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.