Tit Care

Thank All of You

Dean Littner — Tue, 29 Apr 2014 11:32:00 GMT

My son Justice was having trouble sleeping and my husband Houston had forbidden me from giving him sips of brandy to get him to knock out.

“Read to me daddy,” Justice asked from his bed.

I read from a fantasy storybook, “Our hero, Implorious, called out through the mist ‘Bring back my steed!’ but the half-elf, Squishel, then said ‘He can’t come back, he’s in the Neverwas now, I’m sorry Implorious,’” I then dropped the book on the floor and began stepping on it, “fuck this shit, oops, I mean, uh, fluff this shirt, that’s what I really said Justice.”

Justice reached over and patted my shirt in an attempt to fluff it.

“Thank you Justice, I need to stop reading that book,” I thought of alternatives, “I could tell you a story from my own head instead.”

Justice recoiled, “Those are scary!”

“Oh, come on, it’s about the time all my friends dumped me,” I assured with an entertaining sound in my voice.

Justice sat up, “You had friends? Well, I guess I wanna know, tell me daddy.”

I started the story, “Long ago, your daddy Dean went out all the time, every night and to all the clubs on earth. These were not your average clubs, these were clubs run by the elite super popular Ram Jordan. Ram Jordan was the most popular person that ever existed and he had a secret eyeblinking language that only popular kids could understand. Back in those days, there were rules to popularity and the biggest rule was NO POPULAR KIDS PAST 40.”

“Wait daddy,” Justice interrupted, “you just turned 40 not too long ago, and you had that pool party, I remember that.”

“Shhhhhhh,” I then continued, “Anyway, I video chatted Ram after my 40th birthday to thank him for the goodbye present he got me and he just stared at me, he didn’t even blink, and he passed me to one of his assistants, they got on the video line and informed me that I was officially not popular anymore, that age had happened, and I was too old to talk to anybody there. Even though I knew this was true, it really hurt for me to hear it.”

At this point, Justice was asleep because the idea of being over 40 was also boring for him. I sort of understood, I mean, how are you going to go out to clubs and make them fun if all you can do is fall asleep at 9pm. It was at that moment that I decided to embrace boredom and get a job with The State Tax Agency.

My husband Houston asked me about my decision, “Now, this is a real job you know, unlike the past where you paid more money to have a sitter take care of the kids than you actually made… what I’m trying to say is, do you think you’re mentally able to work for The State Tax Agency?”

“Of course I am, I’m officially old, my brain is fried from decades of drug use, and I forget the question,” I reasoned.

“Okay, you’re my husband, I love you, and I support your decision,” Houston gave me a wonderful and passionate kiss.

I lied on my job application and said I had never been arrested or evaded taxes or destroyed State property or all the other things that seemed good to keep to myself. My interview was surprisingly like every interview I’ve ever had.

“What experience do you have?” The Interviewer asked.

I stood up and started to unbutton my shirt, “I didn’t think you’d want me to take off all my clothes so soon in the interview but if I’m going to show you what I’m truly capable of, you need to see everything I’ve got, no touching though, no kissing, I’m just putting on a show, okay, you’ll see it all.”

“Wait,” The Interviewer stopped me, “I mean, what job experience do you have?”

“Oooh, that?” I puzzled, “I still have to take off my clothes.”

I got the job and was sent to my new boss’s office.

“That phone has been ringing, are we going to pick it up?” I asked my boss.

“Oh no, we never pick up the phone, not enough funding…” He explained.

I misheard him say ‘not enough fun Dean…’ so I said, “If picking up the phone is no fun, then what do you guys do for fun around here?”

He pulled down his pants and got on top of his desk, ass up. I was a bit startled because I was in a monogamous marriage and wasn’t about to screw the boss.

“No, no, no, it’s not what you think,” He pulled out a bag of white powder, “here, this is some space dust I picked up from a lobbyist, please just tap some out onto my butt and shove your nose in it, now that’s fun!”

I was relieved I didn’t have to cheat on my husband to keep my job, “Sure, I’ll snort coke off your ass while some poor taxpayer pointlessly calls our office, this is fun!”

My boss then agreed, “Yes, this is fun, let’s snort coke off each other’s asses all day!”

“Yay, I love working for the State, yay!”

We spent the next 5 hours coming up with terrible band names like: Hamster Mother, Shebadger, and Wolf Rabbit (all of these probably exist as part of a terrible trend in band names today and they are awful…). After pressing two buttons on the computer and sending erroneous tax collection notices to everyone in the State, I went home.

That night, I reflected on what I had learned and told my family at dinner about my day, “It’s all about being who you are, we take so much for granted in life, and let so many opportunities pass us by but being in the moment, like allowing myself to be successful in a brand new career, that’s what I have my family to be thankful for, my largest supporters are right here in front of me, all of you, and when I look in the mirror, I see another supporter in my life today, I’ve learned what it means to be loved, supported, and happy, so thank all of you.”

Thank all of you.

Kid Problems

Dean Littner — Fri, 13 Sep 2013 12:37:00 GMT

Like every parent, I have children and with those come other problems. My oldest son Justice was getting picked on at elementary school and my youngest, Houston Jr., expected me to change his diaper and on top of that even feed him, god! The only thing that wasn’t a problem was my husband Houston Sr. and that’s because after a long day of work, he would come home and drill me with love.

I recently started to have body issues again but this time I decided to not have plastic surgery to solve them. I had a husband who loved me for me and I didn’t need to look young and fit anymore. Being in my 40s with the stress of parenthood and the joy of foodhood, I began to love food in ways I hadn’t before or had previously accepted within myself. Food food food. Have you ever taken taco shells, filled them with ice cream, dipped them in magic shell chocolate, and eaten them one after the other while shooting whipped cream in your mouth crying over reruns of 1980s daytime soap operas till the housecleaning pills kicked in? I have.

I was cleaning when my friend Mary and her son Quinoa came to visit. I gave Quinoa a granola bar and sat down with Mary for an afternoon martini.

After taking a sip of my drink, I informed, “I’ve decided to stop getting plastic surgery.”

Mary was pleased, “Oh good, at that last botox party where you played Pin the Needle on My Face, that really hurt me, and I still can’t smile or even smize either.”

“You’ll be able to in 4 months,” I assured and then continued, “Well, I’m still doing botox… but separately, I’m fat I don’t care, I lost my hair I don’t care, my tits sag I don’t care...”

Mary looked at my tits, “Yeah, what happened to your tits, they used to be legend?”

I gulped down the rest of my martini, “I said I don’t care.”

“They look like they were attacked by alligators and crocodiles,” She summarized.

I glared at her and then asked, “What kind of fucked up name is Quinoa?”

“Hey!” Quinoa protested, “I like my name and this granola bar has preservatives!”

I continued, “It’s like naming your kid Oven Mitt, hey Oven Mitt come here and tell mommy she’s pretty till she stops crying,” I mocked.

Mary gulped down her drink and then chided, “Your son’s name is Justice and he’s made fun of at school every day because of it, whose fault is that? It’s your fault Dean… and my Quinoa is home schooled so he doesn’t even have that problem, right Quinoa, now make Uncle Dean and your pretty mommy a drink like I taught you in home school.”

“Ha ha ha,” I laughed.

Justice was then dropped off at home by his carpool and he came into the house crying about how all the kids made fun of him again, I was heartbroken.

“They called me Equal Rights Gay Justice all day daddy,” He sobbed.

I wiped his tears, “Oh honey, that makes you sound like a super hero doesn’t it?” and that remark only made him cry a new batch of tears.

Mary put her hand on my shoulder and suggested, “Dean, you should go to his school and really give it to those bullies.”

Mary was right, I needed to stick up for my son and teach those bastards a lesson! The next day, I put on a disguise (because I’m banned from Justice’s school long story) and hid outside the window of his classroom until the teacher stepped out to the hall for a few minutes during class. While the kids were alone, they started throwing crumpled up papers at my boy while calling him names, it was awful to witness. I couldn’t take it anymore and I climbed in through the window to all of their surprise.

“Who are you?” One kid asked, “why are you dressed like a pirate?” another wondered.

I scratching my head with my hook and then spoke out to them, “Who here has made it? Who here has made it and is really proud of where they are at in life? Raise your hands if you have, raise them up. Hmmm. I find that interesting. I find it phenomenal that some of you have raised your hands. I know there are some of you that did not raise your hands but wanted to and I know that’s true. How true do you think your response to my question is? How true are you to yourself? There are moments when you think you have discovered truth, truth in a video game, truth in a figurine, but truth in that form is malleably flawed, try holding that same toy doll twenty years from now and that truth will change into countless denominations and too many to ever feel the simple truth of its original nature. We are all shackled by endlessly attempting to reconcile our inconsistencies. Be honest with the realization that your honesty is not truth. Love your family. Never lie to yourself. Have fun. Sometimes people ask me why I’m not like everyone else and why I don’t bleach my anus like I’m supposed to. I don’t need to. I simply decolorize those online photos and by the time somebody sees it in the flesh, it’s too late and they’re too horny to go home. That was before I was married. Any questions?” there were no questions so I quickly left back out the window before the teacher returned.

After school that day, Justice came to me and gave me a big hug.

“I love you daddy, you’re special daddy,” He said while embracing me.

“I love you too son,” I teared.

Justice then let go of me, took a step back, and looked me in the eye, “I’m going to handle my own problems from now on.”

Rules

Dean Littner — Wed, 07 Aug 2013 10:21:00 GMT

Rule 1) Do not apologize for your first world problems. It is more important to get upset about things that people in other countries will never even get the chance to get upset about rather than suck it up and think ‘well, I’m just lucky to be here.’ You are not lucky, you are alive here instead of over there by coincidence, and your third world made paper cup for your $10 coffee drink just doesn’t fit right with the lid and your precious drink from agrarian cultured people picked beans is now spilling even with the help of that plastic plunger plugging your sippy hole. This is a huge problem! Who cares if you are in a first world country while having this coffee spilling crisis, it’s still a first class crisis, treat it that way…

Rule 2) Sex should always be monetized. I know it doesn’t sound sexy but this is how you find out how old or unattractive you are. If you are able to get a lot of money for sex, you are probably young and cute and deserve it (save the cash for later because you’re gonna need it if you live…). If you only get a few dollars, you may NOT be cute or may be getting older but NOT totally old and UNcute. If you don’t get any money at all and still you are begging for change to offer yourself in every way possible to someone, this allows you to know that the roles have reversed and it is now time to start paying for sex.

Rule 3) Have at least one emotional eruption every year. This is a lot harder than you think because life could be going really good all year and maybe then there’s no reason to freak out but you absolutely should. There must be some pain you haven’t dealt with. There must be some sadness you are pushing deeper into your soul. Instead of being polite and keeping it to yourself, you need to lose your shit! For example, I may be opening the front door for someone to be gentlemanly but they just don’t walk through.

Holding open the door I say, “Please my dear, walk on through.”

They respond, “Oh no thank you, that’s quite alright, I’ll go after you, you first please.”

Losing my shit, “What the fuck hell!??!! DIE!!!”

Grab their face, close the door on their face, and rip out their skull with the spine attached. Now breathe and feel better.

Rule 4) Stop saying stupid things like: “There’s freedom of speech but you should accept the responsibility for what you say.” Everyone knows this. It’s like saying: “Racist idiot backwoods people know they’re bigots and hate faggots.” They do and they’re proud of it. It’s like saying: “Social media sites make money off of advertising but instead of paying its users for this free information, they charge the users to compete with the advertisers.” Duh. It’s like saying: “I’m a political minded person simply because I’ve regurgitated the opinion of the person sitting next me who I happen to want to sleep with.” It’s like saying: “I don’t really find something cool until my friends get that it’s cool or when they don’t put me down for thinking it’s cool.” Shit’s cool if you think it’s cool. Shit’s racist because it is. And you should care about yourself and your speech before worrying if the person next to you is speaking correctly about something you probably have no personal experience with.

Rule 5) Sit on a penis. This is different from rule number 2 and this is not a sexual act. Sitting on a penis proves that you are willing to take getting screwed for the sake of being realistic. If you have the overwhelming urge to win always and cry your eyes out because you’re a sore loser, go sit on a penis. If you are handsome, beautiful, charming, and irresistible and everyone has only followed your lead endlessly, put a penis under your butt and sit. For once, let someone else win because you can never be the best always and you’re setting yourself up for a fall from grace. If there are way too many “yes people” surrounding you with plasticness, and there seems to be no stopping you, stop yourself for one moment, take a break, and sit on a penis.

Rule 6) And finally, stop saying “you’re welcome” before being acknowledged for doing the one god dammed useless thing you just did. But, please feel free to say you’re welcome after someone actually says “thank you.”

Thank you.

Sometimes, One Time and Other Times

Dean Littner — Thu, 02 May 2013 09:57:00 GMT

Sometimes, we look at ourselves in the mirror and we think ‘what happened to that beautiful little girl?’ I’ll tell you what happened, A) she’s a man, B) she’s old and not little, and C) she’s turned her beautiful years into lock boxes of drug and sex abuse leaving a dried out piece of fruit person that stares in the mirror and wonders further ‘will Botox bring my little girl back, will hyaluronic acid injections do it, the laser, the peels, the knife, how, how do I bring her back?!’ She is no longer. She is of memory. She is of other. ‘Who are you dried fruit face person and what have we become?’ we ask our dried fruit face.

We open our mouth to answer and say, “I’m still me, I’m still that sunny little girl I am.”

But the noise that comes out of our mouth sounds like: a hurt cat, a dying frog, a drowning bag of puppies, a deranged goat, and another goat but much more deranged than the first. We close our mouth. We remain tight lipped. It’s probably not a good time to speak... It’s now time to look down at our body, oh wait, bad idea, look back up, wait, that’s the mirror, please look away, okay, that’s better. Clothes, we’ll cover ourselves with clothes and then look again. Black slimming clothes. Play some music. This song reminds us of when we could really move. Try it, do that move where you spring forward onto your hands and then back again, and… oh fuck, you’re on the ground now. You look back at the mirror and see a collapsed pile of sad person and think ‘did I hear something snap?’ it may have been your mind. A sudden and apparent spiral into complete and utter insanity or a broken wrist, both may be true.

Sometimes, we call our friends to make ourselves feel better. The stories we tell them hold us in the highest regard and we are the heroes every time. Sometimes, we want pity and we call expecting our friends to empathize with each injustice we have faced. They begin to tell us about their day and after we yawn profusely, we politely tell them to stop and we’ll talk to them later about whatever it is they were saying. Sometimes, we call them right back because we forgot a funny event that happened to us that we need to quickly share. Our friends listen patiently and then begin to tell us a funny thing that happened to them and then sorry we really gotta go, we hang up quickly. ‘Where did all those friends go?’ we ask ourselves while trying to find somebody to call. It’s just work people in your phone now, people who are paid to speak with you, well, that’ll do.

One time, you go to the bar that you used to go to years ago. You don’t drink anymore. You don’t do coke anymore. You don’t dance anymore, well maybe a little, just not anything that will break your wrist again… You’ll run into someone you recognize. It’s dark, you can’t see very well, you’re being pushed, it’s too dark to see who’s pushing you, you’re wet, that’s beer, you now smell like half a beer but good thing you wore black. You see the most beautiful boy and think ‘I can go talk to him, I’ll say something funny, he’ll get a laugh and maybe he’s not as superficial as he looks, I’m gonna go talk to him.’

You walk over when this beautiful boy is not distracted by all the other pretty young things and say to him, “I used to be just like you, I went through whatever you’re going through, I know how things are going to turn out for you, I’m sure you think this time in your life is going to last forever, I had someone say the same things to me when I was your age...”

Before you finish talking, the boy pretends to waive at someone across the room, and they hurry away. ‘What a superficial jerk’ you think as you make your way to the restroom. You wash your face and look up to find water has been poured all over your dried fruit skin, maybe you should have moisturized more, it’s not your fault. Finally, you recognize a person. They look terrible. You don’t motion to them or waive hi but they come to you anyway.

“Wow, you look,” They pause, “wow, I haven’t seen you in years, I still come here for the drink specials,” they look around and seem uncomfortable, “it’s really nice to, uh, the music is still nice here,” they leave.

Other times, we wonder if we can just feel well without the confirmation of others. If we can just confirm ourselves, maybe those sad misconceptions of who we are won’t hurt so badly. If we can just feel good without a pill, without making someone else feel less, without forcing a disingenuous compliment, without spending every penny, and without feeling sad and crashing immediately after. Those other times exist. They are when we take a breath, realizing we are in the moment, and all we really are responsible for is breathing. Those other times exist when everything aligns for even a few moments to acknowledge how important we are, how instrumental, and how all the moments in your life may have existed for you to experience this one touch, this one laugh, this one anything, and it will happen again for you, yes, it will happen again.

I Had it All

Dean Littner — Thu, 25 Apr 2013 09:57:00 GMT

I wanted it all and I had it all: husband, money, kids, bed modeling fame, friends I could buy or was in the process of buying, neighbors that were blackmailed into accepting gays, and I was still pretty.

“It’s just hard to take you seriously sometimes,” Houston said to me.

“I am seriously!” I exclaimed.

“So let me get this straight,” Houston began, “you want me to pay a sitter $600 so you can run off and make $200 in bed modeling?”

“I know, I was totally surprised that someone my age would make that much money in bed modeling but I’m officially really famous,” I agreed, “I also have longevity in the industry.”

Houston didn’t respond, he just grabbed his travel bag for work and left me in the house without any money for a sitter. Shock poured all over my body. I had already agreed to model, I couldn’t pass up an opportunity like this, and I had to figure out what to do with the kids.

“Justice, get down here!” I yelled for my oldest son.

“Yes Daddy?” He said after making his way downstairs to me.

“You’re like five, right?” I remarked, “that’s way old enough to babysit your newborn brother Houston Jr. but I’m a little worried that you aren’t ready to take on this responsibility.”

Justice picked his nose and responded, “Yes, I can, I am this many,” he held out both hands and flashed them three times, “I can the alphabet too,” he then confessed that he was secretly his favorite super hero and ran back up the stairs pretending to fly.

That was okay. As long as Justice knew to tell anybody that came to our door that I was in the shower drinking and I couldn’t come out till I finished shitting myself, he and Houston Jr. would be fine. I went to my bed modeling gig. At the mattress store, I ran into a dear old friend that I helped get into the business, his name was Pillow. I named him that a long time ago and the name Pillow has served him well in our industry because it also means pillow.

“Dean, Dean Littner, is that you?” Pillow spoke, “it’s been ages, I heard you got married.”

“Pillow, you look great,” I responded, “yes, I’m married now with kids and I don’t cheat or anything.”

He patted at my cheek and then said, “Props to you, props to you, you know, when you find the right guy, you just gotta be all about them, I mean, I stopped sleeping with my hot friends weeks ago and yesterday I told myself to really stop sleeping with them… the guy I’m dating calls that being exclusive.”

I twisted my face into a series of confused looks, “Exscrewshave?”

“It’s a hard word,” Pillow assured, “but it’s like being married.”

“Ah yes,” I said.

“Yes,” He said.

“Aha.”

“Yah.”

Just then, a customer approached us, “Who the hell do I have to fuck to get one of you whores to sell me a god damned bed in this dump?!”

Two days later, I returned home before Houston returned separately from his work trip.

“Hello, kids I’m home!” I yelled to an eerily quiet house.

After going through every room, I found nobody. I didn’t understand how my 5 year old and newborn disappeared from the house after being left alone for 2 days, this was crazy. I went across the street to the neighbor’s and knocked on their door.

“Hi, have you seen my kids?” I asked my neighbor, “I was taking a shower, well, you see, I’m a drunk and actually I made a mess that I had to wash off, ok, I shitted myself if you really must know but I promise I’m a good parent, I just take long showers and my kids ran off, it’s usually fine, this may have been 2 days ago… have you seen them?”

My neighbor paused, looked around for cameras, and then spoke, “You and your gay husband may be blackmailing us into accepting you but just maybe your kids are dead, check the bottom of your pool and pray for their souls because yours are truly lost.”

“Okay then, well, thank you…” I said as the door slammed.

The swimming pool the swimming pool! Why didn’t I think of that? On my way to the pool, I received a phone call from my new friend Dennis who I was in the process of buying because he worked admissions at a private school we wanted Justice to go to.

“Hi Dean,” Dennis greeted me on the phone, “so, I went to your house the other day for another one of our friendship payments and Justice told me that you were in the shower making a potty, when I investigated, I found the note you left in the shower that read, ‘if you’ve made it this far, I beg you to take my kids, please cover for me, and I’ll hit you back on Sunday,’ well… it’s Sunday.”

“Thank god!” I cheered, “this has been a frustrating five minutes.”

Dennis dropped off the kids, I gave him the $200 that I made from my bed modeling, and when Houston got home later that night, we made violent passionate love. Yes, I truly had it all.

Pick a Baby

Dean Littner — Fri, 08 Feb 2013 09:19:00 GMT

I always say “if you bite off more than you can chew, just swallow bigger” and life is full of big swallows. Our lesbians, Careen & JillAnne, were both about to pop out babies from our gay DNA party 9 months ago and our baby broker additionally hooked up a third kid just in case none of the other babies were cute. Oh my god, we needed to pick a baby.

“Can I talk to you?” My husband Houston came to me holding pictures of 3D ultrasounds and medical examination reports, “why are there so many babies again, why all this?”

I picked up the pictures, “Honey, I knew you’d forget why, therefore, I recorded a Sally Jessy Raphael from 1988 about this very topic and I really think you should watch it.”

“That doesn’t sound healthy,” Houston baulked, “just tell me.”

“Okay,” I said while picking up the cutest in utero baby photo, “look, this kid is cute and he has Houston Jr. written all over his little fetal face but maybe he’s really all crazy cakes and we just don’t know it yet and all these examinations and tests make me feel like science things are happening in hopes that the kid we eventually pick isn’t stupid,” I paused and continued, “anyway, Sally said and it’s true.”

My son Justice looked over some of the photos and spoke, “Daddies, are you replacing me?”

“Ahahaha, ahahahaha, hahahaha, oh Justice, hahahaha!” I laughed but I didn’t answer him.

A few weeks later was the moment of truth. Both lesbians and the random surrogate were all in labor at the same time and we had agreed that after the babies were born, we would put them in some pit, call for them to crawl to us, and the baby that crawled to Houston and I first would be our kid. Whatever kids were left over would either go to the lesbians or we would auction them off to charity generating a tax deduction, as long as that tax return was never audited by the Feds (cross fingers)…

I was flipping out in the delivery room, “Oh my god blood!!!” I yelled at JillAnne’s vagina, “it’s crazy in there!” I pointed.

“Mr. Littner, please calm down,” The Doctor demanded.

I didn’t listen, I ran over to Houston and started pulling at his shirt, “A baby’s coming!” I yelled, “this is so exciting I just want to rip all my clothes off and have sex, Houston, let’s do it right here!”

Houston put his hands on my shoulders and squeezed, “You’re scaring the… everybody right now, maybe we should take a little break in the hallway sweetums.”

I fidgeted, “Honey, can’t we have sex for just one minute?” his look back at me was very serious though so I acquiesced, “okay fine, I’ll calm down, hmmm hmm hmm hmm hmm la la,” I began humming and singing instead.

“Waaaaaaaaa!” I heard the first baby cry as it ejected from JillAnne’s vagina.

“Waaaaaa, waaa-aaaa!!!” The next baby screamed as it was cut out of Careen via C-section.

WaaaaaaWaaaWaaaaa!!!!” The last and loudest baby chimed in as clawed its way into the world covered in abiotic goo from the surrogate’s factory uterus.

They all seemed so “Houston Jr.” to me, I couldn’t tell right away which one we would take home and love forever. I needed this baby to secure the marriage and ensure that if something ever happened to my other son Justice, I would have raised a backup nurse for when I’m old, shitting myself, and forgetting who they are but I would always know that they were a nurse. As soon as the children were able to be held, we put all three in a large packing box I found in the hospital dumpster. Houston and I started calling to them.

“Come on, which one of you wants a better home, you don’t want to be stuck with those lesbians, come out of the box,” I started to say until JillAnne punched me in the arm, “ouch!”

A nurse rushed over to us, “What are you guys doing with those babies?” she perplexed.

I then answered her, “It’s a long story but they gotta start crawling to us so we can get home for the nanny to start taking care of the winner, crawl kids crawl!” I urged.

The nurse was upset by this and spoke, “These are new born babies, they don’t crawl you idiot, they flop around, they cry, they suck milk, get them out of that dirty box.”

“Hahaha,” I laughed, “they just spent 9 months in one… ouch!” Careen hit me this time.

Houston took over the situation by picking up each child one by one and placing them gently in their little beds. He turned to us and I could tell he was deeply moved by his interaction with them.

“I wish we could take them all,” Houston began, “but I know only one may come home with us for the nanny to take care of.”

“Which one honey, which one?” I pleaded to know.

Houston picked up the one with the blondest hair, “Well darling, I watched that Sally Jessy Raphael from 1988 and after I stopped crying, I realized that I liked Sally blond and I want my kid to be blond too.”

“It makes me so happy,” I hugged Houston, “you watched Sally.”

Sexnesia

Dean Littner — Thu, 03 Jan 2013 10:35:00 GMT

I turned over in my marital bed and faced my husband Houston. He had hot man sweat glistening all over his burly muscle body and this got me all sexed up. I ran a hand from his strong jaw down through his furry chest and cupped over his manhood.

“This piece,” I looked into Houston’s eyes as I stroked his meat, “this is my favorite piece, wanna give me some baby?”

I rolled over and arched my back in waiting.

Houston reached out to me with his large and powerful hands gripping my buttocks, “Honey, we just did this and I would love to do it again but you’re getting close to wearing out your favorite piece…”

That was strange for Houston to say because I didn’t remember doing it recently. Then I felt Houston reach behind me and pull me closer and the next thing I remember was hearing him groan and roll over away from me.

“Baby,” I called over to him, “aren’t we gonna do it?”

“Again?” He responded, “we just did it two times in a row.”

“What?” I said as I reached behind me to feel, “am I crazy, I really don’t remember, Houston what’s happening to me?”

Houston hugged me, “Dean, I thought it was strange how we’ve done nothing this weekend but have sex and you haven’t even gone shopping yet.”

I started to worry, “Houston, I’m really scared, please have sex with me one more time just to see what happens.”

Houston mounted me, I remembered from just about the time he started to push into me but then in a blink he was dismounting and it was all over. This was crazy. How did I not remember being pumped? This was a problem. I’m sure I was still really good during the sex but I wanted to remember it too, I mean, sex is one of my only favorite things in life and not remembering it is like finding out my favorite mocha is like twice as many calories as previously thought (which it is…). The next day, we traveled to the Doctor to find out what was going on with me.

Houston held my hand in the waiting room, “My Handsome, I’m sure this kind of thing happens all the time, the Doctor will sort it out.”

I then reflected sadly, “When I was single maybe and if the guy wasn’t hot or rich but Honeybear, you are the hottest rich thing to me and I don’t want to forget even one orgasm,” I said through tears.

A nurse took my vitals and then the Doctor met with us.

“Hello, I’m Dr. Tom,” The Doctor said with an outstretched hand, “tell me about the last sex you remember.”

I started talking about the time we did it in Houston’s restaurant kitchen and in the food walk-in during hours and after hours and then in the parking lot on the way to the car and then in the car and then while driving and then in the driveway at home… Finally, Dr. Tom cut me off and asked about more recently.

I stared at him blankly, “I don’t remember Doctor. I. Don’t. Remember!” I put my hands over my face and started shaking as Houston held me tighter, “I want to have sex the same way Cher is Cher, not just Cher-like.”

“That statement makes no sense,” Dr. Tom said.

“It makes sense,” I shot back.

“Anyway, you have Sexnesia,” Dr. Tom then scribbled in his chart.

“What?” Houston wondered out loud, “what is Sexnesia is my baby okay?”

Dr. Tom explained, “Sexnesia happens when your brain is too small to hold an abnormally large amount of sexual memories, Dean, Dean Littner has run out of brain cells for sex.”

“So, I’ve been having amazing sex and can’t retain those memories, this is cruel, what do we do?” I asked, “is there hope?”

Dr. Tom handed us a pamphlet titled ‘Understanding Sexnesia’ and it covered the basics:

Without a brain transplant, Sexnesia is permanent.
Sexnesia affects 1 out of 3 sex workers in third world countries, no offense but it’s true.
Sexnesia isn’t funny, it’s a serious disease, and if you’re laughing at it, stop laughing and start crying at it because it’s sad.

He also showed an informative video on how to record yourself having sex and then watch it while you were doing a different activity to trick yourself into remembering some aspects of sex but sex would never be the same again.

“I’m not just gonna sew up my hole and give in dammit,” I wiped away the tears from my cheeks, “we can fight this, I need a sex transplant!”

My transplant surgery was scheduled and over the next few weeks I learned about my brain donor. His name was Chakalaka and he was a refugee from the province of Burbank. Chakalaka was hit by a car while trying to sell his chocolate rose on the street, he was 18, and he had been in a coma since the accident.

I visited Chakalaka in the hospital and whispered to his unresponsive body, “Chakalaka, the most precious part of you is going to be inside me,” I touched his temple, “your brain, I mean your brain Chakalaka,” he didn’t respond…

During the surgery, Dr. Tom beat on drums while chanting, he had tribal dancers perform around a blue fire in the operating room, and at some point a lamb was sacrificed so I could drink the blood, gross. Chakalaka was wheeled into the room and they pulled his brain out of his head in front of me, gross. I was given an anesthetic and they drilled open my head, shoved the extra brain into my skull, and cut away any remaining pieces bulging from of the sides, eww gross. I woke up in a fog and Houston was by my side smiling.

“The surgery was a success,” Houston said while caressing my arm that had an IV stuck in it, “Dr. Tom says it all went perfectly.”

I signed with relief, “Then fuck me.”

Town Slut

Dean Littner — Thu, 20 Dec 2012 10:54:00 GMT

Sometimes when I’m alone, I touch myself and I call it “my own private adventure story” because this is my adventure and this is my private alone time and this is my story. It was on a cold winter’s morn in LA (70 degrees…) that an unexpected event happened and changed the course of my day. I was having “my own private adventure story” time because my husband was at work and unable to pleasure me and suddenly there was a knock at the door.

“What do you want, I was touching myself?” I said as I opened up the front door.

A skinny pock faced man holding a stack of flyers spoke, “Oh, I’m sorry to interrupt but this is an emergency.”

He gave me a flyer and it had a picture of me from my early bed modeling days with the words “Town Slut Moves to Our Neighborhood, Run Him Out!” typed on the flyer.

“That’s me!” I yipped.

“What?” The skinny man said, “you are so much older now, hmmm, when Nancy the neighborhood council leader told me about you… well, I expected a threat to my hetero marriage due to my repressed homosexual feelings but my gardeners are even hotter than you.”

He had a point, my gut had grown since my marriage to Houston, age, and I didn’t really need to look hot anymore because we had Houston’s money but still, this was offensive to me.

“Can you tell me where this Nancy person lives?” I asked.

I marched over to Nancy’s house fully pissed off and ready to attack. When she opened the door, I was surprised to find a young woman in her 20s, tall, slim, sexy, and well dressed.

“How may I help you neighbor?” Nancy said in a smooth controlled tone.

“Yes, I’m told that you are behind these flyers,” I held one out, “do you realize how sexy I was back then?”

Nancy took a breath, “I’m sorry Dean Littner but I’m trying to join a Christian gang and in order to get jumped in, I need to sacrifice a gay.

I fired back, “Well that’s just stupid to go after me when you can go after that repressed pocked marked skinny gay handing out these flyers, why me, I’m fun?”

Nancy looked at me and smiled, “You know Dean, there’s a gang meeting tonight and I told them that we would run you out of the neighborhood but I have a better idea.”

Houston came home that evening and I told him about my day.

I massaged Houston’s shoulders and summarized, “Honeybear, I was pleasuring myself today when the doorbell rang and a repressed gay neighbor had a flyer that Nancy the neighborhood council leader made to run me out of town and impress her Christian gang friends.”

Houston sat me down and then massaged my shoulders while saying, “Sweetydoll, I created a new dessert at the restaurant, I called it chocolate cake.”

“I love chocolate,” I said just before we started having sex.

Later that night after putting our son Justice to bed, I traveled alone to the Christian gang meeting. Nancy and I had made a plan to make it appear that I had a demon in me and that I needed an exorcism, fun! I was ready to fill my mouth with Alka Seltzer and appear foamy. Nancy promised one of the hot Christian guys may kiss me out of joy in the name of Jesus if I was really convincing when the demon left me, no tongues because I was married. Oh, and I had to pretend that I was straight afterwards for a few minutes. And, the demon could come back at any time and we could do this every week if we wanted to. I told her I would see how this one went first but I liked the idea.

I entered the meeting and announced to the crowd, “I know you’ve been expecting the town slut but here I am instead.”

Everybody looked at each other and then one person in the crowd said, “But Dean Littner, you are the town slut...”

Nancy (acting for the crowd) spoke up, “And you have a demon in you, I can sense it, demon!”

“You’ve been expecting me then,” I pleasantly confirmed, “let’s get to work then, I don’t have all night.”

The exorcism began, at first it was fun, everybody surrounded me yelling things like “You die you demon homo die” and then I popped the Alka Seltzer in my mouth and made moaning noises, they all freaked out.

Nancy yelled, “Shower the demon with god’s love and kiss the demon out of him!”

A really large blond muscular guy came over to me and started making sucky face kisses on my head, “I can taste the sin!” he yelled with joy.

“Be gone demon, be gone sin, turn straight now!” They yelled.

I threw up and felt a lot better. I told everyone I liked girls (for like a minute). Afterwards, I told Nancy that I had the time of my life and we could do this whenever she wanted because that’s what good neighbors are for.

Turning 40 and Gay Death

Dean Littner — Tue, 09 Oct 2012 10:27:00 GMT

I don’t look at turning 40 as the end, I look at it as a rebirth but in order to be reborn, you must have gay death. I had just a few more months of being my old pretty gay self at 39, the horizon of 40 was near, and I only needed to embrace my destiny. I was currently married with one child, planning a 2nd child with lesbian friends, and finally finally finally had money and didn’t need to struggle as a useless bed model ever again, what could I possibly be missing before gay death? Ummm, a $20,000 swimsuit!

Houston didn’t understand my request, “So my love, did you say you want a $20,000 swimsuit for the last pool party of the season?”

“For the last pool party of my life!” I corrected.

“We have a heated pool and we can go swimming and invite your friends any time of the year you want,” Houston consoled.

I frowned, “I don’t have any friends, just gay assemblages, and by the time I organize enough hot guys to show off our pool to, I’ll be 40 and dead.”

Houston didn’t like my comments, “You realize I’m over 40 and I’m far from dead.”

“I want to wear the swimsuit, I want, I want!” I collapsed to the floor and refused to move, I also peed and pood my pants.

“Look,” Houston leveled, “look, I will buy you this suit if you go to your son Justice’s kindergarten tomorrow instead of me.”

I peeked my head out, “But that’s the boring day they pick a father to teach the kids about boring grownup things, that’s why I wanted you to go not me.”

Houston gave me another “look” expression and I conceded to go to kindergarten. Yay, $20,000 suit managed!!!

The next day, I was introduced to my son’s kindergarten class by their teacher Mrs. Brand. At first, Mrs. Brand was confused because Houston was still on the schedule but I informed her that I was not a restaurateur like my husband and actually, they had shipped my Master of All Coloring on Paper Things Person Manager job overseas, even though everybody knew what a good colorer I was… She looked at me, tilted her head to one side, and blinked.

Mrs. Brand then addressed the children, “Class, today we have a special parent,” she looked back at me, “yes, a very special parent, this is Justice’s father, Mr. Littner.”

“I prefer to be called Dean, Dean Littner that is,” I said to a room full of bright young minds, “you all may recognize me from my bed modeling catalogs but I got married to Justice’s adopted daddy Houston and I don’t need to do that anymore, so… any questions?”

A little girl raised her hand and spoke, “Can grownups eat McDonalds whenever they want?” the class grumbled in agreement that this was a very important question.

Just then, a chubby kid in the back threw up everywhere (it had nothing to do with me) and the teacher scrambled over to help the child.

“Mr. Littner, will you please watch the class while I take little Kevin to the nurse?” Mrs. Brand asked as she escorted pukey Kevin out of his seat

“Sure,” I said as Mrs. Brand left.

I was alone with the children. I looked around the room and realized this was my chance to prove that I am one of those active and involved parents. I could really make a difference. I pulled out my swimsuit from my manbag and held it in front of the class. It was two toned shark skin with 14 Karat gold stitching, it had diamond buttons, pearl covered pull strings, it was perfectly contoured to hug every piece of my junk, and it sparkled.

“Wow!” Everyone spoke collectively.

“I know,” I then said, “This. Swimsuit. Cost. Twenty. Thousand. Dollars.”

“Wowwww!!!” Everyone spoke again collectively.

“I know.”

3 days later, I was at the last pool party of my life. I looked out among the crowd and saw new gays in their early twenties just figuring out how much whore to tolerate within themselves, I saw gays in their thirties mostly unaware of how quickly this last stage of life passes, and then I saw my near 40 reflection in the pool. The ripples seemed to express the movement within my soul. How I longed to be at the bottom of the pool where it was peaceful and age didn’t matter. A 22 year-old body builder jumped in the pool and my reflection shattered as the water waved out of control. Soon, I would become just a memory but I truly wanted the memory to last. I looked down at my swimsuit and smiled knowing this memory would last forever, especially because it was so goddamned expensive.

Houston and I Can Cook

Dean Littner — Fri, 21 Sep 2012 10:46:00 GMT

Houston, my rich restaurateur husband, came home from work one night and he seemed upset.

“Honey bear, what’s wrong muscle daddy hairykins?” I asked in my adult voice.

“We lost a cook at the restaurant tonight and tomorrow, I have a full house, ugh… I can cook but the front of the house will be without me and we need help,” Houston said in his concerned thinking voice.

I didn’t skip a beat, “My love, we share our problems together and we also share our solutions, hello, I’m your front of the house guy and I will shine for you.”

Houston smiled and grabbed me closer to him. He began to kiss me softly on my lips and then made his way to my ear where he nibbled on my lobe. Suddenly, he ripped off my shirt and pushed me up against the kitchen counter. I ripped his shirt off as well and we grinded chests peck to peck. Houston then reached down the back of my pants and found my starfish. I eagerly unzipped my pants and quickly unzipped Houston’s while pulling out his erect pulsating penis. Just then, a bottle of cooking oil fell from the shelf above us and covered our bodies. Glistening with oil, our muscles rubbed, flexed, and gleamed. Houston slid me around and found his way into my wet cookie hole.

“Yes!” I yelled, “get up in it.”

I reached down between my legs and fondled Houston’s shaft as it rammed inside my crack, my oiled fingers coaxed Houston’s balls as he moaned and grunted with each push into me. I reached further back and managed a finger inside his perky hole while I tapped and dialed for his prostate.

We both came violently and I screamed, “Everything, everything, EVERYTHING!!!!”

After our volcanic orgasms, I heard a voice on the other side of the kitchen counter, “Daddy Dean, will you read me a story for bed?”

My son Justice had a knack for walking in on Houston and I, especially when we were having sex everywhere, god. I grabbed a kitchen towel and covered up my sin.

“Honey, go back to your room so Daddy & Big Daddy Houston can wear clothes again, then I’ll grab that magazine on nursing care that you like so much,” I calmly stated.

“Okay Daddies,” Justice left.

The next night, the restaurant was packed with a line out the door, and just fun little me to manage everything. I thrived in the excitement of it all.

“This is so exciting!” I told a couple as I walked them to their table.

“What’s exciting?” They asked.

“This!” I said.

I then left them to go seat the next table. I was incredibly turned on by everything.

“How is the lobster?” A young woman asked.

I closed my eyes and imagined lobster, “Ooooh, it is so sexy, it is full of sex,” I then opened my eyes.

She then asked, “How is the venison?”

“I don’t know what that is but let me imagine it,” I closed my eyes again, “oooooh, sooo big, it’s soooo big, mmmmm.”

I checked on Houston in the kitchen and he was working very hard, this got me even more excited. I loved seeing my man cook and sweat.

“Dean, we need to push more desserts,” Houston grabbed a dessert tray, “here, take these around the restaurant and really sell them.”

“I would love to model these desserts,” I told Houston as he passed the tray to me.

I walked over to a table full of business men and propped the tray on a stand next to them.

“What do we have here?” One suited man asked.

I picked up the crème brûlée and forced my tongue through the crust. I licked some of the custard out and then ran my fingers from my wet lips down my front and into my pants as I turned back around to the dessert tray. I then grabbed a slice of dark chocolate cake and created mystery by placing it on the floor and sitting on it, when I stood up, it was gone, hmmm, where did it go?

I turned to the table and pleaded in a musky voice, “Save these desserts from me, order them before it’s too late.”

The suited man then said, “I can’t watch anymore of this so yes, we will take them all.”

“Thank you,” I was on fire.

Then the Health Department showed up. They sent a stalky old lady inspector, she was not sexy at all and totally a buzz kill.

“We’ve been getting complaints,” The health inspector began, “your customers have been calling saying that you have sex with the lobster and many horrific accounts of solicitation, you guys currently have an “A” rating, what’s going on here?”

I looked her up and down and then spoke, “I’m married, my husband’s in the kitchen cooking and providing for our family, you are NOT gonna shake us down!”

Houston must have noticed the inspector because he came out of the kitchen and walked right up to her, “Hi Lori, how are you, may I help you?”

Lori the health inspector leaned over to Houston’s ear, pointed at me, and whispered something I couldn’t make out. I didn’t like this at all so I pretended to whisper at an imaginary person and pointed back at her…

Houston then gently took my hand and walked me to the back of the restaurant, “Dean, you are my favorite person in the whole world and I love everything about you so I’m going to promote you.”

My eyes gleamed, “Really, oh my god I’m so happy, what am I promoted to?”

Houston’s eyes darted around and landed on a stack of kid’s menus, “You are now the official Master of All Coloring on Paper Things Person Manager.”

“What’s that?” I wondered.

“These menus need to be colored in to see if they, uh, work,” He smiled grabbed a bunch of crayons.

I was skeptical, “But what about the front of the restaurant?”

“We’ll display your work,” He assured.

Houston took me to the office where I colored all night and was so happy to get to show everybody later what a good colorer I was. The next day, Houston gave me news that they had shipped my Master of All Coloring on Paper Things Person Manager job overseas and also hired a new cook so I never had to work at the restaurant again.

Suicide Note

Dean Littner — Thu, 13 Sep 2012 10:10:00 GMT

Picture a circle of people and everybody is holding hands, some people are unable to feel the hands they are holding so they drop out of the circle, at some point after scrambling to reconnect hands, the circle feels a presence missing, the remaining members are closer together but the circle is now smaller and less. What if that same energy that it took to scramble and reconnect the circle was directed towards the people at risk of dropping out, would they stay?

When I was 18, I wrote a letter one night in a state of confusion. This letter detailed how hard it was to deal with the thoughts that were racing through my mind at the time and I inserted phrasing like “Writing this letter is the only thing keeping me alive right now.” When I showed the letter to my friends, they became very concerned. At first I didn’t understand why, I thought that I had just written a deep letter, and what it had looked like to them was the equivalent of a suicide note. I didn’t intend for it to be written that way and the thoughts were just passing through mind and onto the paper. It was the same way that people don’t intend to let their loved ones down by leaving them but to look back on it; intentions are often put aside to make way for the force that feelings have with you. These feelings sometimes have no reason but they definitely have their way.

The last words that you would have said to your friend if they didn’t end their life before you got the chance to say them:

“You and I are the same and I love you as an equal.”

“The time on this earth may be tough but please know that my time on this earth is better because of you and all the time I’m allowed to spend with a spirit so wonderful as you, enables me to live.”

“Keep going, no matter how dark, no matter how cold, no matter what you feel, keep going, no matter who has done this to you, no matter how painful everything has become.”

“Love yourself, look at yourself, make yourself smile, and say the words ‘I love you’ thousands and thousands of times and even if you feel you don’t have a voice.”

“You are the most important person and I need you.”

Tell the people who are in your circle, tell them now before we are scrambling to make sense again, and then tell them again.

How to Buy A Baby

Dean Littner — Mon, 27 Aug 2012 10:16:00 GMT

I’ve always thought the belief that gay parents will successfully teach their kids to be gay was a total and complete logic fail. I mean, kids rebel substantially enough from what they are “taught” based on what their hormones have in store for them, they will be gay or straight, and everything in between, regardless. Do you really think a kid who is “taught” to be straight is going to tell you they are gay if all the messages received from their parents and the surrounding community is hatred towards them? You may think you have produced the straightest child ever but they are just straight to the cocksucking contest. I think the real problem is that the children of gay parents run the risk of being open minded and accepting. There are a lot of open minded accepting individuals of all genders and accepting gay people does not mean you are gay, silly, it just means you would probably make out for a bit, that’s all.

Houston and I needed to buy a baby no matter how worried some yahoo may be that we would turn any of our kids gay, I was more worried about securing child support, alimony, and future free nursing care from my kids, which are all things of much more importance anyway. My existing son Justice was bought from a 3 ½ foot tall Indian woman at the Mexican border for $7 dollars (shhhh… nobody knows that…) but this new kid was gonna be legit.

Our baby broker sat down with us one afternoon in our Hollywood Hills home and gave us the run down, “Mr. Houston & Mr. Dean, the egg and insemination will cost $20-$30K, the surrogate will be about $50-$80K, and there are miscellaneous fees to expect in the $20K range but after all that, your baby will be delivered and you can be gay parents.”

“What do you think honey?” Houston deferred to me.

“I think it all sounds so natural and not at all complicated like guilting our lesbian friends into getting basted,” I summarized.

“You’re right, those baste babies are time bombs of litigation and horrid custody battles begging to happen,” The broker chimed in.

“Where do we sign?” Houston said as he pulled out his Montblanc pen.

Later that night, we had dinner with our lesbian friends, Careen and JillAnne and we got their take on our new baby purchase.

I opened up the topic, “Well at first, we thought about just asking you guys because you both have wombs but then we realized you could sue us for the baby one day.”

Careen seemed thrown off, “Wow Dean, I wish you would have just asked instead of blowing all that money, I’m sure we could have worked something out, we may not like men sexually but we need their semen to fertilize our dreams.”

JillAnne spoke, “We have two wombs you know,” she pointed to her womb and then Careen’s and continued, “it’s an even deal, our wombs for your semen and we split the kids...”

Houston joined in, “Careen & JillAnne have a point,” he then walked over to the liquor cabinet and pulled out an expensive Black Bowmore 42 year old Single Malt Scotch bottle and opened it for us while saying, “I say we get shit faced on good liquor and make some babies.”

“Yes, but I have an idea on how to go about it,” I started, “let’s definitely get shit faced but let’s also try and make gay babies.”

“What do you mean?” Everybody wondered out loud.

I continued, “I mean, let’s have our usual gay sex that we always have and then pass the baby juice from our penises to you guys to insert during your girl on girl homo-orgasms.”

“We’re going to make the gayest babies ever!” Careen rejoiced.

“I know, it’s like scientific!” JillAnne praised.

“Let’s make these gay babies!” Houston cheered.

“Shit faced!” I yelled and we drank.

Even if the babies we made that night weren’t gay, we would still love them just the same. I called the baby broker and told him what we did with the lesbians and he was not thwarted.

“Well Dean, you should still go through with a third baby to hedge your bets,” The broker said confidently. “What do you mean,” I said, “aren’t those too many babies?”

The broker explained, “Never.”

He had a point and I liked the idea that we could pick the best baby out of three and resell the extra one. Straight people had been birthing, buying, and reselling babies for centuries and now it was our turn, equality.

My Wedding

Dean Littner — Wed, 22 Aug 2012 09:45:00 GMT

When Houston proposed to me, it was the happiest day of my life.

“Dean, I love you Dean Littner,” Houston said to me, while on bended knee, “all these years, I have fought bigotry and survived only by knowing that one day, I would find the perfect man to spend the rest of my life with, Dean, will you marry me?”

“Yes Houston,” I started crying, “more than anything, yes!” I couldn’t wait to be married to Houston!

The next few months had me busy planning the wedding by hiring somebody else to do that. It was really hard to say “yes” and “no” so many times to the planner’s suggestions but I got used to it and in the end, a fairytale fantasy wedding was decided upon. I would dress like Prince Charming and Houston would dress like Tarzan (I’ve always had a thing for Tarzan).

“Julita, will you be my Maid of Honor and dress like a belly dancer for the wedding?” I asked while we packed up the last of my apartment for the move into Houston’s Hollywood Hills home.

“I would love to!” Julita cheered and then she looked into one of my boxes marked ‘Ex-Boyfriends’ and quizzed, “why are you moving this ex-boyfriend box into your new home with Houston?”

I looked into the box and saw photos of all my ex-boyfriends and said, “Pictures of people I’ve slept with comfort me, it reminds me of how hot they were before everything went downhill for them.”

“Why is there a picture of a cat in there?” Julita puzzled.

“I’ve slept with that cat,” And we had a lot of silence after I said that…

There was one ex-boyfriend that I had always still wondered about and that was Gunner. As soon as Gunner left me for science all those years ago, my whole life changed and it wasn’t necessarily for the better. Maybe if Gunner never left, I would still be seeing him and breaking up with him and then seeing him again but we never had that chance, sigh. Anyway, I was deeply in love with Houston now and thinking about the past was myopic compared to the long life my husband and I would be building together. Houston was my hot man and the only one I ever needed, so there. Suddenly, I took the ex-boyfriend box, pulled out just one picture, and sold the rest online. Yes, there’s a market for personal items held by famous bed models and I got $450 for it.

My wedding was the best thing ever, it was very classy, and everybody knew it. I traveled down the aisle via canoe on wheels and pretended to paddle while hunky men pushed me gently towards the altar. There were miniature volcanos that erupted with fireworks and lava as I passed each one and Houston, dressed like Tarzan, swung in from a vine just as I exited my canoe. We stood together and stared longingly into each other’s eyes.

I said my vows, “Houston, from the blink that our eyes met, my heart melted and was poured into a glass which I now offer you to drink for eternity,” I spun around at the crowd and repeated in a stage whisper, “eternity.”

Just then, I felt something scratch violently up my leg, and then it leapt from me onto Houston in a fury of claws.

I quickly realized what it was, “It’s that jealous fucking cat I slept with, somebody help, save Houston!” I yelled.

My Maid of Honor, Julita, ran to the rescue, grabbed the jealous cat, and threw it into one of the volcanos thus erupting in fire and fur.

“MEEEOOOWWWWAAAHHHH!!!” The cat screamed as it died in green flames.

Houston said his vows, “Dean, Dean Littner, from that first exciting night till this very exciting moment, you have turned me on and I can envision you old turning me on too, your smile makes me want to buy you things, let’s buy a kid, I love you forever, the end,” he then cried.

Everybody said “Awww” we ringed, we kissed, an opera singer performed ‘Voi Che Sapete’ by Mozart, and we were awesomely married.

Weeks later, we returned to our Hollywood Hills home from a wonderful honeymoon in Fiji. After unpacking our bags and putting my son Justice to sleep, I pulled out the picture from the Ex-Boyfriends box that I didn’t sell; it was a picture of Houston. I don’t know how Houston’s picture had ended up with the others but I hoped I would never need a box like that in my life again.

Plastic Surgery Serial Killer, #5

Dean Littner — Fri, 13 Jul 2012 09:17:00 GMT

I received all of my required surgeries, taught my son how to speak words, and found the man of my dreams (my Houston), it couldn’t be that easy, something had to go wrong. I started to worry…

“Wow Dean, have you had work done?” My best girlfriend Julita noted as she dropped off my son Justice.

I let Justice go inside to play with his toys and told Julita, “The only kind of ‘work’ I get done is work that I get paid for and I get paid to look great, got it.”

“Okay Dean, it’s not like I’m accusing you of murder,” Julita raised an eyebrow.

“Well Julita, I don’t do that,” I decided against inviting Julita inside, “thank you for taking care of Justice, I have five headaches and need to rest, I’ll call you later.”

I didn’t mean to steal my plastic surgeries from people that later ended up dead so I hid the bodies, it just happened that way. I heard a knock at my door and assumed it was Julita returning to accuse me of more things. I really wanted to rest because my back wasn’t fully healed from my last surgery and I needed to start having sex with Houston or he wouldn’t know how good I was bed.

“Julita, I really will murder you if you keep bugging me!” I yelled as I opened up the door.

“Dean, are you a Mr. Dean Littner?” A slim suited man on my doorstep asked.

“Why yes,” I responded, “I’m one of those, yes, I’m a Dean Littner that is.”

He pulled out a picture of my first victim I mean my friend Marvin who disappeared and left me his surgery because, “I’m Agent Walter Capstone with the FBI, have you seen this man, is he a friend of yours?”

“AAAHHHH!” I screamed, “it can’t be, was the body discovered?”

Agent Capstone put the picture away, “Mr. Littner, there is no body, we have not determined the exact nature of the Mr. Jones disappearance; however, I can see that you are very distraught by it, may I come in?”

I let Agent Capstone in and told him, “Marvin’s dogs ate him, I know it,” Marvin operated a puppy mill and that was completely plausible.

“Mr. Littner, I’m not sure you completely understand why I’m here but we are not expecting foul play, we think Mr. Jones fled because he was under investigation.” Agent Capstone stated.

“Yes!” I yelled, “that’s totally it!”

As the agent spoke, a happiness inside my heart emerged, I was going to get away with this one, and I couldn’t wait for my date with Houston. I could never share these elicit details of my life with Houston but I could celebrate by having sex with him for the first time. The Agent left my apartment and I finally got to rest for my date.

“Honey, the Doctor specifically said that you cannot receive a large penis inside you for at least a month,” Houston said right after I pulled his enormous erection out of my mouth and tried to sit on it.

What Houston didn’t understand was that years ago, I had a curse brought upon me where if I didn’t sleep with someone on the first night I met them, I had 30 days to get it done or I would lose them forever. Tonight was our 29th night together and I was desperate.

“What if I just take a whole bottle of prescription pain medication and when I pass out, you can go to town on my spank while the paramedics arrive to fix me?” I proposed.

“Did the Doctor say anything about topping?” Houston asked, “we only asked about bottoming but topping may be okay.”

“Yes, let’s do it!” I flipped a bubble gum flavored poppin’ pink rubber on and started to approach Houston’s man taco.

“Wait,” Houston stopped me, “we need to ask the Doctor tomorrow, I really don’t want you to get hurt.”

‘And I really don’t want to lose you’ I thought.

The next day the Doctor was unreachable… I worried about losing Houston and tried to come up with ways to break the 30 day curse. I visited my Wiccan friends, the libralarly (or however that place is spelled), and I cried for 24 minutes, but nothing offered hope to lift the curse. I would just have to accept my short time with Houston as the only time we had. I traveled to Houston’s home in the Hollywood Hills for our final night together and found the front door wide open. When I looked inside his home, there was a trail of candles leading upstairs that I soon followed. The candles lead me to his bedroom and there was my hot muscular hung oiled up hairy hung sexy and hung man on all fours.

“I called your Doctor today honey,” he said as I entered the room and began to strip.

To the side of Houston was a leather sling hanging from the wall and he told me to get in. The sling had a full body harness that I buckled around myself, it was tight. Once I was fully strapped in, I became confused because Houston continued to stay on all fours.

“Baby,” I called from the sling, “I’m ready for you to turn around and go madman on my ass.”

“Oh no, I’m staying right here,” Houston said as he pulled out a remote control and started pushing buttons.

“Deet doot doot deet deet… top sling sequence 3 activated,” A computer voice sounded from the hi-tech sling.

The sling began to move on its own and it positioned me directly behind Houston in a great topping position.

“Your Doctor said that you can’t bottom at all because I’m too big and the internal stitching may pop,” Houston arched his back and then continued, “but the Doc said you may top, if your spine is not aggravated, so I had this topping sling installed for us to celebrate our one month together.”

The top sling fit my body perfectly, it made every motion for me, and it topped to perfection with every inch, what a wonderful purchase! Houston and I made our 30 day sex deadline just in time and our love only grew from that special top slinging night.

Plastic Surgery Serial Killer, #4

Dean Littner — Thu, 17 May 2012 09:33:00 GMT

Arms dealers are apparently cranky. There I was on a date with Viktor Soghanalian, the arms dealer, and he was really boring until he pulled out a gun and threatened to shoot me because I thought the restaurant owner, Houston from Tomö Finland, was hot, which he was. Houston was probably the hottest man I’ve ever met and I guess that gets you shot or something when you tell a jealous date about it.

“I am hot!” Viktor yelled as I heard loud clacks from the gun fill the restaurant.

I was knocked off of my feet as the bullets hit my chest and I fell to the ground with a thud. I left my body and floated faster than light speed through other galaxies landing on a lush planet called Whorearth, which was full of beautiful men that welcomed my presence.

“Welcome Dean, Dean Littner that is, King of Whorearth,” The men chanted as they gathered around me.

I must have died and gone to Whorearth… Just so you don’t think I’m crazy, you should know that I’ve astral projected to Whorearth many times since being initiated as King of this planet full of whores many light years away from Earth and I’m still not crazy. I didn’t expect it to become my final destination though.

“WhoreKing Dean, may I approach the throne?” A built oiled muscular glistening manly sexy sexed up super-hot Citizen requested of me.

I looked him up and down and replied, “Yes, Citizen of Whorearth, thee may approacheth,” even though I don’t normally talk like that.

The Citizen approached me and spoke, “Your reign here will soon end and we must make way for a new WhoreKing, which is why you have been summoned.”

“Really?” I wondered, “I thought I was dead and this was Heaven and things.”

“Oh no,” The Citizen explained, “your Earth body is still back at the restaurant and very much alive… Listen, you have found your true love, Houston, and you must renounce your throne and marry this handsome man.”

“Houston is sooooooo hot, I would totally marry him!” I gleeped, “but I barely even know him, should I get to know him before or after we get married?”

“Who cares, just go back to him,” the Citizen stepped away and I felt my body begin to transport back to Earth from Whorearth.

I woke up and saw that the restaurant had been completely shot up. There were bodies everywhere but I didn’t see Houston, maybe he survived, god I prayed he was not shot in any part of his body that I needed and I also hoped that he was alive. I felt my chest and there were holes in my shirt where the bullets had entered. I felt the sting of my broken skin but there wasn’t much pain beyond that. I stood up and found a mirror, I looked bloody, and I looked awful but very much alive. Upon closer inspection, I found the shiny metal of my recent chest implants reflecting out from the bullet wounds. ‘Thank god for plastic surgery’ I thought as I realized my fake tits were what saved my life. When purchasing titties, you must always go big and expensive.

“Dean, you’re alive!” A voice from behind me called.

I turned to see a roughed up but still hot and sexy Houston.

I ran to Houston and hugged him deeply while crying, “My chest implants saved my life, they’re incredible.”

Houston then explained that after I was shot, he jumped into action, commandeered Viktor’s gun, and shot Viktor along with his whole evil entourage.

“You are so hot,” I said.

A few weeks later, while recovering from back surgery (needed to fix my carnival horse arch depression from being ridden too much), Houston came to visit me in the hospital. He brought stargazer lilies, very sweet, and spent time holding my hand.

“Dean, I looked you up online and found you are a famous bed model, that’s very exciting,” Houston squeezed my hand.

“Houston, even though I don’t know you very well,” I said while passionately gazing into his eyes, “I wouldn’t want to miss a day without knowing you more, I’m scared that all the things in my life that lead me to you may be seen as ugly but without them, I never would have known you.”

“We all have a past and we all have faced ugly challenges,” Houston caressed my cheek.

I took a deep breath and continued, “There are so many seasons I’ve spent longing a real connection with a true man who sees me and cares deeply for me, I believe in love that could transform both our lives to the next level of happiness making us greater than we both have ever been separately.”

“I believe in that too Dean Littner, I’ve been in love with you since I laid eyes on you and I don’t want anybody else,” Houston placed my hand over his chest and I felt his heart beating fast and strong, “this is me.”

I took Houston’s hand so that he could feel the same fast and beating heart in my chest and I too whispered softly, “This is me.”

Plastic Surgery Serial Killer, #3

Dean Littner — Thu, 26 Apr 2012 09:28:00 GMT

I had a new face. I looked in the mirror and I didn’t see old, and I didn’t see tired, and I didn’t see me, thank god! Maybe a few people (12 or so…) had to give up their surgeries (lives) for me but I looked great. I wanted a new back. Mine had been flopped upon so many times over the years that my sexy arch had collapsed and when I got on all fours, I looked like a carnival horse. Separately, my dates with rich men were going well and my 3 year old son Justice was learning how to speak. I was starting to treat Justice more like a person and less like a reason to receive Federal assistance. My favorite color became red.

“Gin or vadva?” Little Justice asked as he played with his baby martini making kit I got for him.

“VOD-ka it’s vodka, say it right or no man will ever love you honey,” I said.

After I finished Justice’s best martini yet, we headed to Home Depot to find a baby sitter for the night. I had a date with an arms dealer who smelled like husband and by husband I mean: buy me things forever.

“Hey you, niñera de mi bebé por favor, tengo las drogas o el sexo para usted,” I yelled to the crowd of day laborers (i.e. baby sitters).

I gave my kid to the most handsome laborer and promised to bring back drugs and sex tomorrow as payment when I picked Justice up from behind the Home Depot. He promised not to sell Justice or at least to call me first if there was a really good offer that exceeded the lifetime cost of my eventual nursing care needs that Justice was doomed to provide.

“Wish me luck,” I blew kisses to the laborers and left for my date.

“So then I told the Warlord, ‘just try not paying Viktor Soghanalian and see whose war your child soldiers fight then!’ and so he paid me in wives that I traded for this watch that I bought for you tonight,” Viktor the arms dealer gloated as he fitted the watch on my wrist.

“I love it,” My eyes batted.

I listened to Viktor Soghanalian tell stories about his experiences dealing with international things that I didn’t care about and every now and then my ears perked up to words like: jewels, gold, yacht, private jet, and a few other things I did care about. When I first started getting surgeries to look hotter, I didn’t count on there being many suitors, but now that I was back on top and a popular bed model again, there were dates galore and I wanted to choose my rich husbands wisely. I liked the idea that Viktor would be travelling around selling arms all the time and that meant I could spend his money without supervision; however, he wore all white to our date and that made him look tacky, especially with his all gold teeth. Oh dear, I had to end the date without getting shot.

“Thank you for the watch that cost all those Warlord’s wives, I really must be going,” I started to get up.

“Wait!” Viktor yelled, “sit down, we haven’t even eaten yet.”

Viktor had cleared out an entire 5 star Finnish style restaurant for our date tonight and if I wasn’t gonna marry him, I at least could pretend I was going to sleep with him for food.

“Hello, my name is Houston and I am the owner of this and many fine Finnish restaurants around the globe, welcome to Lovii Dovii, we feature cuisine from my home town of Tomö,” The most handsome man I have ever met in my life said.

I couldn’t keep my eyes off of Houston, he was so sexy, I started to drip. Houston wore sleek dress pants with a deep red designer shirt that draped his muscular chest, I wanted to rip that shirt off of him! Viktor seemed bored and unaware of how hot Houston was, this annoyed me, how could Viktor not realize how hot this manly restaurateur was…

“I’ll have the fish soup Mr. Houston from Tomö Finland,” Viktor ordered, “it reminds me of money bundles swimming around in salty tears.”

“How apropos for your line of work,” Houston winked and I melted even more as he then turned to me, “what would you like handsome?”

“Red is my favorite color!” I yelled and then paused to think of something else to say in the silence that followed. Finally, it came to me, “You are sooooo HOT!!! WHY??!!”

Viktor gasped and pulled out a gun, “You think he’s hot, not me?” Viktor grabbed Houston’s neck and pointed the gun to his head and blurted at me, “I have been trying to please you all night Dean Littner and this bastard is ruining our love, I kill him I KILL HIM!”

“You wore all white to our date!” I yelled back, “you are tacky and I don’t care about your jewels, gold, yacht, private jet, and other things if you can’t be as hot as him!”

Suddenly, Viktor surprised everyone by turning the gun on me and thus creating a cliff hanger.

TO BE CONTINUED…

Summer Apology Letter

Dean Littner — Wed, 28 Mar 2012 11:16:00 GMT

Dear Summer,

It seems like just yesterday you gave birth to me. You are my Mother, Summer, my Mother. Anyway, last time you came around, it was so much fun! Everyone encircled me saying, “Wow, you’re so thin, look at you, not an ounce of fat, I hate you skinny damn bitch,” AND I loved it. Then, slowly, when Fall began, the encircling stopped. I thought it was a fluke at first because I still took my clothes off all the time… but less people seemed to care. Then everything started to shrink in the wash, my jeans got too tight, and I had to buy new jeans. The weird thing is that my size in the store didn’t seem to fit anymore either. I mean, when did they start making all of the clothes smaller? Eventually, no one seemed to care that my shirt was off at all. I even approached people about this and they weirdly acted like I wasn’t hot. I felt the same inside, what happened, and why didn’t they think I was as hot as I am?

It’s because of you Summer. I simply forgot about you and I’m sorry. I know there are no excuses for forgetting about you but here are my excuses:

#1. I gave up on dieting. I know it seems obvious that when you stop watching what you eat, things get out of control and the fatness begins but I DIDN’T KNOW THAT! They opened up a fried chicken restaurant near my house, called Chick’s Fried-Flamers, and I have been eating there every day. I think I need to stop eating there though because I read online that they hate gay people and their big plan is to make us all fat and unattractive to everyone but god.

#2. I stopped shaving my back. I have been told that not everyone loves a full head of back hair but my back hair took over everything. I thought I was just being free and fun by running through a crowd shirtless until my back hair would catch on things like: lollipops, car keys, cameras, phones, eye glasses, pets, and people who hated being dragged by back hair. It’s just that my arms got too pudgy to reach around and shave it all, sorry.

#3. BBQs. There is a BBQ every day in Southern California, even on that one half-day of rain we get every few years. BBQ is not and never will be healthy for you. If you eat BBQ, throw it up right away, and run before it gets you. BBQ got me.

#4. Workouts got in the way of sex. I thought having lots of sex made me hot but I guess it’s the other way around. I overscheduled sex and under scheduled the gym.

#5. Famine. That’s right, famine is also to blame! Every time I watch late night TV coming down off of my party drugs, they show endless third world ribby kids in these “save the children” dramas. So much so, that I relate to these children as if they were my peers. I love them a lot. Then I run to 24 hour Taco Bell starving and I eat enough for the whole village because I can and they can’t. They remain thin because we don’t share the same stomach. It’s their problem.

Well Summer, I thought I owed you an apology before I get this junk liposucked out of me. I hope that you can find it in your heart to forgive me and please keep me skinnier a little longer next time.

Plastic Surgery Serial Killer, #2

Dean Littner — Mon, 27 Feb 2012 11:48:00 GMT

One thing I noticed from my recent plastic surgeries was, getting sliced up hurts but it is well worth it. I had 5 friends suddenly disappear and leave me surgeries in their Wills/suicide notes, how convenient and nice and unrelated to any of my doing… I went from an aging bed model that couldn’t get steady work to an on fire bed model superstar! Even Marco (the best bed model of all time) got jealous of my resurgence and new success. All of this was fun but my goal was not simply to be a great bed model and get work again. Entering my late thirties made me realize that I needed stability and reason in my life, therefore, I planned on using my fake looks to marry rich and be set for life. I started paying more attention to things like Doctors, Lawyers, Politicians, and Drug Lords. These things made money. I also started thinking about generativity (a big word). Generativity is the need to raise a family and thus produce free nursing care. Why pay someone for health care when you can guilt a son into changing crapped sheets while fitting you into a comfy diaper, right? Luckily, I already had a son (my 3 year old Justice); I just needed to start teaching him things like words and how to do more than fix me a cocktail.

I met very rich Dr. Steve during my last hair plug session. Sparkling on his wrist was an expensive Lange & Sohne Tourbograph watch and that meant there were boats, beach houses, and tropical vacations till the end of days if Dr. Steve was my husband. I couldn’t wait to sleep my way into his life and I casually mentioned that I was single.

“Let’s fly to San Francisco tonight and eat at my favorite restaurant La Folie,” Dr. Steve suggested to me.

I had my friend Julita watch little Justice and I hopped a jet with Dr. Steve to San Francisco. Dinner was divine, the baby shark stuffed with foie gras and gourmet snickers bars was experiential. We took a walk along the wharf and then booked the Penthouse Suite at the Fairmont Hotel. The Dr. had only seen my outside and he wanted in real bad.

“I’m ready for that hole,” Dr. Steve alerted as I slinked out of the shower and onto the silk sheets where he waited with a plump hard on.

Just as I began to mount Dr. Steve, something terrible happened. My hole made noises, “Chugga chugga chugga chugga,” it chugged and then there were a series of internal crashing sounds that grew loud and unpleasant.

“What the hell is that?” Dr. Steve questioned as his hard on started to melt away.

“It’s just what’s going on inside… look at my pretty new face and try to ignore it,” I explained.

Dr. Steve started to get off the bed in disgust, “You need to fix whatever that is before we move forward with anything else, I’ll call a car for you, please go...”

I needed a new hole if I was gonna bag Dr. Steve or anyone capable of taking care of my financial future. I also needed a new victim. I mean, I also needed a new surgery that someone really meant for me not them.

The next day, I waited across the street from an anal reconstructive surgery outlet and watched the patients limp in and out all day. Finally, I found a little old lady struggling to her car; she looked like she had been through a lot of train crashes in her day.

I approached her and said, “Hi, I’m Dean, I, uh shit, I meant to say I’m Deanaldo, how are you today?”

“Oh hi, I’m Emily,” She said sweetly, “and I’d be perfect if all my poopy parts worked dandy enough but I’ll tell you a secret, they don’t,” she painfully smiled.

“Aww,” I frowned.

Emily continued, “When I was your age, I was what you’d call a pudding pop or a cream berry, I didn’t want to get pregnant so I took each and every man into my fudge kitchen and we cooked and we cooked.”

“That’s my story too Emily!” I embraced her.

“I feel so close to you Deanaldo,” Emily looked at my face, “would you like to come home with me and be the son I never had or… just some sex? I know I’m a little old for you but you don’t look like you care…”

Later that week, I took Emily’s anal reconstructive surgery appointment. She wrote the Surgeon a note stating that I could have her surgery because she left the country “for charity work in Malawi” and would never be back, the end.

I jumped into the stirrups and told the Surgeon, “I’m begging you, make this hole whole again Doctor.”

The Surgeon injected highly pressurized waste water deep into my cavity resulting in oil and gas products exiting my hole, also known as fracking. After a barrier of rock was removed, a camera was inserted to explore what else was in there. I watched on the screen as the camera traveled deeper and deeper inside me. Suddenly, a bright green glow manifested on the screen revealing an internal phosphorescent ecosystem. There were organisms in there that had not been seen living on our earth for at least 50 million years.
“Burn it!” I yelled.

The Surgeon pleaded, “But but think of the world inside you but but science.”

“Burn it all down!”

The Surgeon torched every living thing inside me, removed the debris, sliced off yards of skin, and installed a dial that lets me choose which age I want my hole to be. I never go above 17…

Plastic Surgery Serial Killer, #1

Dean Littner — Wed, 01 Feb 2012 10:14:00 GMT

When you’re in your 20’s, you think you will be young and pretty forever. When you’re in your 30’s, you start to see the people around you fall apart and it makes you wonder, ‘Am I next?’ One day, my friend Marvin came to me with a problem.

“Just look at all this extra skin under my chin,” Marvin pointed urgently to the sagging skin that collected in folds, “I have liposucked the hell out of my neck and now I have this extra skin to deal with, damn you Celeste!”

Marvin was referring to Celeste, the psycho fat dead school girl living inside his body. Celeste was real. Celeste ate pasta and his pets all the time (by taking control of Marvin’s body). Marvin would always replace his pets after they were eaten and name them Sammy (regardless of gender). He was on Sammy #4,326 and had saved a lot of his costs by opening up a puppy mill. This puppy mill did very well financially and it enabled him to afford endless liposuctions.

“Dean, you know what it’s like to have extra chin skin,” Marvin stared at my neck, “what have you considered doing if you had the money to afford it?”

I was flabbergasted and instantly upset by this assumption, “I do not have chin skin.”

Marvin closed his eyes, shook his head, and said, “Oh honey, you’re almost 40 and you haven’t been booked on a bed modeling gig in a month, there’s a reason for this and it’s not because you still look young...”

Oh my god, Marvin was right. I couldn’t live that same party by night bed model by day life anymore, things had changed, age had happened, and I needed a solution. Being almost 40 was almost as bad as being 40 and it had to stop. Later that evening, I called my bed model friend Marco.

“You should have been saving your money,” Marco chided at me over the phone, “look at me, I’m still hot, I still get booked, and I can pay for my surgeries,” Marco laughed and then hung up.

I didn’t really want to bed model my whole life but maybe for someone like Marco it was possible to model forever. Damn you chin skin! I finally realized that I had to take the opportunity to make something out of myself and I needed an afterlooks plan. If I could just get enough plastic surgery to look hot again and bag a rich man before I lost my looks forever, I would be set for life. I went home and found my 3 year old son Justice had escaped from out of his chains.

“Justice, Justice, where are you?” I called, “daddy needs a martini and then we can play Watch TV.”

My apartment was silent. I rushed to my bedroom where I kept my cat. My cat had always hated my son because baby Justice would eat the cat’s food. I used to keep my son in a cage to separate them but my son eventually grew too big for his cage. I recently began to keep him chained up and I would place the cat safely in a laundry bag while I was gone. I happened to be gone all the time though...

“Who let the cat out of the bag?!” I yelled when I found the laundry bag was empty, “Justice, cat, where are you guys?”

My cell phone then rang and I saw it was Marvin calling.

Marvin sounded excited, “Yay, congratulate me!”

“On what?” I puzzled.

“I am booked for a chin lift tomorrow, hooray!” He meanly said while knowing I was still with extra chin skin, “Celeste is hungry for dog again and Sammy #4,327 just arrived from the puppy mill, gotta go,” click.

I was very upset and before I could continue to look for my escaped cat and my kid, I headed to Marvin’s. He was surprised to see me at his door.

Marvin invited me in and I solicited him, “I was wondering if you could ask your Surgeon to do a two for one special and let me in on your chin lift please?”

Marvin looked at me like I was a beggar on the street, “That is so sad and desperate of you to ask, not to mention impossible.”

I started fishing, “Well, what if I show up to your chin lift appointment tomorrow and I pretended to be you?”

Marvin started laughing, “Hahaha Dean, not only are you trying to steal my chin lift, you’re also trying to convince my Surgeon I changed from Black to White, you’re a racist thief.”

“I want that chin lift!” I walked closer to him.

“You can’t have my chin lift, it’s mine you silly bitch!” Marvin pushed me.

“Give me that chin liiiiiiift!” I yelled as I pushed him back.

I didn’t want Marvin to lose his footing and fall backwards till he broke the fall with a snapped neck but this allowed me to show up for his chin lift appointment the next day without any interference. I took Marvin’s wallet and when the Surgeon met with me, he looked puzzled.

“It says on your chart that you’re African American, what happened Marvin?” the Surgeon asked me.

“I am Black you son of a bitch,” I responded, “now give me my chin lift or I will scream!”

The surgery hurt a lot but I made sure they prescribed me a hefty amount of pain medication so I could stay high enough to not care. Coincidently, the pain medication also erased the guilt and most of my memories about killing my dear friend Marvin. I told myself that Marvin wanted me to have his chin lift right before he ended his life. At least I told myself that…

Anyway, the extra recuperation time in my apartment enabled me to find my kid and my half-eaten cat in the bedroom closet, damn I loved that cat. I should have fed Justice before he got out of his chains. Now I will need to take the love I had for my cat and give a little bit more to Justice and myself.

Sit Back and Watch

Dean Littner — Thu, 12 Jan 2012 09:29:00 GMT

The “Psychic’s” Responsibility:

I believe there are intuitive members of our society that can predict the behavior of others. These people sometimes brag about their fortune telling and you will regularly hear them say things like, “I knew you were going to cheat on me with Charles, I told you six months ago, and you did it, I knew.” The “knowing” of that exact event may or may not be true. Intuitive people, psychics, and fortune tellers apparently have this ability to predict events and behavior. I never try to prove or disprove their abilities, I sort of believe them, especially if they are sure they have this gift; however, I hold them responsible for it. If you have one of these gifts, you are responsible for doing something about the events you see, you cannot just sit back and watch and say “I told you so” without taking some of the blame for letting it happen. I have seen firsthand the foretelling of an event and then the absence of the foreteller. My question to this person is: where did you go? More questions: what did you get out of just sitting and watching this event happen, why didn’t you participate in a turn of events rather than a progression of inevitability? I think I know why to some degree… Many intuitive people feel like they don’t need to do the same social lifting as everybody else. They see so much in everybody that they take for granted this knowing of others, they are experts but this also makes some of them lazy. It becomes easy to treat people’s behaviors as a checklist that you go through, comparing what you have assumed to the actualities that ensue and the more right you are, the more ego boost you receive. I think it’s lazy, don’t treat others like a check list, and use your abilities for more than bragging rights.

Limp Member of the Team:

I have a problem with people that let others do their work for them by proving how helpless they are. I’m not good at everything but I step up and do what I can. I find myself on a team sometimes with a member that loves to watch everybody else perform while they just get a pass. The solution is not as simple as telling this person to not be lazy, it’s much harder to get them to make a change in their behavior because they have likely been reinforced for so long. I know this sounds like I’m bitching and moaning but I really want those around me to realize that I see this behavior and I dislike it loud and clear. The limp member of the team usually starts off pretending that they are going to work but slowly they build a story of shortfalls. The story from the ineffective team member usually goes like this: “I wanted to blow up all those sex dolls you gave me but my lips were chapped yesterday but I noticed Larry’s lips were fine so he did it.” Ugh! Don’t make Larry blow up your sex dolls for you, those sex dolls were your responsibility, and now when we get new sex dolls in, you always find a way to make Larry blow them up... It’s wrong. Bit by bit, the amount of “work” that this person promised they could do diminishes to a halt and everybody else unfortunately has to pick up the slack.

Lovers that Spiral:

I didn’t mean to throw our relationship into the deep dark abyss; it just went there because you fulfilled my red flag list. Lovers sometimes write the ending as a caution and they start many relationships by saying just how it won’t work. Some people take this on as a challenge, somehow they will be special and different from the last lover, but I think it’s never worth the energy to navigate the spiral. If you’re not together to produce more than a convenient exit, what’s the point in starting and why be with someone that sees you in all the ways you will eventually leave them? It’s depressing. I believe that each relationship is an opportunity to teach somebody and to learn about them, it’s active and not passive. It’s easy to find a succession of lovers that never take you anywhere. It’s easy to let your lover dissect interest out of you until they get bored and move on. It’s easy to just let things happen to you and make your relationship history be about loss. I would rather create something with another person and focus on possibilities, not endings.

The Streets of Fitness

Dean Littner — Thu, 22 Dec 2011 09:22:00 GMT

I was at the gym working on my off-season body with Lance and Preston. We were getting really sweaty and my endorphins were pumping ecstatically.

“Wow!” I yelped, “wow Lance, I’m so happy on this new Double Track Stair-Liptical, I could just work my glutes forever, look at me Lance, I’m so happy, look at me,” I giggled.

Preston looked down his nose at me from the adjacent fitness machine and asked, “Dean, are you high on drugs?”

“I’m high on fitness, yay!” I declared.

“So that’s what you’re calling drugs these days…” Lance shook his head with Preston and then suggested, “you know Dean, if you’re so into fitness, why don’t you become a trainer and get paid for it?”

“You mean to say, someone would actually pay me to work out all the time and have fun beyond my wildest dreams, fitness is heaven, heaven I tell you!” I felt my glutes grow even more with the thought of being a fitness trainer.

I needed clients. I looked around the gym and saw a tweaky skinny man about to walk into the locker room. I jumped off my Double Track Stair-Liptical workout machine and ran over to the potential client.

“Hi,” I said as I blocked his path.

The man looked confused, he looked side-to-side, and then behind him.

“No, I really mean that, hi,” I repeated, “normally, I wouldn’t even talk to you or look at you because you’re one of those guys that never really works out and just cruises the gym locker for sex but now hi.”

The tweaky skinny man responded, “Why are you saying hi to me now?”

“Yes, well,” I continued, “maybe one day a long time ago, before you discovered amphetamines, you were not hard to look at but now that you look terrible, don’t you think it’s about time to reach out for fitness help?” I smiled, “I could be your trainer and possibly one day, desperate people may want to let you blow them without a cloud of steam covering the shame that is you.”

“Please move out of my way,” The tweaky skinny man headed into the locker room and he was never seen again.

Just then, a short stalky (wider then he was tall) muscle creature approached me, “I think I can help you, my name’s Chop, let’s talk outside of the gym though,” Chop pointed up, “cameras…”

Once we were outside, Chop offered me a job as one of his trainers at a different gym located Downtown. The job was really simple; I would wait on the corner outside of the gym for clients, they would buy training packages from me up front, I would inject them with fitness enhancers, and then we would workout happily together, yay! I took the job and headed Downtown. Once I was at the corner, a client approached me.

“Hey man, are you Chop’s friend?” A very itchy looking man in tattered clothes and missing teeth asked me.

“Yes, Chop has me selling fitness on the streets, would you like to buy some?” I propositioned.

The man used his shaky hand to pull money out of his pockets, “I need my bombitas, my sweet bombitas, here’s the cash.”

I didn’t understand what exercises bombitas were but I was sure that I could give my client the workout he was requesting. The gym must have been under construction because it just looked like an empty warehouse with no exercise equipment at all. I pulled out the syringes filled with the fitness enhancers that Chop had given me and I injected the itchy scratchy shaky man.

“Alright!” I chimed, “let’s start working out, we can do it, you’re a champion, it’s time to…”

The man curled up into a ball on the floor and started rocking back and forth saying, “My kids oh my kids my kids,” over and over.

I was perplexed but not deterred, “C’mon, jumping jacks time!” I picked him up off the floor and pulled his arms apart and then together above his head in a clap, “now jump, now jump, jump, jump again, jump again.”

We did this about ten times and then he started yelling, “My heart my heart, what’s happening to me, I can’t feel the right side of my body, these are bad bombitas man!”

“No, these are bad jumping jacks but you’ll get better, I promise,” I let go of him for a little rest before starting the next exercise.

I reached into my gym bag for the jump rope I brought and when I turned back around, the man was running out of the door, ‘Crap, I just lost my first client,’ I thought. As the rest of the day progressed, a pattern emerged; as soon as I injected the fitness enhancements, my clients would NOT want to work out, and they would run away from me. I decided to tell Chop about the problem.

“Oh man, you can’t have our clients running around on the streets right after you shoot them up,” Chop said, “sometimes we have 20-30 people in here just kickin it till the stuff wears off.”

“But I thought the fitness enhancers would make them want to work out, not curl up into balls of uselessness,” I contested.

Chop looked at me like I just told him that I wasn’t gay and the world was flat, “Dean, you do know what a metaphor is, don’t you?”

“Yes, that’s some kind of fitness enhancer isn’t it, I’m sure I’ve taken it, if fact I’m on Meta-Five enhancers right now,” I scratched at my head wondering what Chop was getting at.

“Dean, I’m going to have to let you go,” Chop then asked for his injectables back and I was officially fired from his gym.

The next day, I told Lance and Preston about the whole ordeal and they laughed. They laughed hardest when I told them that Chop thought I had a problem with taking Meta-Fours even though I had no problems taking them in the past. Laughter is infectious and the more they laughed, the more giggly I felt inside until I started to laugh too, and then I felt better about losing my job as a fitness instructor.

Letters to Dean

Dean Littner — Thu, 01 Dec 2011 13:31:00 GMT

I have a box of letters that people have sent to me over the years. I normally don’t read… Reading makes me feel like I’m walking into an inside joke that I just don’t get; however, I recently decided to give it another try and finally read the letters in the box that I haven’t opened till now.

Letter from Grandma, summer of 1980:

Dean,

I have finally forgiven you for pulling my walker away and pushing me down the stairs. It was wrong of me to not let you go through my purse and take the roll of $20 bills that was supposed to be for my Vegas trip and for tipping those male strippers that love grandma the right way always. It was also wrong of me to stop you from taking my pills and selling them to your high school friends. I still don’t quite understand why a five year old has high school friends but I have Alzheimer’s now and I don’t care. The next time I see you, I won’t know who you are or I will think you are someone who hasn’t aged from my past. I am old.

Love,

Grandma

Inside the letter were two blue pills taped to a smaller card that read, “Take these when no one is around to help.” Weird, I wonder what’s in those pills, I guess I should take them… I opened the next letter.

Letter from Mom 1985:

Son,

I’m sorry your father and I are in jail. We didn’t mean for the authorities to discover that your grandmother’s death was not the accident we said it was. Your sister Tallulah will take good care of you while we are incarcerated, just don’t get wrapped up in one of her schemes to pimp you out and you’ll be fine. Furthermore, don’t turn gay and don’t become a bed model.

Love,

Mom

I wish I had read that letter before my sister pimped me out but being gay is awesome and bed modeling is totally fun when my agent doesn’t beat me. The next letter had a faint cologne scent that took me back to when I was 15 years old.

Letter from Sugar Daddy 1990:

My Little Manboy,

Being a football coach during the day and coming home to you at night has been one of the most beautiful things in the world and it has kept my hands off my students. When you told me you couldn’t meet tonight, I followed you. You rode your bike to many different houses and carried around a box to each one. At first I thought you were just being kind and delivering meals to old men on your bike for charity but then I started to look in the windows of the houses to find you opening up your box and pulling out a rope, a whip, a leather bikini, a muzzle, and ball torcher kit. You proceeded to slip on the leather bikini, tie/muzzle the old men, whip, and ball torcher them till they passed out. I thought I was enough but apparently, you just led me to believe that I was special. I was going to adopt you and make our manboy love official, you bastard! I have nothing left to live for; I’m going to leave my estate to my dog and not to you like I promised.

I hate you!

Love,

Former Sugar Daddy

That explains why my Sugar Daddy disappeared and why his dog became all rich. I remembered that Sugar Daddy, he was really into football role play and he taught me how to throw. Reading made me really tired. I only had enough energy to read one more letter before deciding not to read for the next 30 years.

Letter from Pizza Delivery Man, dated 2 days ago:

Wow,

That was hot!

Totally,

Pizza Man

Inside the letter was a coupon for a large pizza with two toppings for just $5. Funny, I didn’t remember the pizza delivery man at all, maybe it was one of my sex blackouts that happens every day. I get really hungry, I blackout, and wake up with the evidence of sexual activity and food consumption. I’m sure this happens to everybody… I took the two blue pills from Grandma’s letter.

I Can Help Too

Dean Littner — Mon, 21 Nov 2011 09:53:00 GMT

I was having a wonderful session with my Therapist. We were working through a lot; he uncovered that I hate pretzels because they look like dogs treats, my favorite items are mirrors because they look like me, and that I love money because.

Therapist: “We’ve made so much progress today Dean, you know what?”

Me: “What?”

Therapist: “You’re cured Dean Littner. I mean, when you first came to me, you were totally fucked up like not even a person at all and then slowly you became more like a sick wounded half-human animal and now I’ve come to understand that there’s no real hope for you so yes, you’re cured because there are no other options left.”

Me: “Wow, I’m cured, thanks Therapist!”

My Therapist then gave me a frozen smile, slumped over in his chair, and died. Sometimes when your Therapist dies you think, ‘oh well, new Therapist,’ but my Therapist said I was cured so I thought, ‘yay, NO new Therapist.’ I got up from the couch, walked over to my Therapist’s lifeless body, and went through his pockets for cash; there was a roll of hundreds. I then realized that Therapists make good money and if I wanted a piece of the action, I better hide that body and start seeing my dead Therapist’s clients.

“Where’s Dr. Blonk?” My first patient asked.

“So that’s his name, I just always called him Therapist,” I mused and then responded, “I’m your New Therapist now and you don’t need to worry about Old Therapist anymore,” I smiled knowingly.

“Who are you?” My first patient questioned.

“New Therapist,” I said calmly.

My first patient then relaxed on the couch and spoke, “I keep having a nightmare every night that the people in my life are being replaced with evil fake people and it really scares me...”

“That problem sounds expensive, what would Old Therapist charge for that?” I questioned.

“Just my regular session charge of $500,” My first patient answered.

“I’m gonna need that in cash from now on,” I reassured.

The rest of the day was fun, I basically listened to patients long enough to work out how they could pay me, I gave them advice like “a little club soda will get that out” and “you can’t kiss your elbow,” and then I celebrated with a nice steak dinner. I made $4,000 in one day! I needed to do this job forever! The next day I tried a revolutionary therapy on all my patients.

“What’s in the needle New Therapist?” My skinny-fat patient wanted to know.

I stuck skinny-fat before he had a chance to react more and I said, “This will solve all your problems and it’s just an extra $100 a session, now go to sleep,” heroine makes patients really tired…

Over the next few weeks, my life really took off, I was able to quit bed modeling and move into a mansion. I quickly filled the whole mansion up with wonderful mirrors and threw wild parties. Only the popular people could come and if you weren’t popular you had to pay double the going circuit party rate to get in (but totally worth it!). I hired only the best DJs and paid them very very well from the money I collected at the door.

“Blink blink,” Ram Jordan blinked at me in his special eye blink language that only popular people and his servants understood.

“I know Ram, you’re right, partying with you is the most spectacular thing that could ever happen to anyone,” I enthused.

Just then, while looking in the mirror at myself, I saw something in a bowl on the coffee table behind myself that was strictly forbidden in my house. Some reckless bastard dared to fill a bowl with pretzels and leave it for me to discover. I had come way too far to have pretzels plague my new amazing Therapist lifestyle.

I grabbed the pretzel bowl, ran up to the DJ booth, stopped the music, grabbed the mic, and made an announcement, “Whoooo, whooooo, whooooo?” I was so angry I could barely get the words out until finally I was able to yell, “whooooBROUGHTTHESEFUCKIN’PRETZELS!!!!!???”

The whole party fell silent and they all stared at me.

I continued more calmly for a moment, “Everyone knows that I hate pretzels, I was cured in therapy over this but here they are, a bowl of them, I need to know who brought these in,” the silence continued so I turned it up a notch, “WHO WANTS TO DIE IN THIS HOUSE TONIGHT!!!!!???”

“Hahaha Dean, I get it, you’re being funny,” Some random made the mistake of saying out loud.

I walked over the random and said, “Yeah, funny, THIS IS FUNNY!!” I screamed as I ripped his arm out of its socket and started violently beating him with it (I had been on lots of steroids…).

Before I could maim anyone else, I was grabbed, held to the ground, and tied up till the paramedics arrived. During my 72 hour hold I thought deeply about life and the events that led up to my hospitalization. I came to the realization that I need to find my own New Therapist because no matter what Old Therapist said before he died, I was still not over pretzels.

Pills

Dean Littner — Thu, 27 Oct 2011 10:18:00 GMT

If anybody knows anything about me, it’s that I like popping pills. They are just so easy to ingest or chew, you may carry them everywhere, and you never know how much fun you’re gonna have or just how many you may take. I used to be afraid of pills but then I tried them all and felt even better about not being afraid. Now, I know what you’re thinking… ‘what a pill popper’ right? Oh, maybe that is what you’re thinking but think no longer.

Julita and I were hanging out one day.

“I’ve been planning on starting a daycare with all the extra money that’s coming in from my restaurant business,” Julita was browsing pictures from our elementary school yearbook, “we look so cute in these photos, I would love to see little us’s running around and impressionalize them and teach them how to be cool and shit.”

I looked at our yearbook photos, “Those were sad memories for me, remember how my abusive sister locked me in a closet and pimped me out while my parents were in jail?”

“Ha, ha, hahahaha, wow, that did happen,” Julita held my hand, “awww, you survived.”

I reached for my pills and found my bottle was nearly empty, “Julita, do you still have that hook up for Zatsolgud®, I’m almost out?”

“Zatsolgud® is good but I’ve been on Zatsmorphun® lately instead and it’s really more fun than that,” Julita pulled out her pill bottle and started laughing, “hahahaha, ahahahaha, see?”

“You’re right!” I looked at her bottle with envy, “I want some.”

I met with Julita’s doctor the next day.

“So Dean Littner,” The Doctor looked up from my chart, “why do you feel you need Zatsmorphun®?”

“Please Doctor,” I began explaining, “I’m seeing spots, my skin is tingling, I think sad things are funny and funny things are even more funny till I roll up into a ball on the floor and start peeing myself.”

“Those are actually the side effects of Zatsmorphun®,” The Doctor frowned.

“And it’s amazing,” I gave my most pleading look, “I want more pills before those side effects stop working for me.”

“Okay,” The Doctor filled my prescription.

Separately, Julita’s daycare was a hit. We signed up 30 kids in just a week and started babysitting them by making the children sew us clothes. We would then model the clothes and sell them to high-end international specialty shops. Orders were through the roof, kids were happy because we would reward them with candy and toys, and the parents were happy because they didn’t have to see their kids during the day. We then got greedy.

“Why don’t we do a sleepover camp?” I proposed to Julita, “that way we could get the kids to sew clothes day and night.”

“How would we keep the kids from sleeping at night?” Julita asked.

“I have some friends called pills that will surely help,” I pulled out a bottle filled with bright red Nosnoozins®.

“Where are we gonna get enough Nosnoozins® for thirty kids?” Julita wondered.

Julita and I spent the next 12 hours making our rounds to every Doctor in LA who had a loose prescription wrist. We offered sex, money, and clothes if they gave us the Nosnoozins® scripts and if they threatened to call the cops, we threatened to cut their faces (we were still high on Zatsmorphun® and it seemed like the right thing to say to a medical professional). After we gathered enough red pills, we made cupcakes, and placed the red Nosnoozins® in the frosting for proper consumption.

“Now kids, I know it’s 3am and these design patterns are very complicated,” Julita addressed the children on their 4^th day up in a row, “but I know we can push through this guys and if you do, I’ll give you each a puppy.”

“Yayyy!!!” The children cheered and then sniffed and then itched at their arms.

Julita picked up a wrinkly cute puppy, “But if we don’t get these clothes finished…” Julita then dunked the cute puppy into a sink full of water.

“Nooooo!!!!” The children screamed.

She pulled the puppy out of the water, “Well, you get the picture.”

“Julita, the kids are complaining about being cold at night,” I mentioned as we sat down for some new blue pills called Relaxdisol® followed by a whiskey chaser.

She instructed me to move everybody into the garage, turn my car engine on for heat, and lock them in overnight. Julita and I passed out on her comfy cozy office couch.

“I don’t hear sewing in that garage,” I said as I shook Julita awake the next day, “should we grab a couple puppies and make good on our threat?”

I was worried about having enough dresses ready to sell to France’s upscale boutiques when I opened the garage door to discover our 30 children dead from carbon monoxide poisoning, shoot.

“I’m ruined,” Julita fell to her knees and started to cry, “I’m ruined, we can’t just get more kids on such short notice, and who’s going to explain to the parents that you killed their babies, and look these dresses aren’t finished!”

Just then the packing truck we scheduled to pick up our dresses arrived. The truck driver loaded 30 boxes onto the truck and then we offered him coffee laced with Relaxdisol®. Later, the police discovered the driver in the packing truck that was parked off the side of the road with a suicide note that was left describing how he kidnapped, killed, and boxed up those poor children after assaulting Julita and I. The many Nosnoozins® that littered his truck and the other evidence we planted all corroborated the mad trucker story. The parents were upset but totally understood it wasn’t our fault... Julita decided to close the daycare and open up a pet store.

Cooking With Friends

Dean Littner — Fri, 21 Oct 2011 15:24:00 GMT

My friend Julita makes a lot of money from a restaurant that she owns and cooks specialty dishes for. Other than that, she’s totally fun and we get to hang out. Julita called me up one night with a problem.

“Deansy, I did something and I wanted to run it by you,” Julita said on the phone to me.

I was happy to be of service to one of my best girlfriends, “Julita, you can do anything you want, I’m sure whatever it was, it must have been the right decision.”

“I already feel better,” She then continued, “remember a few weeks ago when I fell asleep naked at that party?”

“Yes.”

Julita started to whisper, “That’s the night my smart phone somehow ended up in my vagina and when I pulled it out the next morning, it had stopped working.”

I interrupted her, “But you put it in that jar of uncooked rice overnight and then it worked fine.”

“Yes well, yesterday I was out of rice at the restaurant and I ran home to get the rice jar totally forgetting about the vagina phone thing,” Julita gulped and then said, “I cooked and served that rice to my restaurant and everybody loved it, my house special rice orders tripled, and I didn’t understand why until I realized, it was my vagina that did it.”

“That makes me never want to have orgasms again,” I was sickened, “thank god I didn’t eat at your restaurant last night, ick.”

“You would have loved it,” Julita then asked, “how may I recreate the rice, I mean I don’t want to keep seasoning my dishes with phones that have been inside my fantasy playcave, what do I do?”

“I know!” I told Julita, “let’s do a photo shoot of your vagina and blow up the pictures to decorate your place with and hire an artist who could sculpt vagina shaped bowls for serving your rice in and re-name your restaurant to ‘Eat My Crazy Vagina,’ then we can all eat there, throw up, and lose weight by dying.”

“Don’t talk about my vagina like it’s not here,” Julita started to cry, “it’s just really hard being single and I need the money to buy myself things that make me feel better and I need your help and...”

“And what?”

Julita gulped, “And I’ll split the money with you.”

“Okay, I’ll help.”

I spent the next ten minutes Googling words like ‘chemist’ and ‘food’ and ‘flavor technology’ and unbelievably, I found a food chemist that specialized in flavor technology named Hank Gurzidovitchsky. Julita and I traveled to his lab.

“I’m so glad you’re doing this with me, even if I’m paying you and things,” Julita smiled.

I was happy to make her happy, “Remember when we traveled to famine ridden Somalia, that was fun and you should know I would do anything for you.”

Julita gave me a sideways look and said, “The only reason you went to Somalia with me is because you thought you would be meeting people starring in ‘Somalia’ and when you realized it wasn’t a movie and that it was actually a country with starving people, you left me there and I was almost eaten.”

I blinked at the memory and then we were both distracted by how HOT the food chemist was.

“Hi, I’m Hank Gurzidovitchsky, food chemist and flavor technologist, nice to meet you,” He extended his hand.

Julita jumped up to grab his hand and then belted out, “Hi Hank Gurzidovitchsky, please taste my vagina, please, taste it!”

I pushed Julita to the side and said, “Hank Gurzidovitchsky I’m sorry, what my friend means to say is that you should totally ignore her vagina and do me instead you hot stud, take me now!”

Hank Gurzidovitchsky took a step back, “Guys relax, I’m a food chemist and flavor technologist,” he looked from me to Julita and then back to me again, “but I totally swing both ways, come, you can both sit on me.”

It was awesome, Julita sat on Hank Gurzidovitchsky’s face while I took care of everything else on him. We spent all night in his office and when we were done, he gave Julita the exact recipe for her vagina. And here it is…

House Special Rice:

2 tablespoons olive oil

1/2 onion, chopped

2 garlic cloves, minced

3 tablespoons pimento paste (optional)

1/4 cup fresh parsley, chopped

1 (5 ounce) can clams, undrained

1 1/4 cups short-grain rice

1 1/4 cups canned tomatoes, pureed

In a saucepan, cook onion and garlic in oil until tender. Add pimento paste and parsley. Cook for a couple of minutes. Drain clams but reserving liquid. Add the clams to the saucepan. Measure clam juice and add enough water to measure 1 1/4 cups of liquid. Add rice and tomatoes and bring to boil. Cover and reduce heat to low for 20 minutes. Add salt if necessary.

The Vagina

Ram Jordan, the Most Popular Person Ever That Is

Dean Littner — Tue, 27 Sep 2011 09:34:00 GMT

Ram Jordan wakes up from a nap. He looks in the mirror and smiles, he is handsome and his handsome smile makes him smile even more until he must stop looking at himself to avoid smile wrinkles. Ram looks at his phone. He has 138 messages, has he really been asleep for 30 minutes? Normally, he takes a 20 minute nap and gets 92 messages. Ram texts his assistant to come into his bedroom and his assistant, Berry, appears in seconds.

“Sorry to keep you waiting Ram,” Berry kneels at Rams feet and bows his head to the floor, “how may I serve you now?” Berry looks up.

Being too popular to speak, Ram responds through his trademark eye blink language, “Soft blink, right eye wink, eyes yawn open, half lids, eyes yawn closed, blink blink.”

“Yes Ram, I will do as you say,” Berry then quickly leaves the bedroom.

Ram loves to blink out orders. He thinks for a moment about the past. It wasn’t always like this, Ram remembers a time when he had to speak, that’s what less popular people do, they speak. Not only do less popular people spend useless time speaking, they don’t have people around them to follow eye blinks, and that’s even worse.

Berry returns in half an hour with a pizza and presents it in a humble fashion.

Ram is not pleased, “Eye roll, eye roll, eye roll.”

“Oh Ram, I am so sorry, I misunderstood you,” Berry is afraid.

“Eyes shut, eyes wide, blink,” Ram responds.

“I know it is forbidden to misunderstand you,” Berry hurries away.

Ram doesn’t much care for the melted cheese on saucy baked bread called pizza. He must update his dislike list to include pizza so this type of mistake does not happen. Ram looks in the mirror and becomes happy again. There is a party tonight and Ram needs the item he has requested from Berry. Ram forgets where he got Berry from.

Berry returns with a troop of girl scouts. They have been tied up in a tight standing circle and Berry pulls them to the middle of Ram’s bedroom via a large rope. They are scared, confused, and look ready to pee.

“BLINK, popping eyes, BLINK!” Ram looks alarmed and he is deeply upset.

“But Ram, you specifically blinked for them, I don’t understand!” Berry was certain of it.

Ram then blinks to Berry that he had changed his mind and that Berry should have realized this and if Berry couldn’t read Ram’s mind, what good was he?

“Blink blink.” Ram blinked.

“Yes Ram, I will get rid of the girl scouts and bring you what you truly want,” Berry pulls the girl scouts out of the room and they are never seen by anybody again.

Ram expects everybody to read his mind but for some people, like Berry, it is difficult. What may be done to help people who can’t read Ram’s mind, what? Anyway, Ram will be getting a new assistant in the morning and tonight’s party will be a success and… why is it taking Berry so long to get back? Ram believes girl scouts are easy to dispose of. Ram can drive to the mountains for morning skiing, be at the beach by noon for sun, catch a flight to Vegas for afternoon gambling/partying/male prostitutes, rent a car, ditch the body of the overdosed male prostitute in the desert on the way back to LA, and party again all night, yay! Alas, Berry is nothing like Ram.

Finally, Berry enters with a couple furry bunnies on diamond studded collars with leashes, “Here they are, their names are Wuffles and Mr. Bunsykins.”

“Blink,” Ram excuses Berry.

Ram loves furry fluffy bunnies with flop ears and scrunchy snuggle faces and plans to escort them to the party tonight, he will look simply awesome with them and everybody else nibbling at his feet.

Clowny’s Mattress Bouncehouse

Dean Littner — Thu, 15 Sep 2011 00:00:00 GMT

Work was going really well until my agent decided to bring another bed model into the picture. I met the new model at my agent’s office. His name was Eric and he was all but 18, a runaway from the provinces of Burbank. Eric had a fit frame, golden hair, and he was very shy.

My agent walked over to where Eric was seated and grabbed his hands while speaking, “Eric, your hands are so soft, not at all like the older models; their hands are rough and callused from the gym.”

I spoke up, “My hands are hot.”

“Your hands grow old!” My agent snapped, “this agency needs youth to survive and Eric will take over when I’m gone, therefore, I need you to teach him everything you know, he must be the greatest bed model that ever lived or we will have no hope.”

“Where is my boyfriend?” Eric asked, “you said he would join us here at the agency.”

My agent looked displeased, “Your boyfriend was not model quality, ehh, I sold him to Orange County, you’ll never see him again, forget you had a boyfriend, it’s better.”

Eric cried and I felt bad for him, I walked over to him and said, “Don’t be sad, this just means that you will have a higher price paid for your first bed modeling, clients bid high to be the first mattress store to showcase a bed model that has not performed outside of a relationship, you should feel honored that you have this quality to sell.”

My agent instructed me to take Eric to all the major mattress stores and present him as pure and untouched. Clowny’s Mattress Bouncehouse was especially interested in him. To symbolize that Eric had not been ruined by another agency (yet), I had him give the traditional gift of a custom baked Twinkie cake from Hostess wrapped in fresh cellophane.

The owner of Clowny’s smiled widely as he received the Twinkie, “Your hands are soft like rose petals, my beds are just as soft, we have many customers that would love to buy a bed from a sweet young man such as you.”

“I’m from Burbank,” Eric responded.

“Shhhhh!” I quickly chided, “Eric, please don’t speak.”

Other than that outburst, Eric did very well and we left Clowny’s Mattress Bouncehouse securing a substantially large fee if Eric were to showcase there first. I was beginning to warm up to Eric and instead of being intimidated, I could see the value in having a younger model do all the work while we older models relaxed a bit more. Eric had to be trained quickly, the other agencies would soon realize that we had a valuable commodity and they would come for him, we had to be ready.

“Today is a special day,” I placed a hand on Eric’s shoulder and smiled, “I will now rename you Pillow, it means Pillow.”

Pillow smiled back at me and said, “I like my new name.”

“I will teach you many things Pillow.”

When we reached my car, I noticed that my window was broken and all the custom baked Twinkie cakes were crushed. I was outraged that we would be attacked so viciously and even more outraged that 7/11 would not refund our money. I drove to our rival bed model agency’s office and slammed a crushed Twinkie cake on the desk of their lead agent.

“We will NOT be intimidated!” I yelled, “Pillow is almost ready to showcase at Clowny’s and if you stand in our way, we will destroy your agency.”

The lead agent seemed unmoved by my threat, “Dean, maybe you could give Pillow to us and join OUR agency, we will treat you well and split the showcase money with you, why not give us Pillow, hmmm, he will not bring so much money for you if his soft rose petal hands are broken…”

When I returned to the car, Pillow was being harassed by one of the rival agency’s bed models.

“You are no big thing,” The evil bed model leaned in the passenger window and smelled Pillow, “I smell Doritos, you are common from the provinces of Burbank, you are no bed model.”

“We’ll be seeing you at Clowny’s you wicked old scabby bitch, just stay away from our beds,” I said to the rival model as I started the car.

“I would not touch your beds, as they would make me smell of Doritos!” He yelled as we pulled away.

After intense preparation, I took Pillow to showcase at Clowny’s. Pillow received the highest purity payment a bed model has ever received, shattering even my purity payment of $45.

“May we have your attention please,” The showroom’s speaker system alerted, “Clowny’s Mattress Bouncehouse proudly presents for the very first time ever to our showroom and to the World, please welcome the lovely new bed model Pillow!”

The showroom crowd clapped and said, “Oooooh, aaaahhhh,” and then they said, “wowwwww.”

“Pillow is modeling a double pillow top down stuffed silk sheet covered king bed for your pleasure,” The speaker continued, “behold the rose petal softness of Pillow’s hands only matched by the softness of our rose petal pillows.”

Pillow performed perfectly. He rolled over the silk sheets delicately in his skin tight Louis De Jean Paul Kashou underwear. Every muscle was flexed, every look precise, and every moment he was on the bed was a moment of mastery; he was stunning.

Customers lined up to get a closer look as Pillow spoke to them, “Hi baby, you want bed? Come get bed honey, for you a kiss, muwah, kiss, muwah, I love you, come buy my bed big man, I give you everything, ah ha, it’s all for you, just $2,000 for this bed, and I give you bounce bounce cookie man, rawr.”

Back at our agency, we celebrated the wild success of Pillow’s debut. Clowny’s Mattress Bouncehouse completely sold out of the bed he was modeling and they gave him a purity payment of $62 dollars, more than any bed model has ever received, ever.

“Eric, I found you!” A young man yelled from the doorway of the office, “Eric, what are you doing with these bad people who separated us?” this was the boyfriend that my agent sold to Orange County.

“My name is not Eric, it’s Pillow,” Pillow walked over to his confused boyfriend, “I’m a real bed model now and this agency is my new family,” a tear found its way down Pillow’s cheek as he held his boyfriend’s hands, “please say goodbye to me and my soft rose petal hands and go back to your Orange County forever, our love is in the past.”

“But Eric, we’ve only been separated for 3 hours!” He shouted.

“Pillow, it’s Pillow now, please go,” Pillow turned away.

“Eriiiiiiiiiccccccc whhhhyyyyyyyy???!!!” The now ex-boyfriend screamed as my agent grabbed him and threw him out of the office.

Pillow slowly walked over to a mirror, he raised one hand to touch his reflection, and then gently whispered, “Pillow.”

Help Line

Dean Littner — Tue, 06 Sep 2011 00:00:00 GMT

I really did it this time. I got caught stealing prescription meds from the pharmacy and the court assigned me volunteer work as part of my probation. Apparently, when people are really sad or need advice or just have no one else to call, there is this thing called a “help line” that allows you to call with your problem(s). I would never want to call me. Volunteer work is an unpaid field and I don’t recommend it to anyone who isn’t caught stealing OxyContin® or other great breakfast meds. So they set me up with an ear piece and I spend 8 hours 3 times a week giving advice to people who call in. The weird thing is that I’m really good at it.

RING

Me: “Hello, you’re on the help line, what is your crisis?”

Caller: “Sob sob sob.”

Me: “Helloooooooo?!”

Caller: “Sob, sob, uh,” Whispering, “uh, I’m gonna do it, sob sob.”

Me: Click

RING

Me: “Hello, you’re on the help line, what is your crisis?”

Caller: “Woohoo, I am so high, I took this stuff that I thought was heroine but it’s really speedy and my hearts racing and…”

Me: “Charlie, is that you?”

Caller: Click

RING

Me: “Hello, you’re on the help line, what is your crisis?”

Caller: “I have a friend who is disabled and…”

Me: “Mentally?”

Caller: “No, you see he’s been like this for some time and…”

Me: “What’s wrong with him?”

Caller: “That’s not really important, the problem is…”

Me: “Is it you, are you the one who’s disabled, is that the REAL problem and you’re calling the help line saying it’s your friend that’s all screwed up when really YOU are?

Caller: “No.”

Me: “Okay, then what’s the problem?”

Caller: “My friend is disabled and he really brings down the group when we all go out and party, it sucks, what do I do?”

Me: “That is a problem, huh, have you thought about just telling your friend ewww and you don’t want friends like that?”

Caller: “Wow, I haven’t thought about doing that but you’re right, I’ll try it, thank you help line operator.”

Me: “No sweat, you know, I’m on probation and I’ve been assigned this volunteer work by the court so if you want to show your appreciation, I have a PayPal account you can donate money to, what’s your email, I’ll send you the link…”

Most of my calls were like that, me helping people one at a time and getting the cash I really deserve for my good advice when I could.

RING

Me: “Hello, you’re on the help line, what is your crisis?”

Caller: “My boyfriend dumped me.”

Me: “I can totally relate, my boyfriend Gunner dumped me recently too and it was like so sad, he went off to be experimented on by scientists in a bio-atmospheric room for 10 years, and I was like why?!”

Caller: “Oh my god like that is the name of the guy who dumped me, his name is Gunner too! Are you Dean?”

Me: “Yes, who are you?”

Caller: “I’m Gunner’s OTHER boyfriend, he told me about you, this is so weird but really cool that I finally get to speak with you, my name is Spruce.”

Me: “I’m going to pretend there’s nothing wrong with your name.”

Spruce: “I’m really sad he’s gone and that’s why I called; I used to be able to see him anytime you were asleep, on a job, out of town, at the library…”

Me: “Hey, I never went to the library! That was just what I told Gunner when I was seeing MY other boyfriends, ha ha ha, we had that ‘just no more guys from the gym’ rule.”

Spruce: “I know, that’s why I never joined your gym. So how did you get over him?”

Me: “I had sex 10,000 times until I astral projected to a planet called Whorearth, it’s a planet full of whores, I became their king, and it really helped me get over losing Gunner to science.”

Spruce: "I'm really afraid you believe that story but hearing how bat shit crazy you are has helped me get over my insecurities and I do feel a lot better, thanks Dean."

Me: “Of course.”

RING

Me: “Hello, you’re on the help line, what is your crisis?”

Caller: “I met a guy through a friend and I really like him, we’re about to go on our 3^rd date.”

Me: “Yah, that’s not a problem.”

Caller: “The problem is that I’ve slept with him a few times in the past running into him at the bars and I don’t think he remembers sleeping with me before.”

Me: “That’s funny!”

Caller: “Should I bring it up?”

Me: “How many times did you sleep with him before you met?”

Caller: “Like 6 maybe 12, not more than 20.”

Me: “Was his name Dean?”

Caller: “Yes, yes, that’s him!”

Me: “Then don’t bring it up.”

Bed Model Diaries 3

Dean Littner — Mon, 22 Aug 2011 00:00:00 GMT

I’m a simple uncomplicated person, I take joy in life, and I finally learned how to pee standing up. Please make a cup of tea (hot or iced you choose) and join me on my personal reflections as a bed model:

4/22

I have started to become really serious about my industry; I want to succeed where others have been simply mediocre, I want recognition instead of indifference, and I want to finally make the big bucks instead of just making enough money to party. My agent enrolled me in a bed model camp for the rest of the spring. I’m excited about going because it will help me become a better bed model and have an edge ahead of the competition. I hope I find someone to take care of my cat Fluffy while I’m gone.

4/26

Bed model camp is awesome! I have already learned so much. We have rigorous exercises every day like today was balance on the mattress day. They first had us try various poses on waterbeds and whoever could hold their pose without falling the longest won a friendship bracelet; I didn’t win that challenge. There was some hairless overly toned model named Defon that won it. But then they put mattresses on the lake and we had to maneuver them like kayaks to a finish line; I won that one, yay! My friendship bracelet is made out of lanyard and matches my hazel flecked eyes.

4/27

I have a crush on a bed model camp counselor, he’s so dreamy. His name is Brig and he keeps giving me the eye. I was having trouble climbing the mattress wall today and he climbed up behind me and thrust his pelvis at me from behind to help push me higher. Brig feels really big from behind. I didn’t want him to stop thrusting at me so I pretended to need even more help; that’s when he grabbed me with one of his strong arms and held me as we climbed the rest of the way together. Oh Brig DO ME!!!

Later:

I just got back from Brig’s cabin. After dinner, I followed him down a trail and when he noticed me, I acted lost. I told him that I must have been turned around I didn’t know where the bed model cabin was. He told me that he would show me the way back but first, he had to stop off at his cabin so he could put a condom on and fuck me. I love bed model camp and Brig makes me feel like I am modeling better than ever!

4/28

Diary, I’m so scared. I hope I don’t get murdered like poor Brig. He was attacked by some wild animal and practically ripped to shreds. I didn’t know there were wild animals up here, I thought the woods were free and natural and made for just us models. I wasn’t in love with Brig but I enjoyed having sex with him. I hope that nobody else I enjoy having sex with gets killed; that would be terrible for me. They might close the camp down for the rest of the season and make us go back without proper training. Death is awful. If Brig was still alive, I would give him my number and tell him to call me when we got back to LA, not just to have sex but to look hot together too. I’m going to take an egg from the cafeteria, travel to a clearing, and ceremonially bury it to help me get through this tough time.

Later:

We didn’t do our camp sing along at dinner tonight, instead, we had counselors and bed models come up one by one and say nice things about Brig. Apparently, everyone else had slept with him too and they all went on and on about how nice it was. I’d like to think that Brig slept with me better than everybody else… I didn’t go up and say anything; I just spent the dinner listening to my instructional bed model lessons on my iPod.

Even Later:

It happened again and this time the buses are coming in the morning to take us home. They found a bed model ripped and clawed to pieces. The sad part is that a human life is lost; the not so sad part is that it was Defon and he was my biggest competition here... I’m going to go looking for this wild animal and tell it to stop.

Latest:

I just got back from my search in the woods and I found the “wild beast” about to attack another bed model. I couldn’t believe my eyes but there was Fluffy, MY CAT, just lurking in the shadows ready to pounce and when the bed model passed her, she jumped on his back and started clawing like a maniac. I ran over to Fluffy and pulled her off saving the model’s life. The bed model asked me, “What the hell kind of cat would do that?” and I explained that I keep traveling and forgetting to have anyone watch her, Fluffy must have snapped, followed me to bed model camp, and started killing everyone. I explained to Fluffy that she didn’t have to take any more lives because she screwed up bed model camp, they were cancelling the rest of the season, and sending us all home anyway. Fluffy didn’t believe me but I brought her back to my room and showed her my packed suitcase, only then did she calm down. I made the bed model that was almost attacked to death promise he wouldn’t tell anyone my cat Fluffy murdered those other people or else I would get really mad at him and never talk to him again, I think it worked because he kept his mouth shut. Anyway, it’s time to go to bed, what a long day… Next time I leave town, I’ll feed Fluffy extra food and chain her up, if I remember.

Bed Model Diaries 2

Dean Littner — Thu, 11 Aug 2011 00:00:00 GMT

I’m a simple uncomplicated person, I take joy in life, and I pee sitting down. Please make a cup of tea (hot or iced you choose) and join me on my personal reflections as a bed model:

4/8

Did you miss me diary? I finally got a moment away from that crazy rich client. I’ve been modeling the same bed on a yacht for a few days. The only stuff to eat is something called cavalier, it’s made out of yucky fish eggs, but I’ve been chasing it with vodka to help with the taste. I just lounge on the bed while “business associates” helicopter onto the yacht and hold “business meetings” about transferring “product” from South America to the City streets everywhere. I’m learning a lot. Did you know that if a business associate gets all loud and threatens to contact U.S. Customs and Border Patrol, all you need to do is shoot him in the leg? I did not know that… Sometimes my rich client celebrates a good business meeting in the bed with me, each modeling costs $1,000, and my agent has been very happy to get his cut of that.

4/10

I love my cat. I’ve been gone for almost a week, I forgot to leave extra food, and she’s still alive. I didn’t have time to call anyone to look in on her. She’s amazing and so understanding. She’s lost a lot of weight but she looks great, 10 years younger even.

4/11

I can’t wait to go shopping. I am dripping cash! I made so much money bed modeling so far this month that I might even hire a personal assistant.

I placed an ad on craigslist and I’m fielding responses right now for an assistant. I posted that I wanted somebody who knows about style, somebody who knows how to laugh, and somebody who knows how to spend money.

I just hired three personal assistants; it had to be done.

4/12

Today was so much fun. When people are paid to hang out with you, they say the nicest things, and they truly like you.

Personal assistant #1 said to me, “Dean, your hair looks really great.”

I said “I know.”

Then personal assistant #2 said to me, “You smell really good.”

I then said, “It’s because I’m a good person…”

Personal assistant #3 said to me, “You’re so smart.”

I said, “I’m pleased you find me so.”

They are so real with me.

4/13

All my assistants left today, we spent all my money, and they ran out on me. I was like “hey let’s just hang out without money I’m still fun, smart, and, uh, smart,” and they were like “fuuuuuuuck thaaaaat Dean.” I’m so sad, I thought they really had my back and liked me, not just the me that paid them but the real me that spent all my money too. What I’ve learned from this experience is that I should build a stronger personality and not be so dependent upon other people for my self-worth. I need to make some personality quick.

4/19

My friend Charlie is mad at me and it’s so stupid! I don’t understand why he sucks! Stupid Charlie. All I did was compliment him and I guess it wasn’t the right type of special compliment he was expecting so he got all pissed at me. We were at a bar surrounded by a bunch of grey haired daddy types and I said, “Hey Charlie, at the gym you always seem really below average and unattractive because everybody looks a lot better than you but here at this bar surrounded by all these old dudes, you really look good.” He hissed at me and ran out of the bar. I won’t compliment him ever again.