Filthy Fictions

Filthy Fictions: ‘No More Orgasms’

This never happened to Harold and Maude!

This never happened to Harold and Maude!

Well, hello there, fine Filthy Dreams readers! What’s that? What is this? It’s my perhaps ill-advised foray into short fiction. To be honest, I’ve never really had the inclination to write short stories before–content to focus my filthy talent on criticism and long-winded essays. But you know what, Mary? My creative juices got flowing after being inspired by a recent news story. Naturally, this is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental, coming directly from my diseased psyche. Now grab a Bloody Mary or six–you’re going to need it–and enjoy!

Stanley Smothers stood in front of his father’s casket, wondering if he shouldn’t just jump inside.

Reflecting on Dr. Hunter S. Thompson’s last written words, Stan ruminated, “No More Games. No More Bombs. No More Walking. No More Fun. No More Swimming.” That didn’t sound too tempting, but the Good Doctor made one glaring or some would say raging omission, the biggie: No More Orgasms.

At this point, the only thing keeping him from joining his father in that silky, streamlined box was the sneaking suspicion that the shifty-eyed funeral director in his ill-fitting suit would shuffle forward with another invoice, adding an additional charge for a hop-on. That and the sinking thought of spending an eternity stuck six feet under with his rapidly decaying, overbearing father.

Surveying the room, Stan assured himself that there was no way IT could happen here. Flocked wallpaper the color of a mustard stain with flecks of green mildew peppering its fuzzy and flamboyant surface, a multitude of hideous, hanging wooden owl decorations, limp macramé plant holders and that horrid black and white cat clock, keeping time with its leering eyeballs and wagging tale, the funeral home looked like a time capsule of the worst ideas from the 1970s–a never-ending midcentury nightmare.

At least this tchotchke horror house would probably keep him down to only half-mast.

“Persistent Genital Arousal Syndrome” is what the doctor, suspiciously teary eyed, told him after Stan was dragged to the hospital by the police after one particularly traumatic visit to the DMV. In the sterile, white office, still in his puke green hospital gown with the rapid-fire giggling of several nurses echoing down the hall, the aptly named Dr. Weiner calmly explained that his syndrome presented as “unrelenting genital arousal” and was probably caused by a strained nerve somewhere in his body. Dr. Weiner strongly recommended he carefully warn his friends, loved ones and anyone else that happened to be within range of his chronically overactive member about his unique and incurable condition.

Dead-eyed and slightly aroused, Stan slowly nodded his head, giving some strained semblance of acknowledgement that he was listening to Dr. Weiner’s advice. However no matter the counsel of medical professionals, he couldn’t imagine how that explanation would have diffused the screeching chaos of renewing his driver’s license, which will now preserve his O-face and the memory of a jaded and severely overweight DMV employee leaping from her desk and sprinting out the door.

Thinking back, he should never have offered to help Barbara, his elderly and half-crazy neighbor, carry her squeaky plastic-covered couch up the porch stairs and into her house after her grandson Danny pushed it out on the front lawn in a fit of athletic, and Stan assumes, roid–rage, celebrating the win of his favorite football team. Ignoring old Barbara’s crow-like cawing complaints would have been easier than the months of back pain and daily unwanted pleasure in supermarkets, banks, his church and his daughter’s Parent Teacher conferences thanks to his neighborly do-gooder attitude.

Luckily, Stan thinks, his daughter and soon-to-be ex-wife couldn’t make it to the funeral since they already left town last week after a particularly explosive episode during “Joy To The World” at his daughter’s holiday choral concert.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” a voice quietly whispers behind Stan, lightly placing a sympathetic yet claw-like hand on his shoulder, jolting Stan from his momentary reflection.

Spinning around, Stan scrutinizes his Aunt Linda who appears as if she bought her outfit straight from Vogue Italia. Or she would appear, if Stan hadn’t noticed the security tag still hanging from the back of her black lace gown. Despite her geriatric criminal impulses, even Linda, the lifelong black sheep of the family, doesn’t seem to the type to lend an understanding ear to Stan’s peculiar passionate penile problem.

“Thanks, Aunt Linda,” Stan sighs.

“Doesn’t he look peaceful?” gawks Aunt Linda, straining to peer over the coffin. Stan wonders if she’s eyeing his clothing, selecting the family heirlooms to grab by the end of the evening.

“I guess so.”

Stan’s not sure what a dead father is supposed to look like, but the heavily rouged body lying under what appears to be pounds of pancake makeup surely did not look particularly peaceful. He looked more like a grim comatose clown, which was consequently how Stan felt most of the time.

Aunt Linda taps him on the back, briskly walking away.

Suddenly, Stan’s body shudders with a start.

“Oh, sweet Jesus,” Stan whispers, fearful of letting his outburst reach the ears of Father Bill, who was at the moment greeting Stan’s extended family members scattered around the tacky room.

Knowing better than to let his orgasm run it horrible course in front of his nearest and dearest, Stan runs to the bathroom, almost knocking over his great Uncle Robert shuffling by clutching his tennis-ball adorned walker.

“That poor man,” Stan’s cousin Theresa turns to her mother, Aunt Dawn, shaking her head. “He must be going through a really hard time, losing his father. I didn’t think they were that close but, sometimes you never appreciate what you had with your parents until they’re gone.”

Blinking his eyes in the harsh glare of the fluorescent lights, attempting to focus in the jarring orange-painted bathroom while quickly cleaning his pants. “Why did these people never redecorate since 1974,” he wonders aloud.

Studying a velvet painting of Jesus hovering over a semi-truck, Stan decides to rub one or two out just in case. Sweet Jesus, indeed, he thought, massaging his balls and hoping at least the lock on the bathroom door had been checked after the 1970s.

Taking a deep breath and gazing at himself in the mirror after filling the small garbage can with Kleenex, Stan assures himself that the worst, his nightmare, was most likely over. He would never orgasm more than three times at his own father’s funeral.

Strolling out of the bathroom, Stan returns to his place near the casket, confident and a few loads lighter.

Perhaps too confident as he looks down at the engorged tent pitched in his pants. Why didn’t he choose a baggier pair for this solemn occasion?

Turning around and gripping the sides of his dad’s casket, Stan bends over then swiftly bucks back, writhing in that familiar agony and ecstasy that got him kicked out of his office’s yearly Christmas party during the company’s Secret Santa present opening.

The coffin rocks, sending his father’s flaccid body heaving and rolling in his final resting place.

“OH AH OH OH!!!” he involuntarily shouts, rolling his eyes back, a growing wet stain running down his pant legs.

His sister Jamie runs to his side: “It’s ok, baby. Let it all out. Dad’s in a better place now.”

Trying to peel Stan away from his father’s casket, Jamie wraps her sinewy arms around him, turning him around to face her just as Stan peaks:

“What the fuck, Stan! You’ve got a hard-on? At Dad’s funeral?”

“JESUS POWERBOTTOMING CHRIST!” shouts Stan rounding his fifth and hopefully, final orgasm, pitching back and falling into a particularly wretched display of sympathy flowers.

The room gasps and falls quiet. All except for Linda, who, like a chain-smoking hyena, bellows a sound somewhere between a guffaw and a choking cough.

Stan huffs and puffs, still grabbing shakily at the sides of the coffin while avoiding meeting the shocked stares from his family as Aunt Linda begins to slow-clap.

Just then, Stan felt a familiar tingling in his groin…


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