scrap post
Here is an R-rated scrap I am posting at Negs' behest. Maybe she will draw some art to go along with it.
At lunch, Kyle sits in the company cafeteria and thinks to himself that he must be the only man at King Soopers with shaved legs and an enormous bush. It’s the sort of thing he thinks about at lunch because he’s a loner at this company and he can’t help but turn his thoughts inward. None of them know, and it’s glorious. He’s using his lunch break to work on a grocery list, ironically, because this weekend is supposed to be the first of real summer (though Memorial Day is behind them by several weeks) and Stan wants to grill. The truth is, King Soopers is not very convenient for them, and Stan likes to go to the farmer’s market and buy whatever’s fresh. Kyle will insist on having ribs, which Kyle only trusts if they come from Whole Foods. He will want to make his own potato salad, and writes down “dill” and “celery,” rubbing his thighs together. He’s wearing a suit, because this is that kind of job, but the fabric slides over his smooth skin and it feels delicious. He shaved this morning, though he shaves every other morning; Kyle’s hair grows too quickly. It’s indecent. Still, the feeling is a turn-on, and the thought of this secret hidden from everyone else in the cafeteria is enough to make Kyle hard, cock springing to life as he remembers to pick up sponges at the Target that’s in the same mall as Whole Foods. Kyle scribbles it down quickly, because he’s been here for nearly half an hour, and there’s a project sitting on his desk regarding coupon redemption that desperately needs to be completed by next Tuesday.
Kyle has no idea how he got this job. First he was laid off from Chipotle, which was humiliating; the next thing he knew, he was unemployed for a year, then going for an MBA to pass the time. One of his instructors was mid-level at King Soopers, and somehow Kyle landed in this awful cafeteria. The pay is really very good, considering Kyle barely has to do jack shit. So long as he pretends he’s keeping busy, it’s completely fine. He feels guilty because Stan has to work very hard, and Stan is more naturally inclined to laziness, out of the two of them. The best thing is Kyle’s office is very private, which means he can text nasty things to Stan about what’s going on in his panties. Kyle tucks the shopping list into the pocket in the lining of his jacket and hurries to return his tray. Some suit with a hair piece shouts, “Hey, Broflovski, where’s the fire?” and Kyle’s face scrunches up, trying not to shout back, “My pants!” Instead, he coolly crosses his arms over his chest, adopting what Kyle is certain is his gayest possible stance. “Coupons,” Kyle says, an edge to his voice.
“Oh, son, I wouldn’t want to get mired in that.”
“Then it’s lucky you’re not,” says Kyle, and he doesn’t wait for a response. The truth is, he can do this project in about six hours, seven tops, leaving him with the rest of the afternoon to daydream. There’s a meeting at 3:15, concerning the upcoming Fourth of July e-mail blast campaign. Kyle grows more erect as he makes for the elevator, thinking about how wet he’ll be by the time that rolls around, sitting in his usual seat at the conference table, hands resting on oak veneer, trying to sit still. Kyle is so bad at his job, it’s laughable. He laughs about it, pushing the button for his floor. He could take the stairs down, but it’s four whole flights, and the thong that crushes into his balls and clings to his asshole is becoming less and less comfortable the more Kyle sweats. He should not have worn a suit today; today was more of a linen blazer day. Kyle can feel the dampness in the mess of pubic hair caught awkwardly under the elastic that slices across his thighs. He might get a fucking rash from this. That’s exciting. Not really. It’s not really exciting. But the thought of being a fucking irresponsible mess underneath his stiff suit drives Kyle insane. He has to text Stan. He has to.
The trek back to his desk is awful, his secretary asking him if he needs coffee and if he’s called back Roger Whatever from Kroger HQ. Kyle says, “I will, thanks,” and slams the door. At least he tries to do it with a smile. By the time Kyle sits down and grabs his phone he can feel the wetness on the front of panties, the silk and mesh detailing pressing against the fullness of his cock in a way that just makes Kyle leak harder. He sinks into the chair and groans, wishing he hadn’t had two Kozy Shack flans with lunch. They’re not even good anymore; Kyle suspects they changed the recipe.
As a form of denial Kyle pointedly left his phone in his desk drawer; he hopes Stan has sent him some messages, but no, Stan has not. Stan possibly, probably has actual work to do, or maybe Stan’s just decided that today he will play along by refusing to participate, which makes Kyle ache deep inside, his chest tightening. Stan is a lawyer, though not an important or well-compensated lawyer; he is with the EPA and writes a lot of briefs. The benefits are good but Stan spends a lot of time driving around the region going to sites and meeting with local administrators and coming back a few days later very tired. Kyle isn’t sure how Stan ended up doing this, but at least it helps someone. Kyle has come to think of his own job as free money because it is so easy and he spends most of it as a kind of eight-hour masturbatory prelude.
Kyle writes a message to Stan: soaking wet. That’s all he needs to say. He sets the phone down and picks up the manila envelope with the coupon memos in it. Kyle can’t believe he’s going to have to read this shit. Luckily he doesn’t have to prepare anything for the meeting later. He’s figured out the perfect formula: ask one very broad question after three other people have said something, then follow up another two comments with “I agree with your thinking,” then sit back and fantasize about Stan slowly peeling off Kyle’s clothes. Kyle often wonders whether if he’d be more ambitious or more successful or more interested in career advancement if he’d gone to private high school or college out-of-state or at least done a humanities master’s, or something. Instead he got a communications degree from a middling Colorado school that all but pulled a dump truck full of money up to his house. Either because of this or due to this he was able to go to school with Stan, which meant that their post-high school summer fling turned into ... whatever this was, 15 years later. They don’t even live together, technically, though one could be forgiven for mistaking their codependence for cohabitation. Stan has a backyard with a nice gas grill, as he lives in a garden apartment Kyle can’t otherwise stand. Kyle has a condo in a building with plate glass floor-to-ceiling windows and a view of the mountains. Looking at those mountains reminds Kyle of power-failure blizzards and hunting trips and about 235 other episodes that probably caused Kyle’s inability to survive adulthood without a steady diet of King Soopers-subsidized klonopin. His health plan’s not as good as Stan’s, but there’s a $30 deductible on name-brands, which is decent. Kyle survives.
At lunch, Kyle sits in the company cafeteria and thinks to himself that he must be the only man at King Soopers with shaved legs and an enormous bush. It’s the sort of thing he thinks about at lunch because he’s a loner at this company and he can’t help but turn his thoughts inward. None of them know, and it’s glorious. He’s using his lunch break to work on a grocery list, ironically, because this weekend is supposed to be the first of real summer (though Memorial Day is behind them by several weeks) and Stan wants to grill. The truth is, King Soopers is not very convenient for them, and Stan likes to go to the farmer’s market and buy whatever’s fresh. Kyle will insist on having ribs, which Kyle only trusts if they come from Whole Foods. He will want to make his own potato salad, and writes down “dill” and “celery,” rubbing his thighs together. He’s wearing a suit, because this is that kind of job, but the fabric slides over his smooth skin and it feels delicious. He shaved this morning, though he shaves every other morning; Kyle’s hair grows too quickly. It’s indecent. Still, the feeling is a turn-on, and the thought of this secret hidden from everyone else in the cafeteria is enough to make Kyle hard, cock springing to life as he remembers to pick up sponges at the Target that’s in the same mall as Whole Foods. Kyle scribbles it down quickly, because he’s been here for nearly half an hour, and there’s a project sitting on his desk regarding coupon redemption that desperately needs to be completed by next Tuesday.
Kyle has no idea how he got this job. First he was laid off from Chipotle, which was humiliating; the next thing he knew, he was unemployed for a year, then going for an MBA to pass the time. One of his instructors was mid-level at King Soopers, and somehow Kyle landed in this awful cafeteria. The pay is really very good, considering Kyle barely has to do jack shit. So long as he pretends he’s keeping busy, it’s completely fine. He feels guilty because Stan has to work very hard, and Stan is more naturally inclined to laziness, out of the two of them. The best thing is Kyle’s office is very private, which means he can text nasty things to Stan about what’s going on in his panties. Kyle tucks the shopping list into the pocket in the lining of his jacket and hurries to return his tray. Some suit with a hair piece shouts, “Hey, Broflovski, where’s the fire?” and Kyle’s face scrunches up, trying not to shout back, “My pants!” Instead, he coolly crosses his arms over his chest, adopting what Kyle is certain is his gayest possible stance. “Coupons,” Kyle says, an edge to his voice.
“Oh, son, I wouldn’t want to get mired in that.”
“Then it’s lucky you’re not,” says Kyle, and he doesn’t wait for a response. The truth is, he can do this project in about six hours, seven tops, leaving him with the rest of the afternoon to daydream. There’s a meeting at 3:15, concerning the upcoming Fourth of July e-mail blast campaign. Kyle grows more erect as he makes for the elevator, thinking about how wet he’ll be by the time that rolls around, sitting in his usual seat at the conference table, hands resting on oak veneer, trying to sit still. Kyle is so bad at his job, it’s laughable. He laughs about it, pushing the button for his floor. He could take the stairs down, but it’s four whole flights, and the thong that crushes into his balls and clings to his asshole is becoming less and less comfortable the more Kyle sweats. He should not have worn a suit today; today was more of a linen blazer day. Kyle can feel the dampness in the mess of pubic hair caught awkwardly under the elastic that slices across his thighs. He might get a fucking rash from this. That’s exciting. Not really. It’s not really exciting. But the thought of being a fucking irresponsible mess underneath his stiff suit drives Kyle insane. He has to text Stan. He has to.
The trek back to his desk is awful, his secretary asking him if he needs coffee and if he’s called back Roger Whatever from Kroger HQ. Kyle says, “I will, thanks,” and slams the door. At least he tries to do it with a smile. By the time Kyle sits down and grabs his phone he can feel the wetness on the front of panties, the silk and mesh detailing pressing against the fullness of his cock in a way that just makes Kyle leak harder. He sinks into the chair and groans, wishing he hadn’t had two Kozy Shack flans with lunch. They’re not even good anymore; Kyle suspects they changed the recipe.
As a form of denial Kyle pointedly left his phone in his desk drawer; he hopes Stan has sent him some messages, but no, Stan has not. Stan possibly, probably has actual work to do, or maybe Stan’s just decided that today he will play along by refusing to participate, which makes Kyle ache deep inside, his chest tightening. Stan is a lawyer, though not an important or well-compensated lawyer; he is with the EPA and writes a lot of briefs. The benefits are good but Stan spends a lot of time driving around the region going to sites and meeting with local administrators and coming back a few days later very tired. Kyle isn’t sure how Stan ended up doing this, but at least it helps someone. Kyle has come to think of his own job as free money because it is so easy and he spends most of it as a kind of eight-hour masturbatory prelude.
Kyle writes a message to Stan: soaking wet. That’s all he needs to say. He sets the phone down and picks up the manila envelope with the coupon memos in it. Kyle can’t believe he’s going to have to read this shit. Luckily he doesn’t have to prepare anything for the meeting later. He’s figured out the perfect formula: ask one very broad question after three other people have said something, then follow up another two comments with “I agree with your thinking,” then sit back and fantasize about Stan slowly peeling off Kyle’s clothes. Kyle often wonders whether if he’d be more ambitious or more successful or more interested in career advancement if he’d gone to private high school or college out-of-state or at least done a humanities master’s, or something. Instead he got a communications degree from a middling Colorado school that all but pulled a dump truck full of money up to his house. Either because of this or due to this he was able to go to school with Stan, which meant that their post-high school summer fling turned into ... whatever this was, 15 years later. They don’t even live together, technically, though one could be forgiven for mistaking their codependence for cohabitation. Stan has a backyard with a nice gas grill, as he lives in a garden apartment Kyle can’t otherwise stand. Kyle has a condo in a building with plate glass floor-to-ceiling windows and a view of the mountains. Looking at those mountains reminds Kyle of power-failure blizzards and hunting trips and about 235 other episodes that probably caused Kyle’s inability to survive adulthood without a steady diet of King Soopers-subsidized klonopin. His health plan’s not as good as Stan’s, but there’s a $30 deductible on name-brands, which is decent. Kyle survives.