Untamed Passion

I had figured I would put a folding card table with a sign on it and have a few dummy paper bags of “merchandise” on the table with fake invoices stapled to them like all the other curbside businesses were

doing. Most of the bags would be a deke, just a couple with repackaged bread loaves from a local bakery in them at the front of the pile. I had made up a story about selling homemade bread if any of the apartment complex nazis or inquiring street passersby asked about the “business.”

Jared sniffed at all this. “What’s in it for the girl who will be blowing you?” He asked. “You’re not offering money or any compensation, who the hell is going to go for this?”

“I could give them a loaf of bread? As a token of my appreciation?” He snorted.

I spun out a pitch about “public service” and he wryly commented that people who did public service wanted something in return, and the only public service he could see was to my penis and a loaf of bread was hardly an equivalent barter. I retorted that any exchange of money could get me in all manner of difficulties (besides which I didn’t have any to spare) and that the platform I was using prohibited it anyway. Jared shook his head.

“You’re asking for a ‘mercy blow.’ On your knees, begging for it. Pathetic.”

“Someone else will be on their knees,” I said with forced confidence.

The next part took more thought, and a need to take advantage of limited options. There was a narrow passageway alongside the hair salon that went to the back of the place. Some shrubbery at the end shielded their backspace where supplies got stored, trash bins were parked before getting hauled out to the street on Tuesdays for pickup, etc.

I had, perhaps a bit illegally, certainly without permission, opened up a section of the shrubbery with some pruning shears, cut out enough room for me to stand, pretty much unobservable from anywhere except the hair salon, which of course was closed, with a little extra room for my

“customer,” who I reckoned would be on her knees. That’s where I planned to deliver my “product.” It wasn’t ask-free, but it was far enough from the street, and away from any viewing angle as to be private enough to work.

I had no idea of the odds of any success. I would meet my “clients” at the table, we would discretely retreat to the back, and then on the way out, I would gi, ve them a “bonus bag” before they left, to preserve appearances.

I posted it Tuesday the last day of March, not daring to post it on April Fool’s Day for obvious reasons. I will not reveal the platform for my endeavor but “# CumSideService” was the ticker. For my table, I had carefully prepared a sign that said “C* SIDE SERVICE.” I thought I was very clever. Jared said it would have sounded better if we were actually near an ocean beach, but then he had been critical of every aspect of my endeavor.

And I sat back to wait. And wait.

And got just what Jared predicted. Lots of guys, age usually unspecified, asked for pics of my cock and described all the lovely, lecherous things they would do to it. I stopped reading the responses to Jared after the third one, as his enjoyment at my resounding failure was, I thought, excessive and unseemly from an apartment-mate.

And my erections were neither going away, the self-induced solutions even less satisfying than before.ConTEent bel0ngs to Nôv(e)lD/rama(.)Org .

By Friday I had almost given up on the deal. Thirty-two responses, all guys. I rewrote the post, including a line that suggested that quarantined females missing their boyfriends, might find a surrogate penis of interest, and at the same time provide a compassionate public service to a lonely college guy, accomplish a good deed, a merciful act of compassion, etc. etc.

Still nothing. Then I thought of an offer one of the local businesses had made when announcing their curbside service for the first time.

“Free roll of toilet paper for the first five respondents!”

I will not describe to you the magnitude of Jared’s laughter at this addition. “You’re killing me! You’re saying your prick is worth a roll of ass-wipe!” His dark curly hair shook as he chortled.

It happened that we were unusually well stocked with toilet paper, quite by accident due to a Target run for supplies we had made in January, long before anything happened and we had furnished ourselves with a semester’s worth of supplies, operating on, not prescience, but just your normal male’s dislike of shopping, to do one big supply run up front rather than smaller more frequent runs as needed later. And of course, with just the two of us in the apartment, we weren’t using that much anyway. But for many others, even by late March, there was still toilet paper hoarding and virtually no stock in any of the local stores.

On Saturday I got a nibble, expressing some cautious interest, from “Lonely gal.”

I tried not to get too excited. Jared was sure it was from a guy claiming to be a female.

We exchanged a few texts, I described myself, sent a pic, and tried to sound as authentic as I could. I did not have to fake the anxious desire in my posts however, that was pretty clear.

I knew the ad wasn’t nearly going to be nearly enough, that it would be the follow-up messages that would have to accomplish my goal. I had to sound safe, and real, the “clients” would need to know more about me than I them, and I would have to straddle the fine line between honorably asking for a favor and what Jared had termed “pathetic pleading.”

We went back and forth, and I began to get my hopes up.

She said her boyfriend had left town. It had been six weeks. She missed sex, and physical contact more than she imagined. She called her boyfriend “Arthur.” I had claimed, in a rare moment of inspiration, that I had a “Goldilocks cock,” not for its coloring, but because “it wasn’t too big, wasn’t too small, but just right.” At almost six inches, statistically speaking, I thought that was accurate enough.