SQUIRREL HUNTING IN RANDOLPH COUNTY

By:  Randy Gillis

First of all, I like animals.  I’m not fanatical about it, but they’re cute.  That aside, what the holy hell is up with the squirrels?  I admit I do get a rush of satisfaction when I hear one pop under my tire, but that’s only after years of nearly wrapping my car around trees, road signs, and guard rails trying to avoid hitting the little bastards!  They just won’t cooperate!  They get half-way across the road, stop, run back, stop, head back to the other side, stop, run around in circles in the middle of the lane, all the while I’m barreling down on them at 60+ mph, squalling tires, clenching teeth and praying to the squirrel god that maybe this time…..

I finally had to accept that squirrels are intelligently designed tire tread tartar.  Now it’s “pop,” yes!  That’s one less rat with a high-end exterior option package to worry about (if it wasn’t for the damn tail they’d be skinny possums).  You can justify anything if you put your mind to it.  And, as has oft been quoted to me, vermin is vermin no matter how high the heel.

Of course all of this makes what happened to me the other day seem somewhat poetic.  I was on my way home from work when a squirrel fell onto my windshield.  I travel on a country road and lately the squirrels have been raining out of the trees.  It’s probably global warming.  But anyway, this one was still alive.  I swear he was trying to get into the car through the window!  I was weaving all over the road, screaming like a…..well, I was very upset, as you can imagine.  I finally turned on the windshield wipers, but that only seemed to piss him off.

By this time I’m starting to get a little miffed myself.  I finally had to pull the car over.  Another car passed me and its windshield was covered with squirrels!  The old woman inside was screaming like a…..well, she was very upset, as you can imagine.

So, I march around to the front of my car and the squirrel turns on me and leans back on his hind feet!  I’m thinking, I’m gonna have to kick this squirrel’s ass.  He inhaled deeply and let loose with a pathetic little squirrel-growl.  I cocked my head to one side and actually heard myself scream…”you want a piece of me, bitch!” which only exacerbates any situation.          

Well, he did want a piece of me!  The next thing I know, he leaps off the hood of my car and directly on to my neck!  So now I’m rolling around on the ground, screaming like a……like a man with a squirrel on his neck.  Why is it that when you’re on the ground wrestling with a wild animal, you decide it would be helpful to start kicking like a Rockette (with impressive flexibility for a 55 y/o if I do say so myself)?   But everyone does that, right?  Anyway, the evil hell-beast decides to start running laps around my chest.  Thinking that it works with fire, I decided to stop, drop, and roll……down a small embankment.  I grossly underestimated squirrel agility.

I somehow managed to get back to my feet while swinging my arms like a high-school cheerleader.  I’m not sure why I was so broad with my flailing, as the squirrel had nestled under my chin.  My hands knew perfectly well where the squirrel was but the cowards didn’t want to go in for the grab.  I held my breath, forced my limbs to man up, reached up, clutched the little shit and punted him to the wood’s edge.  I felt like a football player just after making the winning homerun.  Now the screams came from a place of triumph.  “Yeah baby!  That’s how we roll in Sophia!  Go tell your little squirrel friends, you just got Randified!”  I may have even danced a little. 

This is where it gets creepy.  As he is walking into the woods (with not a mark on him to show for it) he turns and looks at me and, I kid you not, he was smiling.  He knew he had the last laugh.  For you see, you don’t really feel joint injuries during the adrenaline rush of a life-or-death situation.  You feel them the next day.  And I did.  But for now, victory was mine.  I stared into the gapping, hellish jaws of carnivorous squirrel terror and came out the other side. 

Oh, and the old lady I saw earlier was my neighbor.  She called me while I was reloading my weapon (I was at the gas station filling up my car and dousing myself with squirrel urine) and invited me over for a fresh pot of squirrel stew.  I politely declined as I had a date with a cocky little rodent on Old Lexington Road.

 

PORN, PROSE, AND GRUMPY PUMPERS

By:  Randy Gillis

 

As a writer (okay, typist), I try to challenge myself, to expand, to move out of my comfort zone and grow.  As I mentioned in an earlier post, I’ve been trying my hand at gay erotic fiction writing.  I recently submitted some of my work to an on-line site.  I won’t tell you its name because the people who run it are a bunch of idiots who should burst into flames and have to roll around it broken glass to put themselves out!  (Deep breath)  Instead, I will simply share with you their response:

Dear Mr. Gillis,
Thank you for your submission to ssssss sssssss sssss-off.com.  While your writing talent is obvious  in your submission, we feel that it could use a polish before posting it on our site.  With our target reader in mind, we would like to offer the following guidelines (suggestions really). 

Rule #1 for writing for a niche audience:  Less metaphor, more dirty whore. 

While phrases like ‘merging into one’ and ‘spiritual glue’ are certainly lofty in their ambitions, metaphors that go beyond ‘as a rock’ or ‘like a geyser,’ tend to be lost on our readers.  They slow the process down, if you know what we mean.  Anything that interrupts the rhythm is…an irritant.  When you consider that most of our readers will be multi-tasking after a certain point in the story, the last thing they’ll be interested in is a clever turn of a phrase.  We like to think of our site as mental lube. 

Rule #2 for writing for a niche audience:  Less plot, more cock.
The plot of your story has obviously been carefully planned.  Who knew you could work a 3 act structure into a 1000 word story, complete with a crisis/realization.  For our readers, plots tend to get in the way.  Keep it simple.  One location with a familiar scenario that hopefully involves a cop or a mechanic and you’re half-way there.  If our readers wanted plots…..they wouldn’t’ be our readers.  The most successful posts on our site accomplish great things with surprisingly few words.  We don’t want a landslide of complaints from a group of grumpy pumpers do we?

Rule #3 for writing for a niche audience:  Less life-mate, more life escape.
Romance as a literary theme is certainly a concept worthy of exploration, but not on our site.  Yours is the first submission in our site’s history that actually ended with a commitment ceremony.  Though we found it charming (and a little sad), our readers won’t.  In fact, a large portion of our readers visit our site to escape from relationships, not to be reminded of them.  However, if you would be willing to change a few pronouns and make the appropriate plumbing adjustments, we would happily post the piece in our lesbian section.

Rule #4 for writing for a niche audience:  Less love.
The word ‘love’ should be avoided at all costs, unless it’s in reference to a body part or activity.  Love is an unrealistic expectation for many of our readers and a vague concept for the rest, unlike say, having a fourgy with the mailman, cable guy and gardener while playing hooky from work (just one example).  The same proviso about our lesbian section mentioned in Rule 3 applies to rule 4.

We hope you find these suggestions helpful.  Never forget, writing is rewriting.  Again, thank you for your submission and we look forward to seeing the new draft.
Sincerely,
Xxxx xxxxxx
Xxxxxxxxxx xxxx-off.com

Well, there it is.  This is what you get for trying to raise the bar.  A bitch-slap reminder of the only ‘bar’ that matters, apparently.

After a couple of days of contemplating acts of violence, I contemplated their suggestions.  I read the story again and realized that it wouldn’t take too much to adjust it to meet their guidelines.  I could easily move the story from a 19^th century French country estate where, over one holiday gathering, Count Francois Demarie conquers his demons and finds true love in the arms of Julien the stable boy, to Earl’s Body Shop in modern day Des Moines, where Hank figures out a new way to knock a few bucks off his repair bill (What?  They said to use something familiar).  Now, if I could just figure out how to get a cop involved…………

RANDY NEEDS A FETISH

By:  Randy Gillis

Well, now that 55 is no longer a theory, I involuntarily (it’s a physical side-effect of turning 55) began to reflect on my life, where I’ve been, where I am and where I’m going.  It was a sucky 5 minutes let me tell you.  There is so much I haven’t done yet and since time’s a wasting I’d better get going.  First on my list is to find a fetish.  It seems like everybody has one these days.  I know what you are thinking but I don’t consider Harrison Ford to be so much a fetish as a delusional obsession and we all have those (right Mormons?).  Now, Harrison Ford AND his bullwhip might be treading into fetishville.

 

I wasn’t sure how to go about finding the perfect fetish.  I kept hearing things like “you have to look deep inside yourself.”  The last time I tried that my back went out and I fell to the floor.  Then I stumbled onto a show called KINK (on Netflix).  I figured it would at least show me what my fetish isn’t.  I watched 2 seasons in a row. 

Let’s get the more common ones out of the way.  I can’t be a sadist (dominate or “dom” for those of us in the know).  There’s a certain level of sincerity you have to bring to the part that I just don’t have.  I would be the Barney Fife of sadists.  Try to imagine Mr. Limpet with a whip.  All the other sadists would laugh at me which would wreak havoc on my self-esteem.  I also couldn’t be a masochist (submissive or “sub” for us insiders).  My joints ache enough as it is.  I also tend to be chatty when I’m nervous which makes it hard to carry on a conversation while being flogged.  Combine that with my slowly diminishing mental faculties which would cause me to forget my “safe word” resulting in a whole lot of extra pain I didn’t sign on for.

I do love that in the “kink” world the words “top” and “bottom” have slightly different meanings, with top usually being the spanker and bottom being the spankee.  You see, I never enjoyed spankings as a child and I can’t see how they would have improved all that much through the years.  And the spankings I saw in the first season were WAY over and above anything I got back then. 
Next, the show seemed to think that being a drag queen is kinky.  I thought we were beyond that now.  Either way, can’t do it.  I believe drag queens are born, not made.  You either have it or you don’t…and I don’t.  I say that with regret because drag queens are freaking awesome! 

Leather fetish is out because it is just too damn expensive and the leather community is pretty unforgiving about imitations.  I learned that the hard way by showing up at a leather ball in a pleather outfit.  Let’s just say it was a long night for Randy.


Next would be the entire category involving excremental bodily functions.  Sorry folks, but once the vomiting starts (yes, there’s actually a vomit fetish), I usually check out.  And generally speaking, that goes for all the other unpleasant biological side effects (each and every one a fetish to some) of being human.  Besides, if I want the ‘ultimate humiliation’ I’ll go to SEARS and try on bathing suits. 

Piercings?  No.  Let me clarify that.  I mean piercings for the sole purpose of inflicting and/or feeling pain and/or to produce blood for the blood fetishists.  Actually, I’ve aged out of cosmetic piercings at this point so; I stand by my original answer of….no.  A quick rundown of some of the thousands of other fetishes offered no more hope of finding something that screams me. 

 

Body modifications other than piercings?  Nature is taking care of that all by herself.

Food as foreplay?  Lord, that’s so much work and I’m on a calorie restricted diet so rolling around in celery and raw carrots isn’t exactly enticing.

 

Polyamory?  If you mean me and Harrison Ford AND Richard Gere, then yes.  Otherwise, no.

Fisting?  Only if you’re talking about that stitch in knitting.

She-males?  A she-male is a man who has reached the midpoint of his journey and decided to stay awhile, enjoying the best of both worlds if you will.  Too expensive and requires body modification.  See above. 

Minding off?  The practice of achieving orgasm without being touched.  Considering the fact that I can’t achieve waking up without touching myself, I wouldn’t hold my breath.
Bondage and discipline?  I tried it once but the guy I was with ran away when I brought out the hefty-bags and twist ties.

Sounding?  The practice of inserting plastic or metal ‘sounds’ (long, thin and very smooth objects) into yours or someone else’s urethra.  I’ll be facing a catheter soon enough and I see no point in spoiling the surprise.

I was about to give up when I came across another show called STRANGE SEX (also on Netflix) and wouldn’t you know, after all the hours spent ‘researching’ I finally stumble across a fetish I could actually get into.  It’s called Looning and the participants are called Looners, people who have a balloon fetish.  Is that adorable or what?  I watched as Looners reveled in their balloons, slowly inflating them until they burst, releasing a jolt of ecstasy that many describe as orgasmic.  They ride them like hoppity-hops, writhe around on the floor with them, pressing them against their naughty parts.  It seems relatively harmless.  There didn’t seem to be too much in the way of fluids and they left hardly any whelps.  It’s cheap and requires no expensive costumes or accessories and, if practiced discreetly, can be done while looking at the prize heifers at the State Fair.  It’s perfect for me.

Oh, who am I kidding?  Even Looning requires more interest that I am able to generate.  Maybe I should just move on to number 2 on my list; visit the Grand Canyon.

OH, YOU BEAUTIFUL DOLL

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Joy And The Art Of The Apology

By: Randy Gillis

 

I was being rushed into position for my very first assignment in my new career.  On one side of me was a makeup queen direct from RuPaul’s Drag Race, slapping more foundation on my face than can be found under my house.  On the other side was my mentor, walking quickly, and stammering like a nervous mother advising her daughter before the wedding night.  “And never forget," he panted, "It’s not about the question, it’s only about truth…and truth is always subjective.”

 

 

Let me backtrack just a bit.  I was at yet another career crossroads.  I need steady work for at least 12 more years and I was looking for a change, something easy with great benefits.  It suddenly hit me.  A professional apologist!  How could I have not seen it sooner?  I’ve spent the better part of my life apologizing. “I’m sorry, I’m from the South.”  “I’m sorry, I didn’t see that baby.”  “I’m sorry, I meant ‘cunt-monkey jizz-bucket’ in the nicest possible way.”  “I’m sorry if the filthy, steaming hot gay sex that I practically never have offends your religious beliefs.”  It was getting to the point that I would answer the phone at my last job with “Emergency Room, this is Randy and I’m terribly sorry, can I help you?”  Couple my vast experience with our current social/political climate and I see a boon for Certified Professional Apologists.   

I applied for, and was accepted into the program.  Six days later, I graduated with honors!  And now, I was about to perform my debut dance.  Because of my scores, and the fact they needed a ‘fresh face’, I was being seated for my first assignment as part of a panel discussion on some cable access show.  Technicians were scurrying around, adjusting lights and makeup.  I looked over to my mentor who gave me a thumbs up.  “What show is this again?” I asked the makeup person.  He mumbled the name.  “What?” I gasped.  “AM Joy,” he repeated.

I turned my panic-stricken, bug-eyed face to my Mentor.  He gave me another smiling thumbs-up.  I turned back to the camera and tried to remember my training.  Then, I saw her.  Joy Reid in all her Joy Reidiness.  I took a deep breath as she tossed her first question.

“Well, Joy.  I didn’t hear the President say that at all,” I began.  “And you above all should know that ‘eye-witness’ testimony is the least reliable source of information in a courtroom.”  I was focused and determined to do well.  “I’m not saying that Senator Graham is lying, I’m saying that perhaps he heard someone make that statement who resembles the President.  Is that possible?  I think it’s very possible.  But what I find interesting is that no one seems to want to talk about the Great Chicago Fire, which, interestingly enough started the very day after the Clinton Foundation was denied a building permit.  Why aren’t we investigating that?”

Then it happened.  Joy did what Joy does.  She looked dumbfounded for about a second and a half and started putting me in my place.  This would be the most challenging test so far.  The last words I heard were her saying, “let me explain to you how this works.”  Her voice slowly faded into the voice of my Mentor, whispering into my ear.  “Look irritated,” he instructed.  “Now, shake your head.  Good.  Now, roll your eyes.  Okay, now, chuckle to yourself while shaking your head and rolling your eyes.  Perfect!” 

 

Joy’s pitch brought me back as she completed her verbal thrashing.  “If you want to answer the question, now would be the time,” she admonished.  “Why would Senator Graham make a statement confirming that President Trump did in fact make those remarks?”

“Perhaps Senator Graham misunderstood the President,” I asserted boldly.  “By all accounts there was no one in that room under 100 years old.  Maybe the President actually said ‘spit roll,’ or ‘hit mole.’  Is that possible?  I think it’s very possible.  My question Joy, is, instead of focusing on these ‘Trumped’ up allegations, why aren’t we talking about the San Francisco earthquake?  Which happened just one day after the Clinton Foundation was denied a building permit.  I see zero reporting on this growing scandal in the mainstream media.” 

Joy gazed into my eyes.  I peed just a little.  I had never experienced such concentrated ethics before.  She bore into my soul.  What happened next was told to me after-the-fact as I have no memory of the event as it happened.  Apparently, I collapsed into a sobbing mess, rambling, “DEARGODWE’REALLGOINGTODIEEVERYTHINGISALIEWECAN’TSURVIVETHISOURREPUTATIONISFOREVERRUINED!”  I then began channeling Gene Wilder in Young Frankenstein.  “I DON’T WANT TO LIVE!  I…DO…NOT…WANT…TO…LIVE!  OH, MOMMIE!

 

Three days later I received my termination notice while in a facility for ‘a rest.’  I felt kinda bad about it, but then I got a muffin basket from AM Joy with a personally signed card from Joy Reid herself.  Am I sorry?  Never again.