G
Guest
Guest
hello all. ive written a humorous story and i think ive written myself into a corner. this should have been done 5 months ago and here it sits...dusty from lack of attention. would you please read and let me know your thoughts? ive had input from several people and im still stuck.
thanks in advance,
vella~
~~~~~
Günter’s Quest
Günter the garbage man was a thick, burly son of a bitch. He had a soft side, but one he kept hidden well. The guys on his route would never understand his proclivity for opera, caviar, and the tickle of a man’s mustache against his groin.
He wasn’t overtly gay; in fact, he loved a chick just as well as any man. However, a pair of muscular arms and a tight ass sent him into a swirling vortex of pleasure.
Obscenely early every morning, Günter made his runs on the streets of suburbia; His favorite route was the one on the wealthy streets. He would often find some odd treasure to take home. Why only last week he was able to obtain a new credenza. What a bitch it was to get onto the roof of his Yugo. Even with the help of the guys after their last run of the day, the behemoth piece of furniture almost proved to be too much for his supped up car. With a little elbow grease and some lavender scented KY jelly, he was able to polish that bad boy up in no time.
On a bright and warm summer morning, Gunter was making his rounds on a new route. When picking up the trash from a particularly wealthy domicile, he heard the most lilting sound. He paused to listen.
He leaned against his truck and closed his eyes, seemingly lost to the strains of the most beautiful operatic tenor voice he’d ever heard. Even the flies seemed to still as the lyrical voice permeated the reek of Gunter’s truck.
How impossibly pure, how unmatched in clarity the sweet voice was! Was it a boy, not yet come of age? And how could it be a recording and sound like that? The tone went into and through him, he tingled all over, his breathing changed, as though he were quieting even that, in order to catch the timbre of this heaven-sent piercing sweetness. Up the voice went, impossibly high, painting the world inside his closed eyelids with the pure sound of blameless holy joy. It ended.
Günter held still, but the voice had really come to an end; he could allow himself to exhale. A sexual tingle lay over him, like a mantle: of flushed sensitized face, chest, thighs, groin. Damned estrogen!
"Christ," said he aloud. "I keep having this since I started the hormones." But the memory of the voice was beyond all earthly reactions, it belonged on a higher ethereal plane where all the greatest beauties dwelt, unsullied, unattainable.
Two tracks of actual clean skin had been plowed; tear imprints through the grime, his eyes' involuntary libations to the spirit of the unearthly song. He allowed himself to hope that it was no recording, but a real voice. Is it real or is it Memorex?
He dumped the can into the hopper, scooped out some carrot peelings and maggots with his blackened glove, and replaced the dented thing on the curb. He noted a small hand carved box lying amongst the litter and took it from the refuse. “One man’s garbage, another man’s treasure” he muttered under his breath as he placed the box safely on the seat of the truck.
Again the music began, stealing Gunter’s attention. He could not leave without knowing who was behind this heavenly voice. He approached the house, a mock-Tudor half-timbered affair from the nineteen-teens or so, in a sculptured topiary frame with lovely trees and felt like lawn, littered with garish garden gnomes. The roundels in each window surrounded several panes of clear glass. He uncaringly trod in dogshit, peering in at the windows but seeing no movement. The house, unfortunately for the trespassing garbage collector, was less blind, and sensors went off at his approach. A rottweiler trotted around the corner from behind the house, then slunk snarling toward him.
Frozen in fear and shame, Günter stared at the gigantic dog. A keening scream rent from his full lips as the dog began to bark in earnest. His bladder convulsed, his knees buckled and Günter fainted dead away, his body a jellied mass on the soft lawn.
Fiorello came to his door just in time to witness Günter falling to the ground. He whistled softly to the dog and with a pat to the bitch’s head, sent her on her way. Curiously, Fiorello stepped to the body lying prone. So innocent, he thought. He tapped the man on his shoulder, pinched his cheeks and though the smell of the garbage man made him cringe, he tried C.P.R. All to no avail. The lug of a man was still unresponsive.
Calling for his house boy, Fiorello motioned the lad to help him get the beast of a man off the front lawn, into the house and into the shower. Stumbling and tripping over garden gnomes and knocking Gunter in the head several times, they finally made their way to the bathroom. As they stripped the garbage man nude, it was apparent that Gunter was not male... or was male but not. Cutting the bindings away from Gunter’s chest, they revealed a set of breasts that would make Venus jealous. The glorious, golden orbs were just the right size for cupping, just the heft to lure anyone’s attention.
Fiorello’s hands seemed to have a life of their own. Though the house boy was there, though Gunter seemed to be coming ‘round, he just couldn’t help cupping those luscious breasts. As he tweaked Gunter’s peaked nipples, a loud moaning groan startled him into awareness. He jerked back from Gunter as if he was on fire and his hands had been burned. His face was a vivid red as he blushed profusely in his embarrassment.
“Are you ok, sir?”
“What? What’s going on here?”
“You have fainted on lawn, sir. We were trying to help you. Your…bindings…must have been too tight, yes? You could not draw deep breathe enough. You understand, yes?”
Fiorello’s broken English confounded Gunter in his weakened state. He could only stare and nod.
Things to incorporate: Castrati, pickled eggs. Language barrier...? Pig Latin? Not sure if Gunter really isn’t a hermaphrodite.. ‘
thanks in advance,
vella~
~~~~~
Günter’s Quest
Günter the garbage man was a thick, burly son of a bitch. He had a soft side, but one he kept hidden well. The guys on his route would never understand his proclivity for opera, caviar, and the tickle of a man’s mustache against his groin.
He wasn’t overtly gay; in fact, he loved a chick just as well as any man. However, a pair of muscular arms and a tight ass sent him into a swirling vortex of pleasure.
Obscenely early every morning, Günter made his runs on the streets of suburbia; His favorite route was the one on the wealthy streets. He would often find some odd treasure to take home. Why only last week he was able to obtain a new credenza. What a bitch it was to get onto the roof of his Yugo. Even with the help of the guys after their last run of the day, the behemoth piece of furniture almost proved to be too much for his supped up car. With a little elbow grease and some lavender scented KY jelly, he was able to polish that bad boy up in no time.
On a bright and warm summer morning, Gunter was making his rounds on a new route. When picking up the trash from a particularly wealthy domicile, he heard the most lilting sound. He paused to listen.
He leaned against his truck and closed his eyes, seemingly lost to the strains of the most beautiful operatic tenor voice he’d ever heard. Even the flies seemed to still as the lyrical voice permeated the reek of Gunter’s truck.
How impossibly pure, how unmatched in clarity the sweet voice was! Was it a boy, not yet come of age? And how could it be a recording and sound like that? The tone went into and through him, he tingled all over, his breathing changed, as though he were quieting even that, in order to catch the timbre of this heaven-sent piercing sweetness. Up the voice went, impossibly high, painting the world inside his closed eyelids with the pure sound of blameless holy joy. It ended.
Günter held still, but the voice had really come to an end; he could allow himself to exhale. A sexual tingle lay over him, like a mantle: of flushed sensitized face, chest, thighs, groin. Damned estrogen!
"Christ," said he aloud. "I keep having this since I started the hormones." But the memory of the voice was beyond all earthly reactions, it belonged on a higher ethereal plane where all the greatest beauties dwelt, unsullied, unattainable.
Two tracks of actual clean skin had been plowed; tear imprints through the grime, his eyes' involuntary libations to the spirit of the unearthly song. He allowed himself to hope that it was no recording, but a real voice. Is it real or is it Memorex?
He dumped the can into the hopper, scooped out some carrot peelings and maggots with his blackened glove, and replaced the dented thing on the curb. He noted a small hand carved box lying amongst the litter and took it from the refuse. “One man’s garbage, another man’s treasure” he muttered under his breath as he placed the box safely on the seat of the truck.
Again the music began, stealing Gunter’s attention. He could not leave without knowing who was behind this heavenly voice. He approached the house, a mock-Tudor half-timbered affair from the nineteen-teens or so, in a sculptured topiary frame with lovely trees and felt like lawn, littered with garish garden gnomes. The roundels in each window surrounded several panes of clear glass. He uncaringly trod in dogshit, peering in at the windows but seeing no movement. The house, unfortunately for the trespassing garbage collector, was less blind, and sensors went off at his approach. A rottweiler trotted around the corner from behind the house, then slunk snarling toward him.
Frozen in fear and shame, Günter stared at the gigantic dog. A keening scream rent from his full lips as the dog began to bark in earnest. His bladder convulsed, his knees buckled and Günter fainted dead away, his body a jellied mass on the soft lawn.
Fiorello came to his door just in time to witness Günter falling to the ground. He whistled softly to the dog and with a pat to the bitch’s head, sent her on her way. Curiously, Fiorello stepped to the body lying prone. So innocent, he thought. He tapped the man on his shoulder, pinched his cheeks and though the smell of the garbage man made him cringe, he tried C.P.R. All to no avail. The lug of a man was still unresponsive.
Calling for his house boy, Fiorello motioned the lad to help him get the beast of a man off the front lawn, into the house and into the shower. Stumbling and tripping over garden gnomes and knocking Gunter in the head several times, they finally made their way to the bathroom. As they stripped the garbage man nude, it was apparent that Gunter was not male... or was male but not. Cutting the bindings away from Gunter’s chest, they revealed a set of breasts that would make Venus jealous. The glorious, golden orbs were just the right size for cupping, just the heft to lure anyone’s attention.
Fiorello’s hands seemed to have a life of their own. Though the house boy was there, though Gunter seemed to be coming ‘round, he just couldn’t help cupping those luscious breasts. As he tweaked Gunter’s peaked nipples, a loud moaning groan startled him into awareness. He jerked back from Gunter as if he was on fire and his hands had been burned. His face was a vivid red as he blushed profusely in his embarrassment.
“Are you ok, sir?”
“What? What’s going on here?”
“You have fainted on lawn, sir. We were trying to help you. Your…bindings…must have been too tight, yes? You could not draw deep breathe enough. You understand, yes?”
Fiorello’s broken English confounded Gunter in his weakened state. He could only stare and nod.
Things to incorporate: Castrati, pickled eggs. Language barrier...? Pig Latin? Not sure if Gunter really isn’t a hermaphrodite.. ‘
