Page 37 of A Cock and Bull Story
“Shit, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”
“Arthur,” she gasps, “that was. . . amazing—perfect amount of pressure. I fucking loved it.”
“But. . . you didn’t, ah,you know, did you?”
“Come? No, but I did before—by your tongue. Besides, this was just the first room, remember?” she adds with a wink.
I remember—and I make a mental note to thank Jude for convincing me to stay.
In the middle of the night, I get up to go get a drink of water because I'm dehydrated—not nearly as dehydrated as Arthur is, I assume, because he's the one who lost a whole bunch of bodily fluids. . .
If you catch my drift.
You would think that since it was me who took in all those bodily fluids, my thirst would be quenched—but I'm still parched—for an actual drink and more jizz. I think my brief stint of abstinence has sent my body into baby batter withdrawals.
Poor thing is used to a daily sperm shot.
I silently pad out of my bedroom, shutting the door shut softly behind me, before making my way to the kitchen. I grab a glass of water and guzzle it down like that lady I’mnot. Liquid drips down my chin, a là Napoleon Dynamite, and I carelessly wipe them off with the back of my arm.
Stepping back out into my living room, which is softly lit with fairy lights, I stare out. The room’s ambience is almost magical but, then again, I’m a whimsical whore. Not really looking at anything in particular—as I’m still half asleep—I swear to God I see fingers tapping on the outside of my window.
In horror, I watch as they wiggle the glass pane open. With zero hesitation, I whip my phone from my sleep short pockets and dial Campus Security. It rings once, twice, three times and, by now, my window is up nearly half a foot.
But what happens next is some Grade A bullshit.
Instead of ahumanhand creeping through my window followed by a human body that it’s attached to—because that’s how human hands work—a fucking monster crawls through my window and drops down into my apartment.
And by “fucking monster”, I meana spider the size of a fricking dinner plate!
A silent scream catches in my throat, and I drop my phone in absolute terror. The thing is big and hairy, and a newspaper isnotgoing to do the job. The giant fucker looks like a tarantula on roids.
The spider demon lands silently on my floor, but I can feel the heavy vibration of it falling down. It twitches and all its hair seems to raise—just like the ones on the back of my neck.
I look around and see the little bookstand resting right at my feet between the bathroom and kitchen doors. Whipping off the decorative tablecloth that’s covering it, I reveal a box full of sex toys. Grabbing a handful of bullet vibes, I throw them at the furry menace.
At first, it startles and scurries back, but then it turns its eight beady eyes on me and focuses—like it knows who I am and what I'm up to.
I realize that the small dogsaren'tgoing to cut it, so I whip out the big ones—a.k.a. the dildos. I kiss one briefly before lobbing it at the spider tyrant. The eight-legged beast doesn't even flinch and just scuddles out of the way.
Oh my God—it has depth perception!
It's quick, agile, and deadly. There's no way it’s not a killer, and I realize that I'll just have to end its life before it ends mine first. I’m also seriously regretting not buying that flamethrower—that would have come in handy right now.
Suddenly, it jumps—fucking jumps—on top of my coffee table—like it's a kangaroo! It rears back on its hind legs and stands.
“AHHHH!” I shriek, and it lets out a feral hiss.
That's it—I'm not convinced this thing isn't actually a cat.
Reaching blindly down into my toy box, I feel around for my double-ended black mammoth. I kiss the tip for good luck—because it's ok to go ass to mouth—and rear back before launching my raunchy silicone joystick.
I throw it as hard as I can, and sucker punch the tarantula right in its solar plexus—that is, if spider's have a solar plexus.
“Ha!” a yell in triumph before spinning around and running back into my kitchen.
I grab as many knives as I can and dash back. The tarantula’s still trying to get off its back. It looks like a helpless beetle and the thought makes me shudder—those assholes are just as creepy.
I throw five steak knives all at once and miss—all at once. In my left hand, I still hold a butcher's knife. By now, the spider’s flipped over, and it understands that I'm out for blood.
