Jon Konrath writes absurdist fiction, and has published eight books, including Rumored to Exist, Fistful of Pizza, The Earworm Inception, and Sleep Has No Master. When he is not writing or creating an environment to foster dust mite reproduction in the form of collecting books, he takes things apart, tries to play bass, and spends too much time on wikipedia reading about failed Russian cloning experiments. He can be found at http://rumored.com or on twitter at @jkonrath.
Vehicular Handjobs and Pirate Hooks
By Jon Konrath
Some bit of music, a single phrase or note in the low-fi music in a popup ad, reminded me of a decade before, this crazy chick in college, one of those brief “whatevering” encounters that started with a hand job at the student union and ended with an unfulfilling disconnection of contact. Maggie? Meg? No, Megan, Megan with the bowling-ball tits. Short, sexy, disturbingly attractive with that hint of desperation that always started me on the chase, she met me at my graveyard shift job babysitting an underused cyclotron, and I parlayed a trip to Denny’s and a long discussion about serial killers into a quick trip to second base. She looked enough like Gwen Stefani that decades later I couldn’t listen to No Doubt without getting a hard on. She gave some vague menstruation-related excuse to end the evening early, but I knew with some careful planning and another two to 68 paid meals, I’d get within 90 feet of home plate.
I didn’t, of course. But, enough clothing-optional fun happened with Megan that I put up with her insanity for a month or two. She was the kind of woman who any time I’d show up at her dorm, she’d immediately take out my cock and start playing with it, even if she was on the phone with her boyfriend or working on calculus homework with her Iranian foreign-exchange grad student neighbor that allegedly was some kind of math genius, even though she couldn’t speak much English outside of the Pizza Express menu. Believe it or not, this got old (it involved a lot more chafing than you’d think), and after one and a half near-perfect blowjobs, I eventually segued into a more involved and rewarding tryst involving an oboist with serious intimacy issues and no gag reflex, which worked well until she fucked an entire floor of my freshman dorm, but that’s another story.
Months after I’d forgotten about Megan, I ran into her, while parked in front of a McDonald’s just off campus, listening to the tape permanently stuck in my car’s factory Philco radio. I’d ordered their new fried chicken head value meal deal (McFried Chicken McHeads, McHead Fries, whatever they’re called — most famously remembered for the extensive and failed Emo Phillips “go geek or go home!” ad campaign) and figured it was taking them too long because of that million-dollar lawsuit where some dumb fuck put his hands in the deep-fat fryer and later claimed he thought it would be safe because it didn’t have a warning label saying not to put your hands in it, eventually resulting in all oil fryers having a large sticker with a crossed-out picture of an anthropomorphic dude sticking his hand in it and the text “HEY DUMBFUCK, YOU CAN’T STICK YOUR HANDS IN A GOD DAMNED VAT OF BOILING OIL.”
She came up to my shitty rustbucket car with a “Hey Konrath,” leaned in the window to undo my pants and pull out my dick, and proceeded to tell me about how she was shacked up with some guy that assistant managed a taco stand in a gas station outside of the regional airport, and she might or might not be knocked up with his kid. The Captain Beefheart album Lick My Decals Off, Baby droned on from my factory 8-track player, and I nodded yes to her questions and imagined a slow and excruciating blowjob while her former roommate argued on the phone in Farsi with her sister only five feet away in the top bunk. It’s a lot more fun than it sounds.
Twenty minutes later, during the song “I Wanna Find a Woman That’ll Hold My Big Toe Till I Have to Go,” a pencil-necked Weird Al-looking assistant manager interrupted the impromptu public vehicular handjob and arrived with my food. He said some idiot high school dropout chopped off his hand in the kitchen, and it looked nothing like that Luke Skywalker scene from Empire, plus it’s not like he could get a bunch of droids to replace it with a fake one; his best hope on a McDonald’s employee’s budget was some kind of used/vintage pirate hook. Good luck jerking it with a metal hook, I thought; this was way before Johnny Depp made the whole pirate thing a fad, so this kid was fucked. I was not — I mean, by the girl, who vanished without a phone number or proper release. Also, the chicken heads were largely inedible, leaving me with a cup of ice vaguely punctuated with diet coke, some stone-cold fries, and two ketchup packs as my day’s nutrition, which was just typical.
Jon Konrath | email@example.com