The naughty world according to Gape’s mother

At first, she was simply considered a client. That’s when she called to ask if she could come in.

“I need a man’s cum,” she added, as if nothing was more obvious.

Well, that’s what they were offering here, so her request seemed appropriate.

Just a client.

Pretty soon, it was relegated to a special case. First impressions were to blame. Jenny just had that effect on people. In her white nurse’s uniform, she made her way with a general’s stride straight to the receptionist, gently prying the receiver of the phone out of her hand and not being fooled by the fact that the girl had just said something into it.

The girl only looked hurt for a moment. She’d served in the ER before, and she recognized what she saw in this woman’s eyes. The receptionist even unconsciously swept her gaze across the room, searching for the bloody, dying body that couldn’t wait a second longer. For that was what the eyes of the woman in white said.

Not a second.

The woman’s tone didn’t match her gaze as she said aloud, “I want a daughter.”

“And she had one of her kindly dispositions,” Gape later wrote of his mother.

The receptionist twitches her painted on eyebrows, pulls up her pierced lip, and in a voice that probably shouldn’t be used to talk to clients, not even the weird ones, says, “Sit down.”

He says: “Wait your turn.”

Then he reaches for his phone and dials a series of numbers by heart. He stares warily at the strange person in white. She’s not only not sitting, she’s not waiting. She doesn’t even give the impression that she intends to.

Eventually, he’ll move.

Jenny heads over to the only other person in the waiting room, a guy with a pale face and a plastic cup in his hand just a shade paler.

“My mother had a reliable radar for people who needed help,” Gape wrote. “But unfortunately, that radar didn’t take into account whether they wanted that help from her.”

Jenny took a seat next to the poor guy who looked like he wanted to be anywhere else. He pretended he wasn’t even here. That everything was a mistake.

The woman in white looked straight into his muddy eyes and said: “What kind of naughty things do you accomplish… Well, you know… Just what kind of lewd fantasies do cum expel from you?”

This was a few years after Jenny published her famous feminist bible, Sexually Suspect. But even in over a thousand pages of manuscript, she never got to the bottom of the mystery. She didn’t understand the principle behind the male sex drive. She had no idea of its practical meaning. Except for conception, which could well be done in a single act, as Jenny herself had done in the case of her son.

But the man with the grey face, which had just taken on a decent shade of purple, had no idea about this. He was now watching Gape’s mother with the same doubt he had been staring into the cup with only a moment ago. Perhaps the worry had only grown a little.

“Excuse me?”

And Jenny’s smiling. She says that was extremely rude of her. Asking such intimacies of a complete stranger. Still smiling, she reaches out and squeezes his hand tightly, practically taking it from the man’s lap.

He says: “I’m Jenny Feelco. And you are?”

But he repeats, rather stupidly, “Excuse me?”

A woman in an outdated nurse’s uniform takes a seat. She doesn’t do it often, but she knows the sound is soothing to the men. It’s an expression of female insecurity, and some brain cell in the human male responds positively. The devil knows why.

“As they tell you,” this time he adds a slightly authoritative tone. It kind of goes with the uniform, any uniform, anyway.

“Paul,” she whispers unhappily. “Paul Malcovich.”

Jenny nods, says she’s enjoying it immensely, and then wants to know what she’ll be thinking about when she goes into that stall over there, closes the door and masturbates.

“Some men imagine big breasts or an open vagina,” the strange woman explains, “and that’s perfectly fine.”

Poor Paul is now looking at the empty plastic bottom, but rather than thinking about what he’s going to fill it with, he seems to be wondering whether he might have just drunk something from it. Something really strong.

“I hear,” she continues calmly, as if perhaps dictating a recipe for lemon pie to one of her many fans, “that there are magazines for that purpose. You know what I mean. The ones with the vulgar positions of naked women. Understand me correctly, of course I don’t approve of them. I just understand that for this strictly medical purpose their existence is justified in a small part.”

He goes from pictures of provocative girls to more. Which can’t be excused anymore. When nude women in humiliating positions are forced to accommodate a male member, even though such a union completely rules out conception. A minor mix-up of the girl’s orifice is to blame.

“But I am convinced,” Jenny states firmly, “that these mistakes happen too often not to be deliberate.”

He nods to himself. The fact that he is silent can’t faze her at all.

“All these lascivious photos present men as sex slaves. As if there’s nothing more beautiful a woman can give to a man. But why would he stuff something into her sweaty body for over an hour when they could talk about books instead? Have you ever talked to a woman about a book, Paul?”

Paul shakes his head.

“Well, you see,” Jenny exclaims, delighted. “That’s the point.”

“What…” he stammered, all expression gone from his face. He had probably definitely come to the conclusion that this was a bad dream. “What do you want?”

Jenny nods again. She interprets the question as an expression of interest.

“Men are born with that grossness in their pants,” he helpfully explains. “It’s not their fault, it’s not their fault. Then they sacrifice their whole lives to learn to live with it. They assume, quite wrongly, of course, that they will discover that sense, that purpose, if they deal with the nastiness as often as possible. I have a certain suspicion that they even find a certain joy in it.”

Paul swallows, eyes now fixed on the tips of his own shoes. All sort of hunched over.

“If you give my mother the opportunity to start talking about male lust,” Gape once remarked, “you don’t have much choice but to let her finish.”

The woman in the nurse’s uniform definitely plans to finish her speech.

“But it’s not a joy like smelling freshly baked bread,” Jenna’s eyes light up, “it’s not like the pleasure of standing up to welcome the dawn over the horizon,” in fact her whole face lights up with positive energy, “it’s not like the pleasure of a child’s laughter or a cup of refreshing tea or the satisfaction you feel when you selflessly save someone’s life!”

He inhales, exhales, and again says sternly to the poor man whose ears he is trying to hide between his shoulders: “No.”

He’ll say, “Lust is not pleasure.”

He’ll say, “Lust isn’t just bad.”

He says that this is the worst God punished Adam with when he touched Eve’s apple.

Then, quite surprisingly, Jenna’s face puts on a slight smile. In a soft, polite, conversational tone, she says, “You see, I hope my daughter cannot be conceived with the thought of an unnatural thing in an unnatural female orifice. That’s the only reason I want to make sure…”

There’s a sound. It’s an empty plastic cup that hits the ground, and right after that, this guy, this Paul, so he gets up and even walks, quietly, unobtrusively, trying to tell himself that he doesn’t exist. He walked away, or rather he carried himself away. You can’t even imagine Jesus touching the ground less. Only he probably didn’t have such an urgent standing in his pants.

Gape’s mother looked after him for a moment. She was thinking.

She saw him from behind, so what no one who met poor Paul for the next few minutes missed, she didn’t. Only something in her shuddered. Such joy. One of those pure ones she’d been cooing about just moments ago.

She realized that she had just met a man who was just as disgusted by lust.

Just then, a door opened somewhere down the hall. A shoulder-shouldered nurse, looking more like a man on steroids, looked around. Then she yelled, “Paul Malcovich?”

With a brisk stride she crossed the corridor, and as she passed the receptionist she said in annoyance: “His wife has been stuck on a goat for three quarters of an hour. Her hips are cramping. So where the hell is her asshole?”

When no one answered the call, she strode to the booths. She knocked on the first one, silence. She discreetly peeked in the door and closed it again. “Paul Malcovich,” she yelled again, simultaneously opening the door of the next cubicle with a single knock. This one is empty, too.

Then he opens another, leaves it quietly open, and enters a room where a screen flashes and a woman’s voice urges him to just love it there, moaning and whining. Into this, a male humming, much more real.

“Are you Paul Malcovich?”

Quite frankly, imagine the two of them looking into each other’s eyes. His will probably be a little more surprised. She also imagines that he shakes his head because she shrugs her shoulders. She’s about to close the door when she points somewhere where the man sitting there might just have his right hand pretty full.

The nurse with the grey dreadlocks combed to the back of her head, who has quite a luxuriant moustache but a flat chest, so she says it looks like he’s finished. He was getting close to the finish line. To the top.

“I’ll just wait for that,” her eyes are still on the man’s lap. But you wouldn’t find more than professional interest in them. It only takes a moment before a whimper comes from the booth.

“I don’t think I can do it now.”

The nurse shakes her head in disgust, slams the door, turns on her heel and strides towards the door she left open earlier. There’s probably a Mrs. Malcovich with a cramp in her sitting muscles. Before the nurse reaches the door, she manages two more full-throated “Paul Malcovich!”

The receptionist finally decided to show some interest in the crazy woman’s problem. Or at least one they could move here.

He routinely reaches for the questionnaire. Right at the top is the word “Semen Request. He calls the strange lady over and explains in a matter-of-fact voice where to fill in the appropriate data.

“Here, here, still down here, and this needs to be described.”

Gape’s mother waves contentedly and grabs a pencil. Then she fills in her name and some other blanks that Jenny thought had little to do with why she was here.

“Have you had any children yet?”

A proud nod.

“Were there any problems with conception?”

Jenny thought, a wrinkle appearing on her delicate forehead. Then she shook her head decisively.

“He didn’t resist,” she said.

The nurse winked. Then again, a short sigh. Finally, she asked if she had tried the standard method first this time too, and seeing the strange woman shake her head in disgust, she asked why she had come to them.

Their sperm bank.

“It’s simple,” smiles Gape’s mother. “I want the sperm of a very decent man. I hear you have a choice here.”

And the girl behind the counter nods, so Jenna’s smile has to last a little longer. But then she says, and she’s definitely not faking the gloating in her voice, unlike the concern a moment ago, “Of course.”

He says: “We have sperm of intelligent men here. Many are successful, some are handsome. Small, big, skinny or fat. We offer interesting fellows and dull patrons. “Talkers and silent dudes. With big noses or small chins. You won’t find a catalogue like this in the Neckermann catalogue.”

Jenny nods. Satisfied.

“Of course,” says the girl.

He smiles. Miles.

He’ll say, “Every slob came here for twenty bucks to suck a seal.”

This time it’s Gape’s mother who blinks. She blinks, purses her lips and shrugs her shoulders in incomprehension. She’s read a lot in her life. Yet she didn’t know that sea lions had to pee.

What came after became legend in Boston. One that everyone has heard, even if no one knows for sure if it really happened that way. Except for the receptionist who started the rumor.

The unfortunate man, who had been disturbed by the little man in the cabin a moment ago, had started to work again with gusto. He rewound the tape to his favourite passage with three blondes and one African-American. And this dark guy was screaming obscenities at the beauties. Like it was a commentary on the movie, the black guy was telling the girls what he was doing and why he was doing it. With gusto, he gave his organ the naughtiest names, and that’s what he did with everything he stuffed his black pride into.

And our lone striver in the booth imagined it was a little different.

He dreamed that the stick existed in white. He closed his eyes for a moment and actually believed that his was being sucked by that beauty with the developed chest, and he still quite brazenly pretended that in his case she had a mouthful of it too. He was half-loudly muttering to himself something about sluts, about bitches.

When the door opened.

There were two women standing there, both in white. Sexy nurses in sexy nurse uniforms.

The younger one says: “That’s what they call pissing on a seal.”

That was too much for the guy.

At that moment, the sea lion must have reached maximum brilliance, if that’s how you want to look at it. The effort in the cabin was complete. To the detriment of all involved, there was somehow no time to engage the cup.

With a hoarse sound, which soon faded into a shrill scream, a huge arc of semen was sent into the air, and then another and another.

They all landed on Jenny. On her face, in her hair, on her neck, and something ran down her cleavage.

“This sperm donation probably didn’t appear in any annals,” Gape commented.

But it wouldn’t be his mother if she gave up her intention so easily. When he inquired about her reasons for trying to have a daughter at a relatively advanced age, at a time when she was a grandmother twice over, she replied that he would not understand.

“Having a daughter would be quite different from having a son. You yourself have two sons, so you can’t understand,” she said. In a rather plain tone.

“My mother,” wrote Gape that same evening, “often does not admit that more than one organ works for men.”

When her attempt to get pregnant at the sperm bank came to nothing, Jenny decided to use a method that had already worked for her. Finding a promising, dying, or at least excluded from normal sex life male body with unempty testicles shouldn’t be that hard.

At that time she lived in the family mansion. Around her there was always a large crowd of admirers of her book, her way of life, and perhaps everything she did or said.

You’ll probably find something similar under the heading of bigotry.

And all these good, lonely souls were bringing clippings to Gape’s mother, to his astonishment. They bought up all the daily and weekly papers and picked out a few lines about how some poor fellow had been cut or run over or was about to be.

They’d stick it all in a red journal.

The guy who was thrown through a glass door by an enraged husband after he pulled him out of his wife’s bed. This dude had a cut face, a chunk of his shoulder cut off, and welts all over his body, only his dude was pretty much untouched. Some condom company was going to make a great commercial out of it, how cool their rubbers are.

A young man who had fallen into computer games, but at the same time was not about to give up his other passion, masturbation. So he gripped the joystick with one hand and his toy with the other. I’m sure someone once told you that you can’t draw a circle with one hand and a square with the other, and you’ve probably verified it. And this virtual reality addict was doing all the pulling, squeezing, and wiggling back and forth, all of it simultaneously. Knocked out a few levers like that, but he couldn’t get a new one for himself. At least, that’s what they told him in the ER when they iced him up before lubing him up with something that wasn’t nearly as nice as his favorite lube.

A banker who had one of his testicles shot off by a bitter mistress. It was a precise hit that did not damage any important organ, the report said, and the banker was not only properly scolded by the wording, but saw it as grounds for a lawsuit. The photograph and all the documentation were then published in a professional journal. It was rumoured that a certain tabloid had nominated the photo for some kind of prize for amateur photographers.

This and other things the ladies were discussing. Over tea pastries, sipping tea, English style. Or later, chewing vegetables and meat, both virtually fat-free and tasteless.

“Family dinners have never been very social,” Gape mentioned, “but it was a leap from boredom and asceticism to this talk over a salad.”

Every day a few adepts were eliminated and more were added at the same rate. If you read the Red Book, you would come to the conclusion that America is one big sexual disaster, one giant blunder.

It also seemed that the ladies were getting too much fun. There’s poker or golf in the men’s clubs and they chose that as their entertainment, where there’s a certain competitiveness involved.

But they did pick a winner in the end.

A romantic poet named Bo Marx, who expressed his unhappy love with a few not-so-successful verses and then an absolutely perfect fall from a window. He had broken thirty bones and was held together by thick layers of plaster. Only his nose was broken three times. He was in so much pain that he was practically kept in artificial sleep by heavy doses of analgesics.

What was not printed anywhere else, but was the subject of gossip all over Boston, was his enormous privates, which easily exceeded seven inches.

The plan was simple. At this length, Jenny wouldn’t need an erection to insert herself. It would, admittedly, be more challenging, but doable. Then a reasonable dose of electricity to the testicles would trigger spontaneous ejaculation and we’d be done.

No funny moves, no sex, no ties.

Like the son T. S. Gape was named after his father, Sergeant Gape, a technician by rank and name, the daughter was to be named Bozhenka Marx.

A little bit of strategic planning, some preparation time and it’s time for action.

With a friendly soul, Gape’s mother goes to the hospital, sneaks through the corridors, finds the appropriate room number and sneaks in. They find the poor man wrapped in bandages, eyes closed, pulse steady.

Jenny carefully pulls the blanket down. She can barely hide her disappointment as she looks at what could have been eight inches. But having already made the trip, she shed her skirt and panties and boldly climbed onto the figure in the cast.

As she tried to push it in, it grew harder and harder and everything became easier.

“Now,” Jenny said to her assistant, who was already ready with the electrodes in her hands.

“Lady,” says the man suddenly, “help yourself, my dear, but I would ask you without the peel.”

Gape’s mother rolls her eyes in horror, swallowing dryly in surprise as the guy explains that the one who was in the room with him must have been taken elsewhere. He had several nasty burns on that delicate part of his body and they weren’t healing. It was as if more and more were appearing.

“The very first day they brought me here,” he says, “I was able to tell them what he was carrying.”

“You don’t sound like a poet,” Jenny said disappointedly.

“I’d beg to differ, I’m not either.”

By then Jenny had recovered and was about to climb down again.

“Oh come on, ma’am,” a smile appears in the areas not covered by bandages, “enjoy yourself while you’re here. I wonder what I’m supposed to do with it when my hands are in casts myself.”

Our nurse takes a moment, considers the situation.

“But it would have to be quick.”

“Pcha,” the cast said, “why do you think they call me the Ninety-Second Genie?”

The woman next to the bed, the one with the wires in her hands, discreetly pulls the curtain. Not for long.

It takes about nine months for Gape to have a sister.

Pretty, cute girl. Sweet little hands and fingers, just the type to kind of throw sweet little candy at them without thinking.

“That wouldn’t be my mother,” Gape adds the comment, “if she or her child fit the average.” Even today she still occasionally gets inquisitive questions about why they named her Gina. Ninety-second.

Need a Little Lifesaving Dose of Cash—Can You Administer the Cure?