Some years ago I was visiting an old friend in Florida. This pal (A large man who is actually “a sensitive little forest flower.”) loves boats and boating and maintained two, count ‘em, two homes in Florida set up for boating.
The first home was his main base in Ft. Lauderdale. It was a three-bedroom two-bath operation with a swimming pool, an office, and a long boat dock where he kept “the Big Boat.”
The second home was a smaller house set up on stilts down in the depths of the Florida Keys twenty miles above Key West with two bedrooms, one bath, and a boat dock on a canal where he kept “the Little Boat.”
Since he used the Keys house only now and again throughout the year he decided at some point to rent it out. After careful, cautious advertising he did rent it out for a year to a well-vetted man. When I visited him that lease was up and he and I went to the Keys house to check it out. A day or so before we arrived my pal had a house cleaner go in to change all the bedding and spiff up the rest of the house.
When we got there I went into the guest bedroom to unpack my things into the chest of drawers. As I opened the bottom drawer I found the renter or one of his guests had left some underwear and t-shirts in the bottom drawer. Under them, the same person has left behind a large, realistic (‘veined’), and battery-powered dildo in a plastic bag with some suspicious smears on the inside. Moving the switch around inside the bag without touching the dildo I determined that the batteries were, to say the least, fresh. Like Elvis’s King Creole this dildo was “jumpin’ like a catfish on a pole.” I left it turned on.
Even though he is a manly man my pal is also, as noted above, “a very sensitive little forest flower.” The least hint of some sort of object that had spent party time somewhere inside a person’s body fills him with shivering, visceral loathing. My pal took one look at my vibrating “discovery” and walked shuddering into the kitchen. He returned with his hands in rubber dishwashing gloves and a pair of kitchen tongs.
He gingerly picked up the bag containing the dildo with the tongs and then, holding it as far away from himself as possible, walked down the stairs to the carport and dropped the offensive package into the garbage can. He then dropped the tongs into the garbage can. He then removed his rubber gloves, dropped them in the can, and then – still shivering with loathing and muttering to himself — went back upstairs and took a long hot shower followed by an emergency cocktail. File under: “Sensitive, Flower of Forest.”
Because I was an old friend who understood and deeply respected his “issues,” I promptly snuck down to the garbage cans, retrieved the dildo in the bag, switched it to off, and hid it in my luggage.
Several days later, with the dildo incident forgotten (except for my pal’s repeated declaration he would NEVER EVER rent out the Keys house again), we returned to Fort Lauderdale. After arriving my pal announced he was going to run to the store to pick up some groceries. I nodded and waved from my perch on the couch in the living room and watched him drive off down the street.
Then I got up and took the bagged dildo out of my luggage and went into his office. I slid open the drawer on the right-hand side of his desk and emptied its contents, hiding them in the next drawer down.
I then unbagged said dildo and placed it in the empty drawer and turned it on. Closing the drawer I was pleased to note a faint but perceptible hummmmm and vibration from the desk.
Then I went back out to the couch, picked up a magazine, and waited.
Soon my pal returned with a bag of groceries. Nodded to me as he came in.
“Hey, man, there was a phone call on your office line. Probably left a message.”
“Oh, okay, thanks.” Walks into the office.
My mind says,
“Wait for it…
“Wait for it…”
Suddenly a most unmanly scream comes wafting out of the office into the living room. My pal appears, trembling, pale, and shocked.
“Out….. get it out….. now….. please… I’m begging you.”
Weeping from laughter, I stagger into the office and glance down into the open drawer where I can see the powered-up dildo shaking and slowly moving in a circle on the bottom of the drawer. I pick up the bag by the corner and display it to him. Then I rebag it. He is standing by the opened back door pointing to the garbage can. I go out and ceremoniously drop it in…. vibrating all the way down.
He’s back in the kitchen. Boiling water. It will take three quarts of water and two gloved scrubbings with Brillo soap pads until he’s satisfied that the drawer in his desk is finally purged of Dildo Cooties.
In a couple of days, I leave.
The next year I’m back. In his office one day I absently pull open the right-hand top drawer of his desk. There’s a pure white and unstained sheet of liner on the bottom and nothing else in the drawer.
Like I said, for a big man my pal is a very sensitive little forest flower.
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Not nearly as good as your “very sensitive little forest flower” but reminds me of a big, insensitive kid I went to High School with in south Florida:
We were camp counselors one summer back in the glades and as I was coming back toward came one evening I came across a road killed rattle snake, 5 or 6 feet, not badly damaged. I cut the head off took it back to camp, my friend was asleep in his bunk, I laid the snake body across him, neck down over the side of the bed so the lack of a head and fangs wasn’t visible to him.
Woke him, he looked bleary eyed at the rattler below his nose. Looked and said; “Oh my God, either I’m dreaming or I’m dead.”, closed his eyes and went back to sleep. Oh well, some folks just won’t cooperate with a grand joke.
Haha! Best story ever! My brothers and I have spent nearly 70 years running just this type prank on each other! Some of them have been so crude and politically incorrect we can’t even tell them anymore! You’re a man after my own heart!
Thanks for the laugh!
I always dreaded the obligatory monthly sanitary inspections of berthing and common spaces, knowing that despite having posted the time and date of inspection a day in advance, it was eminently possible, despite knocking and waiting, that some Fellini-esque scene would greet me. There was one legendary Chief Steward, a legend of the trans community, decades ahead of time, who carried with her? an armory of sex toys that would have elicited envy and admiration from the staff of Good Vibrations, proudly displayed, shrine like, with suitable lighting and staging. Your friend would have assuredly had food for thought come meal time…
You’re a cruel, cruel man, Gerard. *snicker*
Pikesville, People’s still-mostly-Democratic Republic of Maryland
You are a bad, BAD, NASTY-MINDED guy. I like how you think, or used to think.
I would hate to see how you treat your enemies, if this is how you treated your poor friend.
When you got the man down …Kick’em
Yep, 1692 Mangrove Ave. Now where did I put that oosik….
I will be collecting future mail by remote.
I love it! I busted out laughing, knocked my tea over. That’s gotta be classic Vanderleun. Well done Sir!
This arrived on the same day that I just saw a Big Black Pick Up Truck (extra big) with a lovely sign written across the back window. I say lovely because it was decal written in feminine script. The driver was a BIG MAN. The beautifully written sign in his back window was this:
“I love my big fat pick up truck in the same way that a big fat kid loves cake”
Once upon the wife and I were at Shannon Airport, returning from the green isle. We were at the airport quite early; in fact, we were first to check in. The agent had my wife’s suitcase next to him when he looked up, eyes big. “Your suitcase is making noise.”
I didn’t know what was going on, but my wife did. She was able to remove the batteries without actually fully opening the bag. The agent had no further comment.
But security called us over for a more careful check. I had to unzip my bag. The security gal insisted that I NOT open the bag. Instead she slid her hands in and felt around for a while, then cleared us, without examining the formerly buzzing bag.
I recommend Shannon airport. Not only did they invent Irish coffee, they’re civilized, and unhurried.
Girls and their toys! God bless em.
Which reminds me, I once executed a search warrant at a crank house. In the master bedroom was what I initially thought was an unusually thick lamp post, with a lamp shade on it. My partner at the time was a smoking hot Cuban police officer, Carmen.
I’m in the living room when I here Carmen start laughing, the female suspects sitting in a chair next to the bed, typical crank whore. As I’m entering the room Carmen’s holding the lamp, minus the shade, she’s asking the lady if she can take the entire thing. With pride she responds yep I can take the whole dam thing. Carmen remarks wow that’s something, mines about 1/2 and I’m just not their yet.
My dumb ass has not a clue that I’m monitoring girls sex chit chat. As we’re booking evidence “ several ounces of crank”. One three foot long black dildo. I stop look at carmen and ask what the hell are you talking about.
Carmen stand and swings this lamp post like a sword, in her Cuban accent Tells us this is a dildo, that X says she can take the whole dam thing. Their are for four guys, and two girls. Us men ran out of the room while the girls roared in laughter. I peak in the room, dam things vibrating got a light in the tip. Good god!
Turns out the crank whore was the sister of a local defense attorney. I’d worked with him, made sure the black mamba! was not mentioned in the criminal report.