GP

“I’ve gotta piss.”

“Ok.”

He slipped from the covers and the Blonde watched him into the bathroom.

He pissed, he really did piss. Well, it was more of a dribble, but the piss was a ruse, as he knew it would be. He shook and stood and went to the medicine cabinet, pushing up on the hinges to ease the metal creaking while glancing back at the wall that separated him from the dainty girl.

In the cabinet, in an old prescription for not-boner-pills, were boner pills. He didn’t need them. This is what he told himself each time he finished the ‘piss.’ Well, he wouldn’t have needed them, but they’d had a lot to drink. Not too much, of course. And he was probably drunker than her. She’d been sober when he caught her eye at the afterparty, surely. Plus, he knew her type and she knew him, at least deep down. They had an understanding. And the understanding was that if you went home with Jim motherloving Cross, you got a rock hard boner and an eight AM omelette. It was a good omelette too. The lady from the food network closed her eyes when she’d had it, and the moan she emitted was nearly as convincing as when she’d had it.

Jim Cross was not exactly a generous lover, but boner pills can take up to 30 minutes to kick in and so it was that his legendary reputation was born. Rolling Stone’s Katie Adworth had christened him the “Fastest Tongue in the East,” or something like that. Maybe he’d give her a ring when he was in Seattle next–

“Everything ok?” asked the Blonde.

“Everything’s ok?” He responded, frozen in the doorway. He’d been lost in thought. She giggled at his stupefaction.

“Were those boner pills you were taking?” She asked, fresh faced and earnest.

“Huh?” How did she know about the boner pills, how did she– Huh? He stood still, softly backlit by the night-light above the vanity.

“The pills you took, were they for your cock?” She was completely non-judgmental. Laissez-faire, conversational, friendly, calm, cheery. 

Jim Cross considered, for a moment, that he was hallucinating. Hallucinating, or hammered. But then he remembered that he was sober. He’d been sober ever since the old boy had started to wilt instead of stiffen. He’d done away with the coke, then the speed, finally the booze. It still wilted. Cialis, Viagra, Rhino-cock, Thunder-cock, Cockmaxx 3000, MEGABALLS!, he’d tried them all. The wilt still willed. The ones he’d just swallowed didn’t even have a name. His assistant sourced them from some old russian-y babushka type that had only just trundled into his trailer before the show and whispered and chanted some shadowy sorts of things into his ears while massaging his rectum.

“Is something wrong?” The Blonde was still cheery, hadn’t spotted the alarm on his face.

“What pills?” He was edgy now.

“I saw you take them out of that prescription for Tylenol, but they didn’t look like Tylenol.” What was her motive? Was she CIA? FBI? Architectural Digest?

“You saw me?”

“Yup!”

“How did you see me, you were in bed.”

“I see through walls.”

“You see through walls.” He repeated dumbly. He was Jim Cross, if anyone should be able to see through walls, it was him.

“Yes!” She threw back the covers and approached.

“How?” It was all he could muster as she reached him and grabbed his hand. She giggled and pulled him back towards the Helix Alaskan King. Marceau, his assistant, had scored him the incredible mattress in one of his first brand deals for his youtube channel. He’d been against the channel at first, but it turned out he was very popular with the younger generation. They’d mistook his lack of personality for mystique, plus he looked good on a motorcycle. He’d seen the turnout on this latest tour gradually swell, unlike his penis, far beyond what his team had initially predicted. Plus, he’d been sleeping well, thanks to Helix. The best mattress ever.

“I guess I don’t know how.” She mused, now sitting cross legged across from him on the plushy duvet. He copied her. Criss-cross applesauce. “I just can.”

“Huh.” He felt, somewhere deep inside him, that he was in an altered state. Actually he knew he was. He was perfectly aware of it. Clearcut conscious of the fact. But he didn’t feel troubled, which in turn was a bit troubling. Before he fell into a dissociative nightmare, she cheerily continued.

“So, were they boner bills?”

“I guess so.” The words felt mushy in his mouth, but she seemed to understand him perfectly. “Do you want me to fuck you?”

The Blonde blushed, “Do you want to fuck me?”

“The more I sit on this Helix Alaskan King mattress with side support and pressure point relief, the more I want to sleep and have all my worries and stresses melt away.”

The Blonde cocked her head. “Maybe you could play me a song on your guitar?”

“Ok!” Jim Cross sprang to his feet and leapt off the Helix, but the Helix, an Alaskan King, was so much bigger than his last bed, a mere California King, and he misjudged the distance. He flew into the drywall and everything went black.

—

“I see it like this, Sarge.” Bud Burgess puffed up his chest and turned his eyebrows inward with concentration. “The old Lion caught hisself a gazelle. Brought ‘er back to his den. He wanted to impress ‘er, he did, but his mechanicals ain’t exactly tip top. So he tops up with some of that there rod oil. Get hisself stiff, ya see?”

“But this is Tylenol, Bud.” Sergeant Pepper twirled his waxed moustache lightly upwards with a leather gloved hand.

“So you’d think, Sarge. I had the boys down the lab run a ‘nalysis on it.” Bud was pleased he’d thought to do so. Initially he’d made the same mistake as Sarge, but he didn’t ever remember Tylenol to smell like gasoline and deer piss, so he had the boys down the lab run a ‘nalysis on it and bingo bongo it turned out not to be tylenol. “It’s boners pills.”

“Right.” The sergeant twirled his waxed moustache lightly back downwards.

“I’ve gotta piss.”

“Ok.”

He slipped from the covers and the Blonde watched him to the bathroom.

He pissed, he really did piss. More of a dribble, but the piss was a ruse, as he knew it would be. He shook and stood and went to the medicine cabinet, pushing up on the hinges to ease the creaking, glancing back at the wall that separated him from the girl.

In the cabinet, in an old prescription for not-boner-pills, were boner pills. He didn’t need them. This is what he told himself each time. Well, he wouldn’t have needed them, but they’d had a lot to drink. Not too much, of course. And he was probably drunker than her. She’d been sober when he caught her eye at the afterparty, surely. Plus, he knew her type and she knew him, at least deep down. They had an understanding. And the understanding was that if you went home with Jim fucking Cross, you got a rock hard boner and an eight AM omelette. It was a good omelette too. The lady from the food network closed her eyes when she’d had it, and the moan she emitted was nearly as convincing as when she’d had it.

Jim was not a generous lover, but boner pills take time and so his reputation was born. Rolling Stone’s Katie Haight had christened him the “Widest Tongue in the East,” or something equally gauche. Maybe he’d give her a ring when he was in Seattle next–

“Everything ok?” asked the Blonde.

“Everything’s ok?” He responded, frozen in the doorway. He’d been lost in thought. She giggled at his stupefaction.

“Were those boner pills you were taking?” She asked, fresh faced and earnest.

“Huh?” How did she know about the boner pills, how did she– Huh? He stood still, softly backlit by the night-light above the vanity.

“The pills you took, were they for your cock?” She was non-judgmental. Laissez-faire. Friendly, calm, cheery. 

Jim Cross considered, for a moment, that he was hallucinating. Hallucinating, or hammered. But then he remembered that he was sober. He’d been sober ever since the old boy had started to wilt instead of stiffen. He’d done away with the coke, then the speed, finally the booze. It still wilted. Cialis, Viagra, Rhino-cock, Thunder-cock, Cockmaxx 3000, MEGABALLS!, he’d tried them all. The wilt still willed. The ones he’d just swallowed didn’t even have a name. His assistant sourced them from some old russian-y babushka type that trundled into his trailer before the show and whispered and chanted some shadowy missives down his ears while ironing out his rectum with her soft leather thumbs.

“Is something wrong?” The Blonde was still cheery, hadn’t spotted the alarm on his face.

“What pills?” He was edgy now.

“I saw you take them out of that prescription for Tylenol, but they didn’t look like Tylenol.” What was her motive? Was she CIA? FBI? Architectural Digest?

“You saw me?”

“Yup!”

“How did you see me, you were in bed.”

“I see through walls.”

“You see through walls.” He repeated dumbly. He was Jim Cross, if anyone should be able to see through walls, it was him.

“Yes!” She threw back the covers and approached.

“How?” It was all he could muster as she reached him and grabbed his hand. She giggled and pulled him back towards the Helix Alaskan King. Marceau, his assistant, had scored him the incredible mattress in one of the first brand deals for his youtube channel. He’d been against the channel at first, but it turned out he was very popular with the younger generation. They’d mistook his lack of personality for mystique; he looked good on a motorcycle. He’d seen the turnout on this latest tour gradually swell, unlike his penis currently, far beyond what his team had initially predicted. Plus, he’d been sleeping well, thanks to Helix. The best mattress ever.

“I guess I don’t know how.” She mused, now sitting cross legged across from him on the plushy duvet like a jungle cat, a minxy fuckable jungle cat with a smooth tongue, not like an actual jungle cat’s tongue. He copied her. Criss-cross applesauce. “I just can.”

“Huh.” He felt, somewhere deep inside him, that he was, quite possibly, in an altered state. Actually he knew he was. He was perfectly aware of it. Clearcut conscious of the fact. Huh. But he didn’t feel troubled, which in turn was a bit troubling. She cheerily continued.

“So, were they boner bills?”

“I guess so.” The words felt mushy in his mouth, but she seemed to understand him perfectly. “Do you want me to fuck you?”

The Blonde blushed, “Do you want to fuck me?”

“The more I sit on this Helix Alaskan King mattress with side support and pressure point relief, the more I want to sleep and have all my worries and stresses melt away.”

The Blonde cocked her head. “Maybe you could play me a song on your guitar?”

“Ok!” Jim Cross sprang to his feet and leapt off the Helix, but the Helix, an Alaskan King, was so much bigger than his last bed, a mere California King, also from Helix, and he misjudged the distance. He flew into the drywall and everything went black.

—

“I see it like this, Sarge.” Bud Burgess puffed up his chest and turned his eyebrows inward with concentration. “The old Lion caught hisself a gazelle. Brought ‘er back to his den. He wanted to impress ‘er, he did, but his ol’ system ain’t exactly tip top. So he tops up with some of them there rod poppers. Get hisself stiff, ya see?”

“But this is Tylenol, Bud.” Sergeant Pepper twirled his waxed moustache lightly upwards with a leather gloved hand.

“So you’d think, Sarge. Had the boys down the lab run a ‘nalysis on it.” Bud was pleased he’d thought to do so. Initially he’d made the same mistake as Sarge, but he didn’t ever remember Tylenol to have quite so rancid a stench, so he had the boys down the lab run a ‘nalysis on it and bingo bongo it turned out not to be tylenol. “It’s boners pills.”

“Right.” The sergeant twirled his waxed moustache lightly back downwards.

“So he gets hisself stiff, right? He gets hisself stiff. Or. He doesn’t get hisself stiff. That’s the way I see it, Sarge. The pills some sort of poison or something. ‘Counts for his head.”

Sergeant Pepper’s moustache seemed to frown with him. “I spose it does, Bud. I spose it does.”

“You ever seen a thing like it?” Bud was troublingly nonplussed about the whole affair.

“Well. Back in Libya…” The Sergeant trailed off, so as to imply.

“Right. Right.” Bud nodded along.

“I’d say you’ve got the jist of it, Bud.” He was back to his moustache.

“The pills exploded his head so hard that his body flew into the wall and his jaw went straight through her heart,” Bud finished.

“So it is, Bud. So it is.” One final twist.

“I’d do an Italian, maybe a cuppa?”

The Sergeant shrugged his lips in agreement and they left forensics to it.