The Life and Times of Innis E. Coxman

by R. P. Lester

  The Man is everywhere at work: up your ass with a pen ready to write negative reviews in your anal tract; over your shoulder breathing the rancid redolence of cottage cheese down your neck; and lying in wait in the goddamn bathroom just daring you to go in there and pleasure yourself because you’re bored (I may have given supervisors reasons to distrust me in the past).

  However demeaning the job we take to avoid eating tuna fish straight from the can, you can bet your ass you’re going to have some bureaucrat bitch over the most inane infraction.

  So what if I dropped GHB into the secretary’s latte?

  Who cares if a loogey wound up in a Happy Meal?

  None of those details should affect my raise.

  ***

  Through my long-range telescope I see that you’re employed. And you’re probably a good employee, too. You’re punctual, you perform your tasks efficiently, and when review time comes around you don’t remind your immediate supervisor that you know where his family sleeps. But however you view your position as the fitter of those little plastic pieces at the ends of shoelaces, there is one person who thinks you can do it better, faster, and without all the masturbation: your boss.

  I don’t mean the owner, mind you. Their ability to wreck your world is simple. All they have to do is sell the business or shut everything down. I’m referring to the little dingleberry under the owner’s balls, there to guard their asshole from the rapist cock of Worker’s Despair.

  My cynicism aside, I resentfully admit that there are bosses around who won’t fuck you until your nose bleeds. They’re the kind who will smoke your joint with you by the dumpster instead of calling the cops.

  That shit makes them cooler than a herd of plump bitches on the Klondike.

  But they are so rare that the mall Santa just grabbed his crotch when I requested one for Christmas.

  That fat fuck. He didn’t have to make dirty hand gestures, too, you know.

  Giving the Dog a Bone

  I used to have a boss who was on the same level as pubic lice. I wouldn’t have helped that sonofabitch if he’d promised me Cadillacs filled with disease-free whores. If Mick Jagger had pinned him down and started tossing his salad I would’ve taken pictures and sold them to the highest bidder. His name was Bryan, and I called him Switch Hitter like it was on his birth certificate.

  Typically, I would impart this as a form of greeting, such as, “Morning, Switch Hitter!” or, “Kiss my balls, Switch Hitter!” It was usually based on the mood I was in.

  Anyone who’s ever worked a job anywhere has known at least one of these dickheads—the person who got a promotion and became the heaviest hardball to ever abuse an expense account. That rimsucker who was once one of us—another cog in the squeaky wheel; our brother/sister in arms; and the one who served as lookout when I was getting head in the supply closet—only to become one of them when the money was right. They typify the phrase “forgot where they came from” and infiltrate every hiding spot you’ve managed to forage in your office.

  I’ll bet you even have one looking over your shoulder right now.....

  My derogatory pet name didn’t go unchallenged. Bryan would complain to the owner about it but nothing was ever done seeing as how he didn’t like him, either (it was a family business and Bryan didn't become a prick until after he was promoted). Truthfully, I never understood his beef about the “Switch Hitter” stuff. It was all in good fun, and to me it seemed better than that period when he’d converted to Islam and I really became the dick in his birthday cake:

  “As-salamu alaykum, Coxman.”

  “And a-licka my salami to you, good sir.”

  I should mention that I’d say this to Bryan’s face in a room full of people whenever I got the chance because he was a big traitorous bitch who deserved it for all the shit he pulled.

  Now as much as I would love to use the term “Switch Hitter” in reference to that chubby cashier from Balfart yo-yoing between my girl’s clam and these salty nuts, I will abandon that yarn for the sake of telling you an enthralling tale an engrossing saga something that happened.

  ***

  Bryan and I worked side-by-side in an enterprise that offered an outlet for humanity’s sickest desires. We provided a gateway to an edge of fantasy that very few people ever get to experience in their entire lives. Our vocation was one that facilitated a release for the most basic primal urges of perverted shut-ins everywhere. So adored were we in our field that cellar-dwellers across the country sent us letters about watching our greasy bodies in action while pulling their pork at the foot of their mother’s bed.

  The meals of our livelihood were entrees of grunting served with steaming sides of sweat, rear-ended with desserts of delectable, nipple-biting pain. The tools of our trade were gag balls, sixteen-inch dildos, battery-operated finger bangers, and clear-blue anal beads. Last but not least, the hallmarks—the very staples of our profession—were raw stamina, physical strength, a sustainable erection, and the ability to shave your balls without developing the slightest hint of a razor bump.

  We worked in the adult film industry, good people.

  And lo, it was awesome.

  To fully understand my sense of betrayal surrounding Bryan’s radical attitude shift, I feel it’s important for you to know the circumstances of his birth as well as his unconventional upbringing.

  ***

  Bryan was of German descent, son of the two most sought after porn stars in the land of lederhosen. When news of his upcoming natality reached the ears of his grandparents, they were so excited about his bloody show that they sat outside the hospital for days waiting to buy tickets (they were very old-world, and their refusal to grasp medical terminology led to confusion as to what a “bloody show” actually is). Alas, his birth was not looked upon with jubilance by everybody.

  Victor and Enemay Wienersmashin, his career oriented-parents, weren’t ready for his presence in their lives, and vigilantly pursued every avenue available to halt his arrival. They tried everything—from coat hangers and Lysol to uppercuts in Enemay’s tummy. It was of no use. Bryan came screaming into the world one night at 3 AM, already accustomed to being a loud-mouthed little autocrat.

  Bryan was cannoned from his mother’s hairy snapper and smacked against the bedroom floor like a painful case of blue balls finding release. By all accounts he looked like a snot rocket sliding across the tile. The virtue of the Wienersmashin bloodline was such that they thought he’d enter the world with a ten-inch donger dangling from his shitty Huggies. Certainly, this was an unrealistic expectation, though Bryan didn’t disappoint with his golden appearance. He already had a mouth full of teeth, seeds planted for a crop of blonde hair, and blue eyes so huge that the doctor had to promise his parents he’d grow into them.

  During her pregnancy, Enemay was hesitant about becoming a mother, her and Victor’s occupations not exactly promotive to raising a child. Her fears vanished the minute she laid eyes on Bryan. She instantly fell in love with the child, becoming a doting protector and caregiver.

  Victor did not share her endearment. He’d been sketchy throughout Enemay’s gestation and wanted nothing to do with their little offspring when he took his first breath. He’d sit in his living room chair with a scowl, watching ruefully as Bryan crawled around on their shag carpet, playing with their coworkers when they came to call, and laughing uncontrollably as he chased Ben Wa Balls across the floor.

  That is until the day Victor was changing Bryan’s diaper and noticed that his little baby dick had grown two full inches in his first six months. Amazed at Bryan’s brisk maturity, Victor tossed him in the air to the kitchen ceiling, knocking the boy unconscious and temporarily sending him cross-eyed. When Bryan came to, his father was cradling him in his arms, praising him for becoming a man so quickly.

  Victor saw promise in his abnormally-endowed toddler and became an attentive, loving role model, as well as Bryan’s mentor in the adult film industry. An anonymous report made to German Social Servic
es stated that there was a couple raising their son in a “haphazard manner,” specifically grooming the child to work in pornography once he came of age. The Wienersmashin clan moved to the States shortly thereafter to duck the authorities and further their careers.

  Jumbo Dick, as the tyke was disturbingly called, accompanied his parents to porn shoots to learn the tricks of this filthy trade, growing up to become one of the preeminent stuntcocks in the business.

  ***

  After growing complacent in my career as a low-level drug dealer, I went to work for an adult film company called Feisty Fista, LLC in sunny Los Angeles, California, owned by none other than Bryan’s American cousin, Dick Wienersmashin. Bryan had developed a following in the industry and was one of the company’s top-billed stars, though it wasn't simple nepotism that earned him his position:

  Thanks to his impeccable bloodline, the man was truly a talent in his field. He could lick a woman’s colon through her vagina and had a cock big enough to direct air traffic.

  So it was that Bryan and I met at an audition for the lead role in what was to become the runaway hit Basic Fiststinked: Asses and Elbows. Of course, I didn’t get the part. The audition was merely a formality, for everyone knew that Bryan was due for the spot. But while lounging in the jacuzzi in the men’s locker room, we hit it off wonderfully. Bryan agreed to put in a good word for me to the director of Bar Whores: The Empire Strikes in the Back, a movie that was set to begin filming on another lot. It was a coveted role and I wound up getting the job. Afterward, I took Bryan out for a dinner of Jack Daniels and cocaine to thank him.

  We were cast in a number of movies together, performing scenes with various skanks from the company’s roster, and occasionally breaking in a new girl whenever she signed the medical waiver (Bryan’s dick was so huge that it was known to leave some of the newbies in traction for a few days following a shoot). He was a good dude who was popular with his peers, never hesitant to assist if you needed a helping hand, and always willing to take your scene if you’d been doing too many drugs and couldn’t get it up. It wasn’t long before we started hanging out away from work, becoming tighter than a first-timer’s bunghole.

  ***

  As misfortune would have it, one of Feisty Fista’s executives was abruptly removed from his position without explanation. We came to learn that he was given a long prison term for casting an underage girl in one of his movies, much to the horror of everyone. Thankfully, his crime was discovered before anyone plunged into that cherry pie, but it left a gaping hole that needed to be fucked filled immediately.

  Dick looked to his cousin Bryan to fill those lofty shoes. After all, Bryan had Wienersmashin blood coursing through his veins; he’d grown up in the biz and knew the ins-and-outs as well as any community dildo. Who better to spearhead Feisty Fista into the future?

  In a moment of bad judgement that would leave Dick drunk and filled with regret, Bryan was promoted from a lowly Patch Banger to Director of Dongs.

  ***

  Bryan’s transformation came on as fast as good acid. One day, he was an actor like the rest of us, another head of cattle on a stud farm. The next, he was a walking hard-on without the innuendo. The first noticeable example of Bryan’s change was when he embarrassed a long-time employee in front of numerous onlookers. Her name was Sheeta King and she had been a close friend of mine ever since I’d arrived to the company.

  Sheeta was a devout Catholic who could suck the color out of an oil painting. An old pro in the porn industry, she was able to stretch her full lips around a swollen knob and make a man spew in a matter of seconds. She was a virtuoso in every sense of the word—whether it was solo masturbation, double-penetration, or a bestiality scene, she was an artist first and always put the craft ahead of her own discomfort. When she wasn’t turning coin on camera, she exhibited her civic pride as one of the community’s leading activists; during March of Dimes charity drives, she collected more funds than anyone in Los Angeles. (For some reason, a majority of her donations originated from the Freemasons Lodge on Fair Oaks Avenue. Always struck me as odd.) A true sweetheart who was adored by everyone, Sheeta was blindsided by Bryan’s conversion like the rest of us, receiving a dose of his management style on the set of her would-be gangbang classic All the King’s Ass Men: True Politics. As happenstance, she and I were in the middle of a scene together.

  The script was set in a barn, the crew having constructed a hayloft in the studio. The scene took place on a hay bale and Sheeta’s shapely derriere hugged me fantastically as her tassled green roper skirt lay thrown over her waist, her lustrous dark hair draping to her haunches. Brock Musselman drilled her honeypot from below, Sheeta’s rouge lips expertly sucking off a very willing burro named Dave. He’d placed his forehooves on the bale to angle his monstrous dick in her mouth.

  (Pursuant to Section 597f of the penal code, California law prohibits bestiality if it’s for human gratification, stipulating the animal can get off as much as they want. Even if the person receives pleasure from the encounter, it’s a small fine and a paltry six months in the clink. True, distribution is a different animal matter altogether, but it’s nothing that isn’t remedied with a few greasy palms. Yeah, they’re real progressive on the West Coast.)

  The shoot was going as planned until Bryan strolled onto the set in a pair of brown corduroys, his waist hidden by an untucked purple shirt, blonde hair frozen in place with an abundance of mousse, emanating the air of entitlement afforded him by his new position. It was a week after his promotion and he was itching to flex a little muscle for the sake of showing off. He stood by the sound tech, taking in the scene, then stuck his nose in the air and sniffed.

  “My God! What is that viral smell?!” He aimed a finger at Sheeta like an SS soldier choosing a victim with the sights of his Luger. “Goddammit, Sheeta! We discussed this the last time you smelled sick! I told you to douche with Massengill! Not Summer’s Eve, Massengill! If you can’t show up to work smelling April fresh then we’ll find someone who can!”

  Brock and I stopped our hammering. Glares flew at Bryan from the rest of the crew like he’d lost his mind. Not only was it unprofessional for someone in his position to speak so rudely to a subordinate, but this was Sheeta King, for fuck’s sake. She was taking facials from Dobermans before he was even panty residue! The woman was a legend and he was calling her out on something that should’ve been handled behind closed doors after the scene.

  Sheeta popped Dave’s meat from her lips, the donkey braying loudly with disappointment. She maintained her fortitude through the embarrassment. “Oh...um...I’m sorry, Bryan. I didn’t know. The yeast infection went away and I thought it was minty fresh.” She turned her head and spoke to me over her shoulder. “Innis, honey, do you smell anything?” Her tone indicated that I come to her immediate aid.

  I looked passed her profile to Brock’s sweaty, uncertain face. I gave an inaudible sigh, hating myself for what I had to do. As much as I wanted to be Sheeta’s knight in naked armor, this was my job.

  “Sheeta, I’ve had my dick in your asshole for half an hour, baby. All I smell is poop.” Bryan was my boss as well and I couldn’t lie.

  He admonished Sheeta harshly in front of the cast and crew, firing her on the spot. Brock and I saw the argument to come and quickly withdrew our members from Sheeta’s cavernous holes, leaving her and Bryan to go at it like a couple of rabid meerkats. Poor Dave wilted from the washout and he was led away to his trailer.

  ***

  Later that evening, Sheeta barged into Dick’s office to talk to him about Bryan’s actions, her black “GOD IS IT” t-shirt stretching over braless double D mams to bend the white lettering. She was told, and I quote: “Well, Sheeta, he is the boss now. There’s not a whole lot I can do about it.”

  Sheeta was quick to educate Dick on his standing in the company. “Yes, Dick! There’s literally everything you can do about it! He’s your cousin and you own the place! Help me out here!”

  Dick leaned bac
k in his creaky restaurant chair and shrugged his shoulders with arms extended, palms turned to the ceiling in forfeiture. “Sheeta, what do you want from me? He’s Director of Dongs now. I have to back his plays. How would it look to the rest of ‘em if I didn’t support his decisions? I’d have anarchy on my hands.” He removed his wire glasses, leaning forward and setting them down by a stack of papers. Cradling his right fist with the palm of his left, he bowed and let the mass of flesh support his forehead. While staring down at the month’s financial reports, he mumbled, “Besides, he’s family.”

  That panty-waisted bitch.

  Realization loomed as the truth fell from Dick’s smut-peddling mouth. Sheeta let her arms dangle to the hem of her flowery mini-skirt, seeing it would be a meaningless argument. Her shoulders slumped, the bottom lip quivered. “I can’t believe you’re gonna hang me out to dry like this, Dick, not after all the ups and downs we’ve had.”

  Betrayal never hit so hard. Sheeta had given her youth to dick for Dick. It was all she’d ever known. Now, when she needed him the most, he was casting her out like a pair of cracked assless chaps.

  Fireworks began to explode behind her eyes, the emerald ringlets blazing into circles of heated rage as she realized what it all meant:

  She was on her own.

  Sheeta dug deep, straightened, clearing the ten feet to Dick’s desk in a few pounding steps. Her pointing crimson fingernail was an icepick, her voice louder than eighteen-wheelers in a head-on collision.

  “I’ve been with you since you were filming barely-legal runaways in the back of that shitty Econoline van you used to have, motherfucker! When AIDS broke loose and everyone else quit, I was the one who stayed and used the condoms with strangers off the street! In ‘87 when you were about to go under, I was the one who went hooking to save your ass! Do you really think I enjoyed being squashed by fat, sweaty lawyers who wouldn’t shut up about their damn alimony payments?!