend going on in her mind and that it was equal to the weird movie going on in my mind. What a world.

         For a long time afterwards, with shrunken little me still in her mouth, Bat Girl kept hugging to my leg as if it was a high branch in a cold wind.

Steven is a fiction writer and playwright, the author of numerous stories and plays published in literary journals including The Pushcart Prize, TriQuarterly, Alaska Quarterly Review, Post Road, Cafe Irreal, The 2nd Hand, The Eclectica Magazine, Painted Bride Quarterly, Third Coast, Night Train, Gargoyle, Conclave, The Big Stupid Review and In Posse Review, among other places. He is also the recipient of five Maryland State Arts Council Individual Artist Grant Awards.

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