Taylor White

by Horror Sleaze Trash on November 19, 2013

Taylor White is a writer, musician and filmmaker. Naturally, that means 40 hours a week at a day job that he hates but can’t afford to lose. When not under the domination of deep-sleep nights or daytime talk-show consumer culture hell, he keeps busy with the things that really matter. Writing, music, films.

Taylor’s first publicly acknowledged works were role-playing game supplements, freelanced for Palladium Books. His books are highly regarded by both the tenured permanent Palladium staff, and the rabidly-loyal Palladium fan base.

His musical works include rock bands “The Revenge of Ricky Williams”, “Aladdin’s Castle”, the short-lived “1-900#”, and his solo material under the name “Niles Kane”.
Taylor’s early film works are unremarkable aside from the ongoing youtube series “Puppet Orgy Party”, a psychotronic puppet show.
Taylor’s works are inspired by the blandness of modern living and the frustration in resisting constant pressures to conform to mediocrity and unconsciousness. Plus he loves monsters, gore, and dead things.

http://taylorwhite.net/

NUT MONEY

My friends took me to the beach for the weekend. My girlfriend of three years just left me because I “don’t understand her needs”. I was depressed and angry and we all just wanted to leave town for a while.

The first day a terrible storm rolled over the beach city and we were stuck indoors. The storm was so bad that a shipping vessel capsized just a few miles off the coast. It lost nearly all of its containers. We got by on cheap liquor, pizza, and pay-per-view.

In the morning we went down to the beach. The sand was littered with all kinds of crap from the ship that went down. Toys and busted furniture and plastic housewares and torn clothing. The police had given up trying to keep people from snatching up anything of value. Under the circumstances, it was all considered up-for-grabs.

My friend Mike fell and busted his face on a bronze antique thing sticking out of the sand. It looked like a vase or an incense burner or something. We thought it might be a bong so we took it up to the hotel room. I wiped it down and cleaned it up while Matt got hold of a dealer friend he knew down here and Mike stared at his bloody lip in the mirror.

While I cleaned it, smoke started shooting out of it. My first thought was that it was a bomb, so I threw it out the window. We all hit the floor, but the anticipated explosion never came.

A few minutes later there was a knock at the door. On the other side was a short, paunchy middle-eastern man in some Disney’s Aladdin clothes. A real garish gold-and-silver getup.

“Open up, I know you’re in there.”

I opened the door, ready to play it cool and lie like I’d never even seen the thing before and he must have the wrong room.  He pushed his way in and sat on the bed.

“First off, thanks to you guys for freeing me from the lamp. I’ve been stuck in there since the Crusades, and it’s good to be out. I’m going to travel and see the world and piss off the English monarchy for a while. Before I do that, I am obligated to offer each of you a wish. Just tell me what you want and I’ll use genie magic to make it happen. But let’s make it quick, okay?”

It was unreal. Genies. Lamps. Wishes. We’d always fantasized about this kind of thing, but we always thought it would never happen. It’s funny, you always think you’ll be prepared, but all of us were standing there like a couple of buffoons.

The Genie did his best to move things along. “I know what you’re thinking: genies and magic aren’t real. Well they are. Unicorns are real. Vampires are real. Leprechauns are real. And a bunch of stuff that you never even dreamed of. I’m not obligated to explain it, just to give out these wishes. So let’s hurry it up so I can get out of here.”

“Okay, sweet.” said Matt “Man, fuck this dealer giving me the run-around. I want a pound, no I want like five pounds of some real killer chronic. No stems, no seeds, no sticks. Just straight sticky. Some of that weird purple magic shit. Got that?”

“Done.” said the Aladdin guy. He pointed to the table. There was a flash of light and a “ding” sound like a tiny bell, and a pile of the stankest, dankest weed appeared out of nowhere.

“Oh shit you guys! Let’s get baked as fuck and head to a casino!”

Mike wished for a couple thousand dollars in casino chips.

“What’s a ‘couple’?”

“I don’t know man, like three or four thousand. Surprise me.” Ding, and there they were, packed in tight rows in wooden boxes on the bed.

I was disappointed in my friends. “You guys didn’t even think about your wishes. You could have wished for legalized weed for everybody and you could have just wished for the money to fix your tooth and live happy forever.”

“Whatever man.” said Matt, already tearing off bits of his magic weed and rolling it up “It’s best not to let these kinds of things get too complicated.”

“Yeah, just wish for some chicks. Make them hang out with us all weekend.”

“Why, so I can lose them again? No way. If I’m going to get girls I want it to be easy, and I want to hold onto them.”

“So what’s the easiest way to do that?”

“Well, let’s think about it. What do women want from men?”

“They want someone who will keep them laughing and feeling good all the time.” said Matt.

“They want a virile, powerful man with many slaves working in his fields.” the Genie suggested.

“Presents. Jewelry and shoes, and they want to be taken out. They want stuff, you know? Even the nice chicks and the smart chicks still want stuff.” I said.  This made sense to me. My last girlfriend was always ragging on me about my financial situation.

“Okay, fine. Wish for money or jewels or whatever. Let’s do this thing.” The genie was getting impatient.

“Hold up, Aladdin. I only get one wish. I want to really think about it. Okay, so what I need is money. Not just a big pile of cash like you dumbasses. I need money to keep coming in, all the time. But I don’t want no job. Not even a good one.”

“Dude you got to make the ladies work for that money. If they know you have bottomless funds they’ll just keep taking your cash and never give up the pussy.”

“You’re right. The money should be like a reward for giving me what I really want.” Then, inspiration happened. “Oh shit, I got it guys. Check it out. This is awesome. Ready Aladdin?”

“Sure, but I don’t know why you keep calling me that.”

“Okay, I wish that I shot money out of my cock when I had an orgasm.”

The genie just stared at me.

“Oh, shit, I have to word it right, don’t I. Or else you’ll twist it weird?”

“No, I get what you’re going after. I just think it’s stupid.”

Matt blew out a white plume of smoke. His voice was strained and amused. “Dude, that is so good!”

Mike was counting the casino chips. “No, not money, make it chocolate! Chicks love chocolate even more than money!”

“Guys, no, I’m sticking to what I said. Think about it! It’s awesome! I’ll have all the finest model chicks all over my junk constantly! Unlimited hotness! And I’ll be rich on top of it. It’s the best wish ever; don’t lie and say it’s not. Genie, I don’t care if you think it’s stupid. It’s my wish, so make it happen.”

“Whatever, guy. If that’s what you want, you got it.”

Ding! And a flash of light snapped from my crotch. The genie grabbed his lamp, bid us farewell, and left for the breakfast buffet.

“How do you feel?”

“Pretty good, I guess.”

“You think you should try it out?”

“Yeah, will you guys wait for me?”

“We’re gonna hit this green stuff. You take your time, buddy.”

I brought my laptop into the bathroom while they smoked out on the landing. I streamed a video of some porn; pretty vanilla stuff. I was so excited from the prospects of a future of unlimited girls and money that I was done halfway through their joint.

I kept my eyes open because I wanted to see the action. It sort of looked like a silvery mist spraying from the head of my cock. The money appeared in the mist and dropped to the floor: a handful of coins jumping up out back down with every contraction. I could feel the cold metal leaving the head, as if they were kissing my cock goodbye. The coins piled up, making that wonderful “clingle” noise at the base of the toilet where I sat. The laptop nearly flew out of my hands as my knees danced and I screamed in pure joy.

Matt and Mike knocked on the door. “You okay bro?”

“Holy shit you guys! Ten bucks! I made ten bucks!” I had the coins stacked up on the sink counter, arranged by the dollar. They came out completely clean; no goo or blood or residue of any kind. Mostly quarters, and about a dollar seventy-five in nickels and dimes.  We inspected each one, and they looked legit. Minted this year, with stoic presidents just as they should appear. I half-expected the coins to be really obvious fakes, like with the genie’s face giving me the stink-eye or something like that.

To test out the money we went down to the hotel vending machines. If anything could tell real money from a fake, it was a vending machine. I dropped in a dollar fifty in small change, expecting the machine to spit them back out. It held onto them, though. I pressed the button for an orange juice. Inside the machine, there was shifting and sliding, and then the plastic bottle tumbled down. It was a regular orange juice. Success!

I made another three dollars before we went to the casino that night. Matt’s weed was some of the most killer shit I ever had. It got us buzzed as hell and stupid as what. Somehow, it also left us with the energy to hit the card tables. Up all night, hitting it hard.

We were doing well at the tables with Mike’s magic casino chips, so the house sent us a steady flow of drinks. After six gin-and-tonics I was way past the point of holding in my excitement. I drunkenly told every girl I came across that I could shoot money out of my penis. I remember a lot of confused looks and some laughing and security lifting me up under the arms and dropping me on the sidewalk.

The party didn’t stop all weekend. We smoked, drank, and gambled ourselves into the arms of every security guard on the boardwalk. No ladies were willing to take me up on a little spare change action, which was disappointing, but I knew things would turn around for me when we got home.

That following Monday, I felt much better that I had when I left. The sun and the air and the ocean water had done me good. I had nearly forgotten losing old what’s-her-name. Plus, I could now spontaneously create money, and I was eager to exploit it.

The first thing I did was to set about discovering exactly how much money I could make.. I kept a running tab of the coins I dropped every time I jerked off. I did this every day for a week. I averaged out about twelve dollars a day. Naturally, the harder the orgasm, the more coins appeared. Mostly in quarters, but sometimes I got nickels and dimes. Never any paper or pennies. By the end of the week, I had almost a hundred bucks, which was nice. It was more masturbation than I was used to, but the extra cash paid for gas and food, so at least I was doing something useful with my time.

Knowing what I could in a week with frequent jerking, the next week I tried something else. I abstained from orgasm completely. No touching, no porn, no girls. Not that there were any girls around, but I made the commitment to the week and I was determined to stick to it regardless of female attention. By the end of the week I was so tense and frustrated I was ready to murder everyone around me. Finally, Saturday rolled around. I did the thing, but the results were disappointing. Fifteen dollars; only slightly higher than average.

I’m sure that there was some kind of math formula shit with tables and graphs that would allow me to produce maximum profits with minimal masturbation practices. But fuck all that. I had a gift, and I was through with jerking it myself. For all time.

I took all the magic money I had made and hit up a local night spot called Sparky’s. Sparky’s was the hippest dance club in town. I had never been there before. This was a wealthy, beautiful peoples’ club. I picked up some new threads and shoes, but I still felt out of place. I didn’t really know how to approach these club girls with the incredible news of my astounding powers. I wandered around, sipping well drinks, watching the girls, waiting for inspiration. Nothing happened. I gave up, went home, and made another ten bucks to streaming video of celebrity nipple slips on loop.

I tried bars, clubs, grocery stores, the gym, the dog park, the bus stop, and even random girls walking down the street. My natural charm was no better than it had been before vacation. I knew no one would believe the “money out of my penis” story, so I never started with it. My plan was to get them to go out with me, then reveal the secret later. I knew if I could get them that far that my success was guaranteed. Invariably, I failed at catching any female attention. For weeks I did this, and I failed every time.

After so long I had saved up quite a bit of magic money. Even after cutting my travel and food costs with it, I still had almost a thousand dollars. I wondered how long I could keep this up before I could retire.

The dating scene was old and it wasn’t working for me anyway, so I decided to switch up my game. Instead of hiding my secret money power, I was going to put it on display to the whole world. I took all the magic nut money I had harvested and bought a computer with a webcam. The best place for any freak like me to expose themselves is on the internet. I signed up for a free video chat social network called ‘AnonCamChat’.

The way it works is, you put the camera on yourself and you can connect with other people through their own webcams. If you don’t like the person you’re connecting with, you can hit the ‘NEXT’ button and the site will randomly hook you up with someone else. All kinds of people use this service, so the opportunities are damn near unlimited.

I positioned the camera so that only my penis could be seen. Jerking off in front of strangers made me feel awkward, even if it was only over the internet. I didn’t want to show my face. Anyway, I was trying to find ladies, and they didn’t want to see my face, or hear me talk. They just wanted to know what kind of goods I had to offer; what I was packing downstairs.

Apparently, a lot of other guys had the same idea. My first five connections were to erect cocks with no faces. I skipped them.

Then I got an asian college student. He quickly skipped out.

I got a few more cocks. I noticed the stark diversity among the men on AnonCamChat. Fat guys, fit guys. Young guys, old guys. Hairy guys and sparse guys. Every color on the racial rainbow.

Then I got an empty room.

Then a few more cocks. This was starting to feel like a waste of time.

Finally, I hit paydirt. I found what appeared to be a bachelorette party. There were about fifteen drunken party girls. They cackled and screamed when my video came up on their end. I didn’t pay much attention to what they were yelling, but they didn’t skip me so I figured they were mine for the moment. Their eyes, glazed and dull from too much alcohol, followed my movement as I stroked it in full view.

Before too long, I was ready to finish this thing. I told them to hit the record button on their webcam; that they would want to save what they were about to see. Eight bucks in quarters sprung from my cock. I took my hand away after the first jolt, so the girls could see that it was not any kind of trick.

For a moment, they were still and silent in confused disbelief. They chattered among themselves, asking ‘who saw it’, ‘what was it’, ‘where was the gag’. One of the girls laughed that finally she had “found the perfect man”. My heart fluttered. In my excitement, I told them that I would make any woman who got with me rich, tax-free, for all time.

I continued the webcam thing for a while. It wasn’t working out the way I expected. Most people assumed it was some kind of video trick, even after I wrote down the time and date on a note card to show them it was live. I did whatever they asked of me, if only to prove that the video was live and unedited. I wrote on myself with markers, I put shoes on my hands, I made little heart shapes with my fingers. The only girls who seemed attracted to a guy who could ejaculate money either lived on the other side of the planet, or were below my hotness standards.

I did finally manage to have sex with a girl during this time. I was out with Mike and Matt at ‘Wings 4 Cheep’ one night. It was noisy and crowded because they were showing the Big Game, so she and I didn’t do much talking. Her name was Jenny or Debbie or something. We had some empty space in our booth, so we invited her friends to come sit with us. We did rounds of shots in between orders of buffalo wings. We mindlessly chatted, and I told her about my money power. She laughed. She said I was funny. After the game she came home with me and we had sex. For me, it was as good as sex could be when soaked with well tequila and extra spicy buffalo sauce. For her, not so good. I learned the hard way that there’s a considerable bit of force pushing the coins out of my dick. She said if I bruised her uterus she was going to sue me so hard I’d be jerking myself seven days a week just to stay out of debt.

She sat on the toilet, checking herself, screaming that she thought the ‘money out of my cock’ thing was a joke. Like a metaphor. She thought it meant I would take her shopping if she slept with me.

I didn’t know what to say, so I offered to let her keep the eight dollars. After all, it was why I made that wish in the first place. She dropped the coins in the toilet, got dressed, and stormed out. Poor girl was still drunk, wobbling her way into a taxi cab. I felt really bad, so I gave the driver the eight bucks and a bit more for a tip.

Soon after the incident with the girl from the wings place, Matt came over and told me to get on ‘YourVid.com’. It’s this video site where anybody can upload pretty much any video they want. It has this reputation for being kind of a star-maker on the internet. He showed me a screen-captured video of a guy masturbating in front of a camera. At first I was thinking “Real nice, you jerk, why are you showing me this?”, but then the guy in the video came and coins erupted from his dick. It was my video from the bachelorette party. It was titled by the uploader “Luckiest Man in the World Nuts Money!” The user comments were the usual sort of baseless haterisms, claims of video fakery, and dismissive hand-waving of my “juvenile sense of humor”.

I didn’t usually mess with social networking sites, so I didn’t know it at the time, but Matt told me that the video was making the rounds on all of them. Because of the constant exposure, the video was on the verge of going viral. When that happened, and Matt told me at this point it was inevitable, my penis and my magic money would be everywhere.

It wasn’t until after the remix dropped that the video really exploded onto the scene. Catchy, banging drum and bass tracks were laced over auto-tuned repeating vocalizations of one of the bachelorette party girls laughing about the perfect man. When the video landed on the morning talk shows, that’s when I knew I had made it. Not only did I have a magic power to create money from my orgasms, but now I was going to be famous. The only thing women like better in a man than money is fame. Now, I would be able to have my pick of any super-model or hollywood chick I wanted.

I got to work right away making more videos. I showed the piles of cash I had accumulated, and some of the nice stuff I bought with it. New seventy-inch TV, new smartphone, chains and rings and leather shoes. Also this time, I showed my face. I went out and got my hair cut and shaved and put on a nice shirt. I wanted to make a nice impression. Ladies like a guy who takes care of himself. I uploaded the new videos to every site that would take them.

The mainstream media found me before the girls did. My inbox filled up with messages from weirdoes and haters and bloggers and talk show producers, but no girls. They all wanted a piece of the man who could nut money. Most of the messages were noisy scams, or hate mail from insecure losers, but there was an email from a talent scout who worked for “Late Nite America with Barry Cooper”. They wanted me on the show. They were going to fly me out to New York City to do an interview with talk show kingpin Barry Cooper about my amazing gift. I agreed to it. I said I’d do anything they wanted. Once I got my face on T.V., the girls would come pouring in.

A few days later, I was in the studio for “Late Nite America”. Prior to my actually going on the air, the producers wanted to make sure I was the real deal. They wanted me to conjure up some nut money, and they wanted to watch. They provided a laptop and a bottle of lotion and found us a quiet room.

I sat in a cushy office chair in the middle of some executive meeting room in a skyscraper in Rockefeller Center and masturbated to japanese bukkake porn while a team of seven television producers looked on in anxious curiosity. Their disbelief was tangible, a scrutinizing cloud that hung over me and killed every boner I could summon.

They said I couldn’t go on the show if they didn’t get some proof to my claims. I asked for privacy, but they refused to let me do it by myself. They said they had to see it with their own eyes. The pressure was mounting, and these busy men were losing their patience. I was about to lose my chance at greatness.

I knew it was make it or break it time. I had no choice but to roll out the big guns. The freaky shit that no one knew about. The perversions which I had not discussed with even my closest friends. But first, I asked the producers to promise they wouldn’t tell anyone what I was about to bring out. My trepidation whet their greedy opportunistic little appetites. They were almost like jackals, salivating over my embarrassment. They agreed, and I instantly knew I was making a mistake in trusting them.

I brought up the website, an anonymous imageboard with the unassuming name “ChangGIF”. My palms went sweaty as I clicked the link for SHITTING FUTANARI GIRLS. The strangeness and vulgarity on display resurrected my libido. The faces on the producers reeled in disgust, twisting in grimaces they had never previously reached. Their revulsion only goaded me further, taking me to heights of erotic degradation. I loved that they hated it.

At the end, fourteen dollars, all in quarters, landed on the carpet in front of my chair. I offered the money to them, and they backed away like I dropped scorpions on the floor. They rushed me to wardrobe. They were convinced, and I was going on the show tonight!

My interview with “Late Nite America” host Barry Cooper would be the final bit for the show. I sat most of the night in the green room, waiting for my turn and sweating myself into a dehydration coma. In the same room with me was a comedian and a rapper. I wasn’t familiar with either of them. They were paying too much attention to their cocaine and the vegetable tray, and pretty much ignored me.

A little guy in a black hat poked his head in the green room and fetched the comedian. He went out there and bullshitted with Barry Cooper for a while. They talked about his new movie and some girl who’s tits flew out of her outfit at the CMS awards last week.

The show went to commercial, and the little guy in the black hat came back to the green room to get the rapper. The rapper was blitzed off coke and cherry tomatoes and was telling me this story about a girl he fucked in Barbados on a yacht. I was glad he left. He went out to perform his latest single, and then he talked with Barry Cooper about the girl from the CMS awards. I munched on celery and sparkling water, just feeling nervous and totally out of my element.

The rapper’s turn was over. Barry Cooper looked to the audience and said “We’re going to commercial, and when we get back, we’ll meet a man who is a viral video sensation for…get this…producing money when he has an orgasm! I tell you, folks, only in America, and only on late-night can you get away with this.” The little guy in the black hat came back into the room. He told me I was going on right after the commercial.

He rushed me from the green room to backstage, where they fitted me with a tiny microphone and did a quick touch-up on my make-up. They told me to relax, to let Barry Cooper do his thing, and just have fun with it. I waited in the wings until the show came back from the break.

When they pushed me out onto the stage, the first thing I noticed was how bright everything was. Backstage was dark, and the audience seating was too. But the stage was lit up. The lights hanging from scaffolding were shining like the sun, pointing right in my face. The crowd was this mass of muted, dull, gray faces, clapping for a digital sign. I tried to pick out the girls in the audience, the finest ones I could flirt with and maybe bring back to the hotel after the show. But I couldn’t see the details on anyone. I didn’t want to be nervous, so I smiled and waved to them. I felt awkward, and it must have come through because when I waved, a light tremor of chuckles echoed from the darkness of the crowd.

Barry Cooper stood up to shake my hand and asked me to sit in between the comedian and rapper on his big beige leather couch.

“Welcome to the show, ‘Luckiest Man in the World’!”

“Hi, thanks for having me on.”

“This seems like it’s your first time on TV. Are you a little nervous?”

“Yeah, this is real different for me.”

“Have you ever been to New York? Let me ask you, it must be easy to take a cab, huh? Just climb in and rub one out on the way? If you make too much do you them keep it for a tip? What if you have to share a cab, how does that work?”

“Uh…I’ve mostly been paying with debit card. Some people get weird about the money if they know where it comes from. But they shouldn’t because it’s totally clean.” The crowd laughed, but I didn’t say anything that was funny. He asked a serious question and I gave him a serious answer.

“So you’ve got these videos on the internet. You’re a viral video golden boy right now. Everybody has seen what you can do. But they’re all asking how does he do it. So, how do you do it? What’s the secret here? Here in the office we all have our own theory. I’m assuming it’s a prosthetic. No one can quite figure out the scam. I mean, it’s a really good trick that you’ve been playing on everyone.”

“It’s not a trick. That’s not a prosthetic; that’s my real penis. What you see in those videos is real. Everything that happens is real. I can really make money appear from sex. And if there’s any ladies in the audience that want to see it up close, if you come back to my hotel tonight you can keep everything you earn.”

The crowd exploded with laughter. I heard some girls boo me. Barry Cooper put his face in his palms. He was shaking from laughing so hard. The rapper and the comedian giggled hysterically. The camera crew laughed. The people backstage laughed. Everyone except me was laughing.

“I’m not joking! It’s real! This is what I wished for! See, my friends and I met this genie on vacation…”

Barry Cooper interrupted me. I could see his stupid smug expression on the stage monitors. “A Genie? Like from a magic lamp? Like Alakazam, money in your balls, genie?”

“Yes, but if you let me finish, see I was having trouble meeting women…”

Barry Cooper rolled across his desk. His coffee mug and his notes flew onto the floor. The little guy in the black hat ran out to gather them up and bring him fresh coffee. The rapper jumped up off the couch and fell on the floor, rolling around in circles, howling. The comedian shook his head, snickering under his breath that I was a ‘fucking weirdo loser’.            The crowd was a cackling madhouse. They mocked me to each other.

“Trouble meeting women? Can you believe it? I don’t think we even need to roll the footage! You’re cracking us up enough already! Save something for next time, man!”

“What footage?”

“The spank material we filmed earlier.”

“What do you mean spank material? What did you film?”

Of course, I already knew. The producers had lied to me. Of course they lied to me. They promised they wouldn’t speak a word of my secret perversions, and now it was going to be broadcast on live television! My friends, my co-workers, and my mom and dad were watching at home!

I protested, but they cut the camera from me and showed some other footage instead. I could see it on the stage monitor showing the outbound feed. It showed a pre-recorded scene of the producers from earlier, going through my SHITTING FUTANARI GIRLS website. Chuckling and pointing like a bunch of stupid kids. “Ew! Look at this one! She has dicks for nipples! What the hell, giant dick snake girl? Dick-shaped ass eels? Dripping vagina faces? Anus Ogres? Weird! What’s wrong with this guy?”

            I couldn’t stand it. I lost my shit on live late-night TV. I stood up, red-faced in shamed rage, and demanded the video be cut. I screamed at the audience to stop laughing at me. It only egged them on. My pained outburst sent them deeper into hysteria.

“You want to laugh at me? You think that is funny? Fuck you! Fuck all of you! None of you can do what I can do! I’ve got a magic cock! You want to see it?! It’s fucking real!”

Naturally, you can’t whip out your dick on network television. So when I did it, and started flailing it about in front of a nation-wide late-night audience, security rushed the stage and forcefully escorted me away. The feed cut to a dog food commercial and I was removed from the building.

I went home feeling humiliated, disparaged and miserable. I took some time off from work and just sat up in my apartment, shutting out the world. Matt and Mike told me the fallout from my appearance on “Late-Night America” was fast and fierce. The network had been fined from the government, and they were threatening legal action against me. The media had exploded, showing my outburst again and again. Every social networking site was trading picture of me freaking out, with added text saying all kinds of dumb shit. The government came after me too. They wanted to know how much money I had ejaculated, and they wanted the taxes on it. Plus, I was possibly going to be investigated for fraud and counterfeiting.

If I had one thing going for me during this time of heartache and stress, it was the presence of my good friends Mike and Matt. The fruits of their magic wishes were long spent; gambled and blown away in a puff of smoke. And they were happier for it. They got exactly what they wanted, they enjoyed it while it lasted, and then they moved on with their lives.

Matt and Mike hung out with me in my apartment while I shut myself off from everybody. We took things easy then, laying low and trying not to worry too much about the trouble and bullshit I was facing. I paid for pizza, beers, and smoke with my magic money. We played video games and chatted about the future.

It was during one of those chats that Matt gave me the best advice. “Get a lawyer. Have him issue a statement to the press that this whole thing was a hoax. Say it was a comedy routine. Like that guy who used to dress like an old woman and wrestle lounge singers.”

Matt was right. I had plenty of money to pay the lawyer fees. And I needed someone else, a professional, to come out on my behalf. The best thing to do was to tell everyone that I scammed them for a brief moment of fame. I tricked them all as an elaborate joke. It was in poor taste, and I was sorry. None of what I said I could do was true. It was all green screens, video effects, and prosthetics.

Coming from my attorney, it sounded legit. She was a very nice lady who understood that I was just a dumbass who had gotten in over my head. She put out a press release for me, and got the TV people and the government off my back.

It wasn’t long before everyone seemed to forget about me. The internet culture hounds were onto staged lizard photography and a xylophone-playing octopus. The media was back to talking about violence in the Middle East. Barry Cooper was caught in a sex scandal with a Bible Belt octogenarian senator. My name and my penis were finally off everyone’s minds. Life went on, and things for me got normal again.

I never did get good with girls, but after our professional relationship ended my lawyer and I got together for a spell. She was totally into her career, so she didn’t care that my nut money rendered me incapable of having children. And she had plenty of money of her own, so she didn’t care about what came out of me. More importantly, we liked each other as people and genuinely enjoyed spending time together. Aside from this one time when I chipped her tooth during a blow job, we had a satisfying and intense sex life.

After she and I parted ways, I hooked up with an accountant. It was fun, but she really loved numbers and that led to all kinds of weirdness.

 

END

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