Friday, January 29, 2010

Tiger'ish Tales Vol. 7: The Wool Gets Pulled From My Eyes

A while back, I shared the following story in the comments section for a post on Filmdrunk:

One day, a few months into the year, my then girlfriend-now-wife and I made the tactical error of returning to my room when we knew Logan would be there. As was habit for my dorm, whenever entering a dorm room, you make a lot of noise and take longer than you should, to give whomever time to stop doing whatever. We followed protocol and entered to find Logan kneeling before his computer, furiously stroking away. A normal person would stop -he didn’t, of course. My girlfriend just sat on my bed in stunned silence, I carefully said, “Um, dude?” and he replied “HAVE YOU TRIED THIS?” Right then, he finished in an amazing display of rope-tossing that only an 18-year-old who’d never before come could release. And release he did. All over his monitor. Which was off. It was only at this point that I noticed he was jerking off to a turned-off monitor, and probably to his own fish-eyed reflection. He turned to me, dick limply in hand, and said “Can I borrow a shirt?”

I share it again here for two reasons. First, it only makes sense to include it, even if it is a re-run for most readers (or all readers). Second, I’ve spent the better part of three weeks trying to find a better way to start off this post and can’t come up with one. I wish I could subtly or creatively lead-in to a discussion of Logan’s sexuality, but it is like discussing the font used to label a nuclear missle. As soon as people realize to what you are referring, they want you to get to the point. So strap yourself in, fuckers, this shit is about to get crazy.

To be perfectly honest I had assumed Logan had already discovered masturbation prior to that point; after all, how could he not? It was for this very reason that I faithfully shook my keys and stalled at our door. I certainly never thought he’d be having actual sex. Turns out he finally “discovered” himself one day when he went for one of his shit-rituals. (Shituals?) He was one of the first on our floor to find that someone had meticulously plastered each and every toilet stall -wall and interior door- with several pictures of men masturbating. These pictures were then meticulously laminated in packing tape making the task of peeling them up and off more trouble than it would be worth (especially since the custodial staff never did bother to actually remove them). Logan went about his shitual, but couldn’t help noticing the pictures and wonder about what was going on in them. Needless to say, he decided to try it for himself. I know all this because Logan told me. Logan told me because I demanded a reason for his “needing” one of my shirts. He said all this to get to the point that I knew he was trying to make –he wanted a cum-mop. Why stain something of his when I had plenty of stuff available. I –already used to this type of selfishness- couldn’t resist asking him why a shirt? Why not a sock, for example? His answer was simple and direct: He liked to wear my socks, but my shirts were too small for him. I handed him a box of Kleenex and my girlfriend and I left to go throw up.

After that initial voyage of personal discovery, I am happy to say that I never caught him again. I feel pretty safe in saying that he took my Kleenex suggestion to heart, though, as from that day onward he went through boxes pretty quickly. The question, however would persist –how is it that at 18 years of age, Logan hadn’t jerked off? If he had wet dreams, I was never made aware (thank god) and the possibility of his getting laid was exactly 0%. His enthusiasm when I did catch him, not to mention his amount of jizz, certainly suggested that he was coming for the first time, but doubt lingered.

All my questions would be answered when Logan returned from Christmas break. I happened to beat Logan back to campus and was unpacking when I heard a rustle outside our door. Assuming it was Logan –and figuring he had lost his keys again- I went over and opened the door. As I did, a broadsword fell from our doorway and landed at my feet. I looked up to see Logan’s fat ass rounding the corner, back towards the stairs. My roommate had returned. Of all the things to bring to school, let alone bring up and leave outside our door while returning for the rest, Logan chose a fucking broadsword. I picked it up and placed it on Logan’s bed, trying to determine if it was a replica, and if that really made a difference to my safety. Logan came back, his mother in tow, with the rest of his things. Pleasantries were exchanged:

Me: About the sword….

Logan: My daddy made it for me!

M: Yeah, I don’t know…campus policy…post-Columbine…

Mrs. Logan: I told him it was only for emergencies. I’m glad you’re here, I have  a gift for you, too.

M: Oh. You, uh, didn’t have to do that.

Mrs. Logan: I really did. Hope you like it.

She opens up one of Logan’s bags and pulls out what appears to be a Blockbuster video case. It is my copy of South Park that she “borrowed”.

Mrs. Logan: Logan didn’t get to see it, Canadians.

M: Yeah, it doesn’t really make sense if you haven’t seen the show.

Mrs. Logan: Well, open it up.

I open the case and inside is the plastic VHS housing, but all of the tape had been pulled out. The access door seemed to be cemented shut.

M: Uhh…

Mrs. Logan: I burned the tape in a cleansing fire. It burned green. You think about that the next time. Canadians.

Shortly thereafter, she took him out to dinner at Bob Evans, brought him back and left again.

Of course the big Christmas get for Logan was a brand spanking new flatbed scanner for his computer. I had no doubt that his parents went to their closest electronics retailer and asked what to buy for a guy who uses a computer. Logan knew enough by now to know what it was, but I couldn’t imagine anyone with less use for one. What was he going to scan? The same pictures of horses he already found online? His ass?

Of course his ass. It seemed inevitable. I realized that he always finds the most horrific way to abuse something and that only if I was lucky, would his fat ass break the damn thing and I wouldn’t have to be subjected to a screen-saver slideshow of Logan’s winking anus. It was going to be a long semester.

As it turns out, I was wrong on several counts. Logan got the scanner for Christmas because he asked for one. He asked for one because he very much did have things he needed to digitize, and none of them ended up being his ass. In retrospect, I really wish it had been.

Logan had some trouble getting the scanner up and running but he managed it. As soon as I saw the time had come for his art project to commence, I fled the room. I would have to live with the finished product but I wasn’t going to be a witness to the act, nor would I be willing to pull his bleeding ass out of the scanner if he broke the glass.

When I came back, Logan was very depressed. Despite his best attempts, the scanner wouldn’t work. He mentioned that he brought a photo album from home that he wanted to “computer” but that every time he tried, he just got blank images. Realizing that I had misjudged him, I took pity. I offered to take a look and when I did, the problem was clear. He had laid out several Polaroid photos, all to be scanned at once, and he had laid them all image up. The solution would be obvious. Or it would have been if my brain weren’t exploding at what these pictures were doing to my eyes.

Here it is folks, the point of no return, the “you’ll swear I’m making this up, but I only wish I were” moment.

Each and every picture, and he still had dozens more in the album, were of Logan fucking goats. Logan. Fucking. Goats. On his father’s goat farm. With Goats. Fucking. Logan. Fucking. Goats.

I was in a pretty bad car accident once that totaled two cars (not the one I was in, however) and the memory of the accident is both lightning-quick and endlessly detailed. It was somehow an eternity, and yet I know it was only a few seconds. Seeing these pictures was just like that.

In just a moment’s exposure, the blink of an eye, these pictures were instantly scanned to my brain. Just as instantly, dozens of questions arose: Who’s taking these pictures? Why fuck goats? WHAT THE HELL IS YOUR GRANDPA DOING IN THE BACKGROUND OF THAT ONE? IS HE NAKED? OHHHHH FUCK ME! How does that not hurt the goats? (In each picture, Logan was standing behind the goat, fucking it while holding the goat’s rear legs up and out, forcing the goat to support itself with only the front legs. Think of doing a company picnic wheelbarrow race and you’ll get the idea.) Why? Why? Why?

The realizations came flooding in as well: That’s why he never discovered whacking off –he didn’t need to! That’s why he had so much cum –there are no goats at college!

For the first time in a long time, I felt I couldn’t just tolerate Logan’s actions. This was a black and white situation and I finally had something that would possibly get me out of this living arrangement. The problem, however, was if Logan knew I was trying to use this as an excuse to move, he would go ape-shit on my life in the meantime. I couldn’t hide my disgust and confusion, it was too late for that the moment he opened up his scanner, but I had to play along. I had to let him talk to me about his beastiality.

Me: Dude, that’s totally illegal!

Logan: No it isn’t. We own the goats.

M: Either way, that is just wrong!

L: Why? I like it, they like it.

M: Because of lack of consent. You might as well be fucking a kid.

L: Kids are no fun, they’re too little.

M: What?

(pause)

L: You thought I meant children? No, I meant kid –a baby goat.

M: So what? They can’t enjoy it. Look at it!

L: They do enjoy it, or else they wouldn’t release.

M: Huh?

L: They wouldn’t release their semen if they didn’t like it.

M: You are fucking MALE goats? In the ass? What the fuck?

L: Look, if you try to jibber a doe, the bucks get upset.

M: Why fuck them at all?

L: Because if we don’t get the bucks to release, they will get aggressive and sire with the does off-season. We can’t just rub their wieners because they get scared thinking we are trying to wether them.

M:What?

L:Cut off their oysters. Granddaddy figured out that if you enter them from behind they end up releasing and that keeps them calm. If we are going to do it anyway, there’s no reason we can’t release too. It spills out with the muck, no harm done. 

M: You know what dude, what-the-fuck-ever.

L: You’d like it if you tried it.

M: Why the fuck do you want to scan these?

L: I tried releasing to the other ones, and they just aren’t the same. Mine are better and I think others will agree.

M: What others?

L: On Ultra Donkey.

M: I don’t want to know do I?

L: If I can’t release with the bucks I at least like to look at the pictures while I release in here. I want to share… you know how to get photos on to the internet, right?

M: No I do not. Anyways, why do you need all these pictures? You posed for a full album’s worth just to post them on some porn site?

L: I’ve had the album for years, doesn’t your family keep pictures?

After that, I didn't really think much about the broadsword one way or the other.

9 comments:

  1. Indeed, oh Mighty One, indeed.

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  2. I hope you don't mind if I pretend this is all fiction...

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  3. @leyBu -
    Hey man, whatever works. I've been trying to pretend it was all fiction for almost a decade now....

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  4. I can't believe this post has been up for a week and I only just now saw it. This blog gives me a woody.

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  5. @ Ted

    -Working on it. My daughter was born 5 days ago and I've not been at the computer much. I'm aiming to have the next chapter posted during the week of March 7th or before. Thanks for reading.

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  6. Wow Congratulations! don't worry about us bums then!

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  7. holy shit, this blog is incredible

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