Ben John Smith – “Chatroulette.”

by Horror Sleaze Trash on July 1, 2012


Note: This is the short i read last night at Egg Gallery.  I know it wont be every ones cup of tea and I’m pretty sure by the quiet of the room (mainly in the down syndrome part)  it might have even offended a few dudes.  Not my intention. All copies of “Letters to Patty Newton” were snapped up, will do another run in future – much appreciate all the people who made it down and the other readers.  Good times.

“Chatroulette.”

I have a camera set up on on top of the Chinese dollar store crucifix.  Only because it is pointing straight at my face.  i have another camera pointed directly at my cock.  The cock cam isn’t streaming live, its being archived on my pc with the others. Dated. Numbered. filed. Sorted. Cataloged with the different shades of my sun tanned dick.

The cameras wait quietly while i pull my pants down past my thighs.  Two green and unblinking eyes in the dark.  Its times like this that i really fear god.  God damnnit, you better believe i fear god at time like these.

Thunder might have clapped out side, but I’m pretty sure it didn’t.  The small television above my head plays with no sound.  A weather woman points to a chart that shows big clouds and thunder storms.  I point one hand at her and keep one hand massaging at the smalls of my temples.  I have a head ache i think, but I cant be sure because of all the background noise.

The weather woman is of no assistance.  Not now.  Its just me and the cameras.  It wont be a late night, of that I’m sure.

A woman’s face flickers onto the screen. She has down syndrome; i think.  A mongol at least.  All the brilliant properties of a broken person.  I remember reading somewhere that prostitutes are a tax deduction for retards.  I wish i had down syndrome.  They always seem so interested in nothing.  Hookers may be tax deductible, but I’m not.  Her vagina looks like a pigs ear, I get jealous and i leave her banging her vibrator on the desk top. Its purple, hums and stops between hits. looks like a problem with the battery.  You should never use expensive batteries in dildos.  Wears out the motors to quick.  I roll my Richard around in my hands, pulling the foreskin over the head like a hungry ant eater.

the next man is half crying. I can see the red rims around his eyes.  Wet.  His little fat belly looks like a stringed steak.  Up and down as he speaks.  A run of grey hair running from his shaft of his dick to the inside of his belly button.  So cute and furry.  He keeps crouching down so i can see his face in the camera. I think about Miley Cyrus and keep strangling my baby maker. As he speaks, i can see he is emotional.  He has a very small penis, about the size of a young mans thumb.  I tell him I’m not his father and give him two thumbs up. I can tell by the way he burst into tears that he appreciated it.

i have nothing left to offer him so i log off.  I feel guilty.  Horrible.  This is my Watergate scandal.

There is a storm coming. IRL i mean.  If that’s possible in this point of time.

The screen comes back to light and a man and me have a long conversation about amazing things.

I forget what we are speaking about and he keeps yelling “Forget about it Benny Boy, just bloody forget about it!”. I ask if we are still having a conversation or if we are just saying random words, but before i press enter he hangs up on our connection.

The morning is outside, but its still pretty dark.  Not morning for at least 8 hours.  The cat wants feeding. I often find that humility goes a long way.  The static camera on my cock still running, recording.

The internet is out there, some where.  Humming with sex and life and not much else.

Out side it starts to rain.

She comes home with a bag of grocery’s with a cat inside and says “Look babe, I’m Paris Hilton”.

We don’t have sex, we just lie beside each other.  And its times like this i don’t fear god, god dammit you better believe at times like this i don’t fear god.

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