Too Much of a Goodyear Thing ~ Part 1

WARNING: While this story is intended as humorous some may find its coarse language & raunchy situations offensive...

Tommy has very specific tastes in women. They have to be blonde. Blondes with enormous breasts. Blondes with huge breasts who are wearing rubber. And it has to be RED rubber. Needless to say his sex life is mostly a solo affair, confined to some rather specialized fantasies. But this morning his imagined scenarios are taking on a life of their own. Each starts out nice and smutty, until all at once his rubber-clad Goddess realizes her taxes are due today, and then suddenly she's driving them all over searching for 1021-J forms; or whatever. A series of weird side plots taking our hero farther + farther afield from anything the least bit erotic. It is all...



by Laika Pupkino
"A man has a reverie of meeting a buxom blonde woman in a purple nightgown. He doesn't know why the colors are exciting, he only knows the blonder, the purple-ier, the more heated he grows. Soon he's inventing scenarios of large-breasted models hired to test a new hair bleaches, supplied by a company that arbitrarily orders all contestants to wear purple underwear. If the plot seems silly, what does it matter? The erotic has its reasons that reason doesn't know..."
~~~Nancy Friday, MEN IN LOVE
"For as long as he could remember, Charles Goodyear marvelled at 'the wonderful and mysterious properties' of rubber. As a strange, lonely young boy growing up on a farm outside of New Haven, he had been given a hot water bottle to keep his bed warm through the cold New England nights. He adored that rubber bottle, so soft and squeezable, so consistently warm to the touch, so reliably and pleasantly pliable..."
~~~Laszlo Jampf, THE AGE OF PLASTIC
"We're cartoon characters! We can do anything we think of..."
~~~Heckle & Jeckle
TOO MUCH OF A GOODYEAR THING is based on the three quotes above. Rather than having it simply be a retelling of my own sex fantasies (the online story sites are full of such works, they don't need mine) I've made the narrator a heterosexual male, with a rather predictable penchant for blonde hair + big titties; who also entertains your standard male fantasies about a sort of 'lesbianism' that seems more about the guy who's watching than the coeds or stewardesses involved. And to make things a bit kinky I've given him a fixation on shiny red rubber, and what may or might not be a laundromat and washing machine fetish.
There is one specific woman that he keeps conjuring up, a sort of imaginary girlfriend, who he changes slightly with each fantasy as the mood strikes him. Isn't that the beauty of fantasy, being the god of your own little universe? This aspect of daydreams is especially appealing to Tommy, whose dealings with the real world and its vagaries are problematic at best.
But today even the usually dependable world of his fantasies seems to be turning against him. Our story begins on a sunny summer morning in beautiful downtown El Monte, California...
Okay. I have an hour + 53 minutes. The minutes belong to Interstate 5, to Harbor Blvd., and to hiking across that parking lot the size of Delaware. But this hour is all mine...
The morning essentials of shit/shower/shave, gulp down some Pop Tarts + coffee; then maybe I can sneak a quick look through old Mrs. Jensen’s Times if it’s still out there and her curtains are still shut. And then it’s off to-
Oh God.
It was suppose to be a fun place to work, you're not an employee you're a "cast member"; But as far as I’m concerned all the fun went out of it in my first few days. And I know it's me, my temperament or whatever not suited to the service industry but it’s just a nightmare- getting worse with each exposure to the place, as if it is abrading all the insulation on my nerves, my coping skills, until I’m just a screaming raw mass of GET ME OUT OF HERE!
But hey, I’m not even out of the sack yet! I mean, I did got out to pee, but I won’t count that. I am still in bed and this day has not officially begun yet. I have----(58 min.)----a little time still. Turn away from the ugly digital clockface, the merciless march of numbers. Get back to what I’ve started.
Lying on these cartoon-character sheets with a hard on. Sweaty from these blankets that it turns out I hadn’t needed last night, so I’ll definitely need that shower, but rubber-moon breasts and buttocks beckon first. /// Her /// firm red airtight thighs /// close-up of a glossy convex heel like the stern of a Spanish galleon atop a slender six-inch cone /// Her high cheekbones + full sultry lips. //// "JUST EXACTLY WHO YOU TALKING TO HERE, TOMMY?"\\\\ An oval frontal portal with a pussy bulging thru...
I guess since I have made no preparations I will be discharging my seed right onto the bedding here- uncouth, and certainly not the sort of thing I usually do, but I need to do a few loads of wash after work anyway. 
Weird to find myself locked into the same fantasy over + over. Weird how my sexual imagination has grown so narrowly focused (I mean it’s just a SUBSTANCE fer god's sake!) and so dumb. I never told Daphne, or Pam before her, though each had her share of ideosyncratic turn-on imagery...
And before Pam, I guess what had gotten me off was all very tame and pedestrian. Tits. Blondes. The anime robo-vixens of my adolescence. Which may be where all this rubber outfit business started from- all that robotic shininess acting as a 3-D effect, making the contours of the female body seem especially well defined. But at this point the hows and whys of it are fairly irrelevant, it's here, and I can’t imagine that there's anything terribly wrong with it...
I mean, if all perversions can be classed as either EVIL (rape, kiddie-anything), SICK (games involving bodily wastes or chilled raw hamburger) or simply STUPID (costumed bee-and-flower role play in the Sylvan Glade Suite of your local ECSTASY INN) I’d say this kink of mine clearly falls into this last category.
Shit! Fifty-six minutes until I leave to go put on that cheesy tyrolean hat and lederhosen; another day spent stuffing an endless stream of tourists into the fiberglass bobsled cars. Magic Kingdom my ass...
"How hard can this be?" I had asked myself, "I’ve hammered up concrete out in Indio in August- 113 degrees!" But that job and the few years I'd spent putting up frames new houses had had a certain, I don’t know, honesty about them. A satisfaction at the end of the day. Did not wear me down in the same way that these inanely yacking hoards do; their subtle and sometimes blatant belligerence toward the dork in the dorky outfit.
And today is Sunday- the place jam packed with the weekend crowds, while my nerves are still reeling from YESTERDAY'S onslaught! Yodelayheehoo.
I know I've got to find something else. But I can't just quit like I'm tempted to do every third minute I am there; not while I'm this far behind financially. So masturbating here is actually an essential part of my getting ready for work. Whatever percentage of this wound-up energy it will release. And so uh...
A thought. Another thought. Another extraneous thought. Tick, tick, tick- like worry beads. Forget all that out there. Zoom in.
Because once I’m inside one of these tableaus the scenes + characters take on lives of their own, more and more so these days, and then for a blessed while I’m okay. A traveller in a land full of wonderous surprises. So. Focus. On her. Rosalie. A name I got someplace, I don’t know where. Cascades of that awesome hair. She’s blonde, always blonde ......... that silky whitish shade you rarely see outside of overexposed + sundogged 60’s European films //// CORONETS WARBLING & WAVERING LIKE UNDERWATER //// A fake, wiggy look to it yet it is soft and real, so perfectly wavy, flawless in how it anticipates each motion //// A SERIES OF TEASING POSES, HER HIPS SEESAWING MAGICALLY //// Its insoucient ends cradling her massive rubberclad breasts. Bracketing them. Oh yes this is good...
======# .1
But I have to meet her first. Each time it’s our first meeting; A chance encounter that progresses swiftly toward that fevered first fuck, strangely telepathic, where every intention is anticipated and each move desired, exactly what is needed at this precise second...
And where do you meet a rubberized goddess? The laundry room story is always good.
And no, not that beat up old washer + dryer out in their ugly cinderblock alcove beside our building's token gesture of a swimming pool ....... but a classy hi-tech laundry facility---big gleaming stainless steel dryers, all grey formica and red tiles, the ceiling a grid of stylish pinstripe florescents---down under a fancy New York City apartment building; So that when I do drag her upstairs it will be to some gigantic posh apartment with a spectacular view of Central Park and a huge round bed.
We see each other. The attraction is instant. Galvanic and mutual.
But even in fantasy I can’t justify just jumping on her, so we kid around a bit first, like strangers might do ///\/ BRIEF, SAUCY BANTER //\// as my eyes stroll up and down her magnificent body. Though I can’t use that cute story gimmick about the mixed-up underwear anymore since it dawned on me that I had lifted it straight from that obnoxious ("VIZ-- WITH COLORLOVIN' BLEACH!") television ad...
I heft my plastic basket of clothes onto the counter, "Hi..."
She talks just like Melanie Griffith, high pitched and breathless.
I dump a capful of detergent into the washer, load coins, start piling in clothes as the water jets in. "Doing the wash?"
"Me too. Nice rubber suit!"
"Oh this..." She’s embarrassed. Glances down at herself and smiles sheepishly. It’s a one-piece affair; a form-hugging jumpsuit that covers nearly everything. Built in stilleto heels, partial gloves that her fingers poke out through. Her oval nails are long but not freakishly so, the exact luster and shade of her suit, like wet glistening ripe cherries. Not black, which is what those fetishists go for- all that sadomasco crap with its self-loathing and twisted power games. She toys with the fat shiny ring near the top of the collar that climbs halfway up her neck. Which again, is not some kind of ugly bondage bullshit but just a clasp for this zipper that extends upward from from about the bottom of her ribcage. The most innocuous of her three heavy chrome zippers.
The other two zippers---such obvious and prominently displayed accessways, their pull-rings dangling enticingly---declare this outfit to be one that only a shameless sex-addict would wear outside the bedroom!
But she must be having second thoughts (like you do after it’s too late and you’re out in public dressed up funny) and is feeling embarrassed about it.She says, "It’s for, uh .......... my sorority initiation. Alpha Beta Feta. They made me wear this suit for a week. Wow, did anyone ever tell you how much you look like Brendan Fraser?"
"All the time. I had one lady cuss me out, accused me of lying when I said I wasn't him. I don't know what the hell she thought Brendan Fraser was doing working at Disneyland..."
This detail from real life confuses Rosalie, "You work at Disneyland? Wow, that must make for a long drive to work."
"Uh, that was before I moved out here. But anyway I'm not anybody famous I'm just me. My name is Tommy, by the way. And I think that suit looks great on you."
"Hi Tommy-by-the-Way," she joshes. Takes my hand in a ladylike finger-clasping handshake while running the other hand over her side---her casing---gazing down at it in amazement, her eyes betraying a burgeoning lust. "You do?"
"I really do. But then I have a real thing about latex."
She says emphatically, "Then damn it, you understand! That was a lie about the initiation, there is no sorority. It’s just ........ I mean I LOVE this outfit! My boyfriend got it for me, when I was going with him, to wear while we ........... you know. I told myself I was doing it just to humor Bruno and his kinky streak. Little Miss Normal, putting up with it out of devotion to him. But after we broke up I realized I hadn’t been putting it on only for him, and I couldn’t ......... I mean I had to ......... I swear it’s the only thing I want to wear anymore! I can hardly wait to put it on! I went and put all these mirrors up all over my place, and when I see myself in it I just get so fucking hot! It makes me feel so- I don’t know, so RUBBERY!!
"And then the first guy I see who likes me in this, who isn’t completely gross, with hair all down his throat and smelling like old gym socks, I just have to-"
She crosses the three linoleum squares to me. I’d stopped in the middle of shoving in a mound of bedding, still have it in my hands as we ///// FREAKS LIKE HER. ME. US... ///// embrace. She clutches me with a need so sudden, wild and desperate that I’m sure it would be frightening in a real world situation, where it would indicate that she had some serious emotional instability. But I had been expecting it, anticipating the thrill of her delicious slickness pressed tightly against me. Oh this is excellent!
Suddenly she is laughing, all her churning passion instantly dispelled- "What’s this?"
"What’s what?"
I am startled by this abrupt and total change in her! She is fingering the printed sheets that I’m holding (sort of inadvertantly draped around us); peers at them for ten long seconds before asking incredulously,"DIG-BY?"
"Uh yeah, unfortunately. I sure wouldn’t have picked these out. But I got them for Christmas last year, my Aunt Magda, so-"
"My gaaaawwd these are atrocious!  You mean you can actually stand to sleep on these? Just look at this. These should be nominated for ........... I don’t know what. The Jerko Dorko Merchandising Awards-" she whoops, and starts to laugh uncontrollably.
Everything I say ("Well maybe I have better things to spend my money on. What do I care what's on 'em when I'm asleep?") just makes her laugh harder and more derisively, until-
========# .2
Standing in the laundry room as I step out of the elevator.
Same exact scene. Same instant two-way attraction. Only this time her face is made up rather bizarrely, and she is not at all ashamed of her form-hugging red suit. When I tell her how much I like it Rosalie gives me a dazzling smile, taking such unaffected delight in the compliment that I add,  "It’s really you!"
"Is it that obvious?" she asks, and frowns down at her sisal caddy full of blouses, skirts and such, "If I didn’t work for such an uptight conservative company I don’t think I’d even bother with all these .................. clothes."
I’m used to her looking a bit different each time we meet, various details about the suit, but this is unprecedented! Thick white powder from snug collar to hairline, with neon cosmetics painted on over that. Combined with the suit the effect is lovely, futuristically trampy- like a whore from Blade Runner. Her blonde hair has a punkish pink tint to it. Yet there is nothing punkrock or arrogant about her demeanor, so maybe she is simply copying some new female pop singer (I don’t keep up with these things...) with this get-up. 
Still, I like the relaxed confidence and sense of fun that this look implies. That last Rosalie must have been extremely insecure to be so horribly judgemental and cutting over some lousy sheets and pillow cases!
We start our wash, sit in the end two of these colorful plastic chairs that rest on a long frame of steel tubing. Our minds whirl with raw carnal imaginings as we sit + engage in the preliminary small talk. We’re the only ones down here...
"So how long do these machines take?" she asks.
"About a half hour, but then the dryers take forever. You’re new here?"
"I'm very new." Her voice is even more breathless and Melanie Griffinish than than last time, "You think anyone ............ would steal my stuff .......... if I left for a bit?"
"Probably not, in this building. What floor are you on?"
"The top one."
"Must be nice. I’m only on the third. Got a view of some podiatrist’s waiting room over in the Talbot Building. People swapping horror stories about their bunions."
She asks if I want to go see her view of the park. I say sure. But the elevator doesn’t respond to the button. I run my hand over her shoulder. She reaches up, lacing her latex-sheathed fingers (no nails showing this time) through mine.
Then we hear banging sounds coming from the elevator shaft, and cables clanking dully. From up inside the shaft somewhere a workman swears.
We start up the stairs, racks of glossy black steps and rails wedged into a brightly-lit concrete well. But at the first landing she stops and faces me.
"You don’t really want to climb twelve flights, do you?"
"That depends on what’s waiting for me up there."
"Fuck it. Let’s do it here," she gasps, then lunges and grabs me, grinds her crotch against mine, breathing raggedly. She pulls away, parks her perfect ass on the edge of the landing. Her rubber fingers make a loud zzzzzttt!! sound as she thrums them across the bumps of the dock plating- "Right here on the steps!"
"But what if somebody-"
"Hell nobody’s gonna-"
But even as she starts to say this we hear an army of small feet clattering down the steps several floors above us, and a woman’s tired voice, "Stop that running! If you get hurt messing ‘round like that I’m not taking you to no doctor. Not after I told you and told you- Amber! Put that filthy thing down right now! I said now! Simmer down, all of you!"
Rosalie rolls her eyes in amusement, "So your apartment then?"
I help her to her feet and point back down the stairs, "I think I know a place."
She would be well within her rights to scoff at where I’ve chosen to screw, but she clambers on in. An impossibly cramped compartment at the back of the laundry room that is usually left unlocked. She doesn’t know it but she has made it with me in here before. I’m just glad that she’s wearing the jumpsuit this time, and not that long rubber dress over the matching boots. Sexy as hell- but it sure was unweildy in a space just big enough to ball standing up! I press her up against a vertical bank of sloppily painted pipes that are hot but not quite too hot to touch. I have grabbed each one just to make sure, and the suit should insulate her further.
Rosalie gazes up into my eyes with a weird, unblinking intensity. Snow trickles down on us through an ancient cast-iron transom---a whorling design of stems, buds and spearlike leaves---up behind the pipes, which looks out into a damp brick slot that extends upward a meter or so where it was capped by another grating, through which the sound of pedestrian and motor traffic filtered down to us. This odd little 1930's-ish space had been overlooked when the building was given its new starkly modern look. People up on the sidewalk clomp past unaware of us, pant-legs and coat hems flitting by like ghosts. 
The bitter woman with what sounds like nine kids has arrived in the laundry room, and after catching her breath resumes berating them. This fiberboard door doesn’t latch from inside. We’ll have to fuck very quietly. 
I am vaguely aware that any ill consequences of our being discovered in here would be as imaginary as the rest of this is, so the covert nature of this encounter doesn’t excite me too much. But it sure seems to be turning Rosalie on! She reaches back and grips the pipes as I nuzzle and then nibble at her ear. The same coarse white makeup on there too. I can taste it, pasty in my mouth, but keep at it until I have cleared and then start to suck on the fleshy nub of her earlobe. Get my teeth around it and gently tug.
It’s an alarming sensation. I spit it out, gazing in horror at where the stuff’s been licked off...
"What’s wrong? Why’d you stop?"
"I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you had a fake, I mean a..."
She laughs musically, "What are you talking about?"
"Your ear!"
"There’s nothing wrong with my ear," she says, slightly puzzled.
"Of course not! It’s a great prosthetic, but you should have told me! If only so I could switch to the real one and let you feel what I was doing..."
"I felt every bit of that."
"How could you?" I stammer, staring at that lollipop colored lobe jutting from the thick coat of powder, "It’s rubber!"
"Of course it is, it’s part of me. You said you liked rubber, didn’t you?" she purrs, wrapping her arms around me affectionately.
Awkwardly in this cabinet-sized room, I return her embrace. Flesh so squeezible beneath the resilient casing, and of course she can’t really believe she is made of rubber, it’s just her fantasy; built up around her disfiguring loss and this cunning prosthesis they’ve hung on there; her affinity for the stuff running so deep that she actually wants to BE red rubber, which is /// FORGET THAT EAR THEN /// thrilling to consider. To have come across a girl who’s an even bigger freak for the stuff than I am.
I bury my nose in her hair, "Of course you are. You hot little rubber doll..."
Nylon hair. Translucent gold like some expensive fishing line, its bushy mass converging into tight braids that disappear into the spongy red scalp. This is where her hair’s pinkish hue had come from. Artificial hair. Artificial head. My face snaps up and out of there- "JEEEE-SUS!"
She looks up into my face, with eyes that I can now see are just surfaces cast into her head, the whites and irises and pupils painted on; part of the same undifferentiated mass that comprises the rest of her, from her head down to the points of her stilleto heels. Which in fact are all she has for feet...
She says dejectedly, "I was so sure you knew what I was. And were hinting .......... The way you said ‘It’s really you’..."
In truth I would prefer that she had real innards, and sinews of living flesh. Lungs that drew air in and out, and didn’t just puff out words in tiny spurts like those rubber bulbs photographers use to blow dust off negatives. So I tell her: "No I didn’t. Did not suspect at all! But I’ve read a lot of science fiction, and I’m not some, uh- protoplasmic chauvinist ................. I'd be the first to insist that we grant all rights of citizenship to any manufactured intelligence that is self-aware enough to want them. Which you sure seem to be! More human- uh, what we think of as human, uh, in the best senses of the word, than ........ Well I know is I think you’re incredibly sexy!
So hell yeah I want your body, whatever it’s made of!"
And I do. I have to leave for work soon, can’t waste any time in coming up with a new story. I can always go get my head examined later for lusting after this product of unearthly technology. Of alchemy, Kabbalism, voodoo, whatever.
And if I am really going to do this I should do it all the way! She giggles as I slop my tongue all over her face like a cat. Grins with the smug satisfaction of the attended-to as I pull out my bandana and rub hard- wiping off the illusion that she has skin like a person. I leave a bull’s eye of rouge + white powder on each cheek, and a parabola of blue shadow above each enamelled eye. How could these lashes---these gobbety ill-formed black tendrils---have fooled me for a second? It is so obviously a mask now, and yet it moves as freely as any face, down to the tiniest muscular detail, and the effect is uncanny: As if a statue of someone you loved had been inhabited by her ghost and become magically, wonderfully alive!
I kiss her on the mouth, pushing the soft teeth forward and back with my tongue’s horny probing. Warm in there if not mouthishly wet, although it soon is from my own spittle.
But it is hardly much of an opening---unnaturally shallow---so I slide my lips off hers and down onto her chin, which gives and bends in my mouth more than one containing a jawbone ever would. Kiss her smooth throat. There is really no line between suit and body, that was just a trick of the cosmetics. It’s all suit, all body, all her...   
But she must have nerve endings, some finely calibrated sensors that are jazzing her to the core with pleasure, from the way she is //// (FEEL SO R-R-RUBBERY) //// shivering and groaning. From these thimble-sized nipples and big round maroon areolae textured like the underside of a mouse pads that have emerged from her slick gleaming boobs... 
My mouth works down toward them as my hand dives between her thighs. Groping, seeking- "Where is it?"
"Where’s what?"
"The zipper. You had a-"  
No, come to think of it those shiny fat-toothed zippers had been from last time. "Then there’s got to be a flap. Some buttons, velcro ........ <em>something!"
But my hand had been all over down there, and except for a shallow suit-like declivity between her cheeks and this newly discovered belly button (she squirms ticklishly, but I can only just fit the tip of my finger into it) I had felt nothing but smooth poreless surfaces joining fluidly with each other.
"Why would there be something like that?"
"For God’s sake! Where’s your pussy?"
"My pussy?"
"Yes, you know- Vagina. Cunt. Box. Snatch."
"I know what it is. I may be just three months out of my box but I’m not a total newboot. Nope, sorry. Don’t have one..."
I groan, "Then what is it that you think we’ve been doing here?"
"Having sex."
"Yes. And very good sex, as far as it’s gone/ But when us humans have sex ......... You see, I’ve got this thing here," I jab her smooth rubber pubis with my erection, "A thing that loves to put itself someplace dark and gooey and meaty and tight."
"I’m familiar with such objects," she laughs. "Shut up and fuck me already!"
"WHERE?!!  Please, tell me."
"Why anywhere you want, Lover." She grabs her left wrist with her right hand and forces the forearm back, so that two facets that should never come in contact form a gleaming red fold. The fingers of the "broken" arm grab hold of her biceps. With her other hand she siezes this new oddly-crimped elbow. She flexes the cleft open and shut in front of my face, then pulls it out like elastic. Grinning lewdly, "And the more you stretch it, the tighter it gets! Dab a little KY in there and-"
I recoil, almost tumbling out the door of the closet. "That’s disgusting!"
She gives the arm a shake that snaps it back to its normal shape, and sets its hand jauntily on her hip, "Not one of my favorites either, some parts of me are just more sensitive than others. Though my ex-beau sure loved that one. But if you can come up with something, I can probably do it! I won’t say the possibilities are infinite, but I haven’t found them all. Watch this."
She crosses her arms over her belly and does something that my eyes can’t quite make sense of. Pulling at herself, folding down the middle, forming a deep slick pocket in the center of her as her tits distend and rise.
"STOP THAT!!" I yelp.
There is a frantic rapping at the door, and a voice like an enraged crow: "Whatever you’re doing in there, knock it off or I’m callin'the cops. There’s kids out here, ya know!"
Rosalie growls, "Hey look, lady, you wants hots waters in dese machines or not? We’re woikin' heah. Now beat it, ya dumb broad..."
She snickers, proud of her imitation of a real New York plumber. The spots of color on her face look peirrot-ish, whimsical- making her elfish grin seem even cuter. 
She leans close and whispers, "Oh, I get you now .......... What you want is something closer to what a realgirl would do. Sorry, I should have realized. It’s just that I was seeing this guy, Bruno, who wanted no part of the standard openings. Said he could get those anywhere. He really stretched me to my limits, but his always having to find some freaky new way to fuck got old after a while. I started feeling like I was just another one of his fancy sex gadgets. I don’t think he ever really believed I possessed free will until I left him! And he never thought about what I wanted. I loved it when you sucked on my earlobe. That never would have occured to him. And speaking of which .......... suction is one thing that I really excel at..."
"But your mouth, it isn’t even real..." (my tongue had hit a slick neoprene wall with a row of tiny square holes in it a mere 3.5 centimeters behind her teeth...)
"Maybe not, but when you combine it with other things I can do ........... Because this is one way to do it that Bruno and I were in total agreement on. That porn star Joannebarbarella could never do anything like this in her wildest, kinkiest dreams!" She gives me a quick kiss on the lips ///// BYE BYE .......... I’M GOING IN HERE NOW! ///// and then she kneels.
Clamping her hands across her ears she pushes hard on the sides of her head; her cheeks and whole face rippling centerward until her features slide together and cave in, fall back into a cavity, receding toward the center of her head. The mouth able to smile at first, until it is puckered into an inflexible round hole by all the rubber pressing in around it, a dickhead-sized socket at the back of this upholstered looking orifice...
-until the tiny pocket disappears from view altogether as her hands meet up in front, fingers and thumbs steepled together in the shape of a diamond, their tips buried in stressed rubber wavelets. What had been chin and cheeks and temples are all smooshed against each other in fat red bulges- not resembling anything you could call a face so much as the crude maw of some microscopic horror! Those delicate bell-pepper ears have gone to God knows where...
She lifts her hands away, tenatively at first, until she is confident that this \\\ CUSTOM RUBBER FUCKFACE /// will retain its shape. She finds my hands with hers and presses my palms into the springy hair at the back of her head, indicating that I should go to town on her.
I yank them free of her grip.
My lust and revulsion wage a tremendous battle as the swollen hole slides blindly across my thigh, seeking out my meat. The unnatural movement of these shoulders---of this grotesquely twisting neck---fills me with dread! 
I try to remind myself that this thing has a personality, maybe even a soul, and that moments ago we were talking + nuzzling, laughing + kissing, man and woman .......... But gone are the expressive cheeks, the trembling chin, all the richly nuanced motility that had made this artifact seem so human. 
From above I see how the woven bases of the hair’s strands are aligned in neat columns, anchored in the unliving flesh by a perfect pegboard grid of raw-edged holes, nauseatingly deep. In order to kneel in this tiny room her legs from the knees down are splayed outward at an impossible angle... 
Lust and revulsion battle within me as the dry rubber hole splutters and splurps with a harsh mechanical rhythm...
Revulsion wins.
Digby stares at me from the pillowcase an inch from my nose,his expression stunned
and blank behind his clunky spectacles.
8:45 already...
TITS! Of course!! I shoulda slipped it between those prodigious red hooters of hers! She wouldn’t have had to deform herself, and I could have gazed down on her rapturous face, that virtually human face...
Shit, I never even thought of that. Would settle only for the idea of being en-holed, rammed deep inside some orifice...
But when she tried to accomodate me in this it was too strange. Too much of a Goodyear thing...
These sheets were a gift from Aunt Magda, and who knows why the hell she picked them, since I’d never expressed any interest in that comic strip whatsoever. On sale, no doubt. But since she seems to think I am still eight years old, I’m lucky to have gotten something that was at least practical, and not a toy fire truck.
Shiny round-snouted old fashioned fire truck. Men in heavy yellow slickers + crested helmets are running up the street with hoses. Men in rubber. Nothing for me in that image,
I should say!
And here’s Aunt Magda in a ludicrous rubber mumu. UGH!!!! Graceless and fat, bulbous in all the wrong places! And not looking like flesh or even solid rubber but puffy, gaseous. Like a balloon from the Macy’s Thanksgiving Parade...
Hey, she IS a balloon! Bobbing down the canyon street beneath these ancient limestone office buildings ........... past the t.v. cameras .......... as the crowds packing the sidewalks behind the striped barricades look up in puzzlement, arguing over what old forgotten cartoon character she is supposed to represent.
She calls down harshly: "Such things you imagine you want from a woman, Tommy. 
Rubber this, rubber that! And a face turning into like a cushion for a sitz bath.
I shout up at her. That I didn’t order up or ultimately even LIKE that fantasy... 
But she’s way up there, smiling, happy that she can’t hear me-"No wonder you ain’t married! Maybe you should marry a nice vacuum cleaner- HAHHH!!!"
But she’s on fire. Which explains all the firemen, and why all these parade-goers are scattering in panic! She was filled with hydrogen by mistake, and blazes spectacularly
as she comes crashing down /// RED HOT STEELFRAME \\\ like the Hindenburg. 
But unconcerned, and still nagging me: "No nice girl would wear a crazy thing like that.
Or do something like that with her face. Sick is what it is! Sick, sickening, sick!"
KA-BOOM! (Another pocket of hydrogen ignites!)  "And when are you-"
Whump, KABOOM! "-gonna get a HAAAAIRCUT?"
And it’s not like I have some perverted obsession with laundromats- don’t even think that! It was just a place to run into her, to let the fantasy do its thing, and then have been
back in the world of real stuff ten minutes ago. Going to work...  
And tomorrow it would be an entirely different story:
CO-ED SCANDANAVIAN SUBMARINE COMMAND .......... or any number of situations on file in my horny rolodex! Not goingback over and over to this single locale, like that wierd old comedywhere the t.v. weatherman gets stuck in that infuriating time loop.
This time I am DEFINITELY going to get my nut!! No matter what, I will concentrate on the matter //// ANTI-MATTER \\\ MATA HARI /// MAD HATTER \\\ MATTERHORNY //// at hand...
NOTE: Heckel & Jeckel's cartoon The Power of Thought can be found at:  


Great Writing


I enjoyed this a lot, the different fonts and colours were a really good touch.





Wow! All those images of rubber-clad beings and sex-dolls. Only you could make it both funny and revolting and fascinating and....I don't know what. Dunlop and Michelin will be spitting chips. Akron Ohio must have been a den of iniquity,

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