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Cumalot

By: rikkitampa2014



Just when I thought the job interview was winding down, the bar manager shifted gears. Out of the blue he asked:

"Do you cum a lot?"

Since the name of the bar had turned out to be Cumalot, I thought I'd misunderstood him.

"Come again?" I replied.

"When you ejaculate. Do you shoot a pretty big load?"

I shrugged. "Normal, I guess."

"Normal's good," leaning back in his creaky chair, behind a desk so loaded with papers, empty liquor bottles and miscellaneous crap its surface was completely invisible. "I'll take normal. Now you say you're hetero, right?"

"Well, yes. Bi..."

"I'll take bi. Bi's good."

After a nervous laugh I added, "But don't tell my girlfriend."

"Hey, what comes in Cumalot stays in Cumalot," he replied, making the "safe" sign above his littered desk. "Let me put it a different way. When you shoot your load in your girlfriend does it make a big mess afterwards? On the sheets?"

"Well...pretty big. I guess."

"Good. Reason I ask...," for some reason awkwardly pointing at a faded head-shot of John F. Kennedy hanging crooked on his office wall. "You see that man? J.F.K.? They don't make Presidents like him any more. My dad, god bless him, met the man once. Shook his hand. Two weeks before Dallas, on my husband's bald head," raising his right hand. "Anyway. Where was I? Cumalot! You know what we're famous for here, right?"

My nod evolved into a sorry head shake. The Deanslist ad hadn't specified which bar had a job opening, so I hadn't been able to Noodle anything in preparation for my interview.

"The Cumshot," he said, answering his own question. "You know what a Cumshot is?"

"It's..." Into my head an involuntary image had just popped: of a slippery erection just extracted from a hole of one sort or another now firmly in hand's stroking grip, above a belly or waiting ass...

"Put a registered trademark after that," the bar manager declared. "It's one part human sperm, one part top-shelf tequila, a tiny pinch of sea salt and a splash of Tabasco. Although the Tabasco is optional. The salt—as long as you don't add too much—helps bring out the natural flavor of the semen. Yum. Delicious! Guess what I sell 'em for?"

Silence.

"Go on, guess."

"I..."

"Fifteen bucks," chair again creaking under his satisfied weight. "Fifteen smackers. Ring it up, Charlie! Charlie's our lead bartender. You'll like Charlie. Just don't get, you know, with him. He's HIV poz. You're not poz are you?"

I answered with a vigorous shake of the head.

"Good. Great. And you've got the blood work to prove it? Here's the reason I ask...," the manager said, leaning forward on thick, tattooed forearms. "It's gotta be fresh, it's gotta be natural. And healthy. Fucking Gordon Ramsey could come in here and sample our Cumshot and he'd be satisfied. Is he gay by the way do you know? The imitators? I've got lawsuits going in five states right now by the way. They use frozen stuff. Ugh! Disgusting! If I wanted frozen I'd hook up with a sperm bank, you know?" he laughed. "I could do it too, I got the connections. But it's all about being fresh. The best. I could substitute some other shit for Patron too. But do I? Fuck no. And the salt comes from Israel. Believe me, those Jews know a thing or two about salt. I should know, right?" he said, fingering the silver Chai in his shirt's open collar. "So when I ask you about your ejaculate volume—big fucking word but you get my drift—there's a method in my...How old are you?"

My head was spinning. "Twenty, um, four."

"Perfect. This is right in your wheelhouse, son. Mind if I call you son? I was 24 once. Jeesh! Now I'm...But I treat all my bar staff like they're my own sons. You got a problem? You come to me. Got it? I'm here 24-7 for you. That's assuming you take the job, of course. Are you interested? Did we talk about bonuses yet? The bonus."

The bar manager cleared the cigarette tar from his throat.

"How does an extra three-hundred a week sound? I'm talking bonus here. Good? Great? You could handle that? OK. You're sitting there asking yourself...Where does all this fresh sperm come from? For the shooters. From my employees. Where else? (Not Charlie though.) I got a few guys on staff—three right now—who get milked every day to provide the..."

A side desk drawer opened. The manager tossed what I at first thought was a translucent balloon in my direction. It hit me in the chest, fell to my lap.

"Smell that," he said, wearing his self-satisfied look.

I brought it to my nose, reluctantly.

"Smell anything? Be honest."

"Plastic...?"

"That's what everybody says. The first time. It's psychological," thick index finger stirring the air outside his right ear. "Actually it has no odor whatsoever. I have 'em special-made. All natural. Pigs' intestines or some shit. Can't be dumping a load of fresh semen in a Cumshot shooter that smells like...polyethylene or whatever that shit's called. That may be good enough for the competition in fucking Belgium but it's not good enough for Cumalot," once again pointing, vaguely, in J.F.K.'s direction.

"So OK. You're 24, you're young, healthy, virile...Do you take vitamins? Fuck, when I was your age I could shoot three loads in the same afternoon. Piece of cake. You ever watch any vintage gay porn? You have an old VHS player by any chance? Remind me to show you someday..." Another throat clearing. "But let's say you come to me, you say, 'Boss'...'cept you don't call me boss you call me dad. Cause I'll do anything for you. Just ask any of my...'Dad, I'm horny as hell and I'm ready to be...'" He pointed. At the balloon/condom with the big receptacle end. "So I milk you. Five bucks.

"Five bucks bonus in your pocket," he continued, rubbing forefinger and thumb together in midair. "And let's say you can do that three times a day. That's...," eyes rolling to the perforated—and rain-stained—office ceiling, "...five times three times five days a week times...That's three-hundred a fucking month. In your pocket. Off the books. Go buy some groceries, son. Or a new car. Or take that girlfriend of yours out for a...She knows you're applying for a job at a gay bar?"

"She..."

"Apply? What am I saying? You got the job. You want it? You got it. An hourly wage. A big bonus. Health benefits—not yet but we're working on it. If that man," pointing again at the back wall, "if that man was President we wouldn't be sitting here discussing health fucking care. Ever been to France? Fuck France. I'm suing a Paris bar in the Hague as we speak. Frozen cum. Fuck you, you frogs! You don't have any lawyer friends, do you? Specializing in international law? When can you start?"

He was looking at his digital Casio. I looked down at my lap.

"Uh...tomorrow?"

"Perfect. Be here at three. Since they're kinda pricey the Cumshots sell mostly in the evening. After everybody gets liquored up. Fifteen to twenty Sunday through Monday. Double that on weekends. You can work weekends?"

"Yessir."

"None of this Sir shit. Call me Mitch. Or Dad. Or...As for the girlfriend," he said, thick finger wagging. "No funny business."

"No...?"

"Sex. Need you to save your load. For the bar. Pull out, use a vibrator...I probably got one here in my desk I could loan you...," another drawer opening, closing. Desktop papers shuffling. "From now on it's all about Cumalot. And Cumshots. Maximizing your...you know. Tell her it's for...National Defense."

"National...?"

"We get a lot of soldiers in here. Not in uniform, needless to say. Did I tell you I was in the army? A million years ago? Vietnam? War is hell, son. Tell your daughter that. Your wife I mean."

"Girlfriend."

"Whatever. When she asks you why you've, you know, run dry. It's in the name of National Defense. Who can argue with that? Wish I could find that loaner vibrator...," papers again shuffling. "And tell her...five bucks a shot. Can she offer that? Course she can't. Three hundred a week—a month I mean. Fuck! That'd bankrupt me!" he laughed, rising from his chair.

I assumed the exhausting interview was finally over. I rose too.

"Horny?" Mitch asked, pointing.

I looked down. I was holding the condom in my left hand. But that's not what he was pointing at.

"A quick five bucks? In your pocket? Off the books? Right now? Today?"

"I..."

"Lambs' guts," thick fingers snapping. "Not pigs'. These condoms. Pull your pants down," he directed. "Put the condom on and I'll milk you 'fore you go. The orders for shooters are backing up. I got two fucking guys out sick this week. Wankers! Nice set of balls," he said, coming around his messy desk to where I stood, pants having fallen to my ankles. "Nothing to set the world on fire about but..."

"Should I...?"

"The proof is in the pudding as they say," he said, beginning to stroke me forcibly downwards in the Cumshot condom. "It's important we don't lose a drop..."

When I arrived home, about an hour later, and put my key in the apartment door, and opened it, I found my girlfriend Kay standing in the middle of the livingroom wearing, for some reason, the bright-pink teddy I'd bought for her a year ago, when times were good. The crotch was unsnapped. She looked surprised to see me.

Hastily checking herself, Kay grinned and came running over.

"Did you get the job?" she enthused, throwing her arms around me and planting a lipsticky kiss. On the cheek.

"If I want it."

"Fantastic!"

"Why are wearing that...?"

Just then, distantly, a toilet flushed.

"Oh," expression shifting yet again. "Aaron's here. He was just leaving."

Aaron was Kay's old college sweetheart. He came over from time to time. Usually when I wasn't there. A week before our "marriage," when Kay and I announced we were moving in together, she spent a motel night with Aaron for a "final fuck."

It would not prove to be final, however.

Aaron emerged from our bathroom wiping his hands on his pants. He was shirtless. Aaron was a big-time weight lifter. He rocked side to side when he walked. At the unexpected sight of me he burst into smile.

"Dude!" he said. "Did you get the job?"

Apparently the word was out.

"If I want it," I said glumly, still feeling spent.

"What does that mean?" Kay asked, standing there frowning in her pink silk teddy with the crotch unsnapped.

"That's fantastic!" Aaron practically shouted, shaking my limp hand. "Congrats, dude! What kind of job?"

I shrugged. I felt exhausted. Needed a nap. I wondered if there was a wet spot on my bed...

"A bar job," I replied. "Sort of like what I did in college."

"No shit? What's the name of the place?"

"Um...Cumshots. Cumalot I mean."

Aaron screwed up his black-bearded face. He wasn't good-looking, at least to my bi eye. But he had a kind of irresistible Neanderthal charisma. Added to that he was a female orgasm machine.

"It's like being fucked by a gorilla," Kay had once explained. Hastily adding, "Not that I've ever been fucked by a gorilla."

"Cumalot. That's a gay bar ain't it?"

Kay: "You took a job at a gay bar?"

"I haven't taken it yet."

Gorilla: "Yeah, it's that place on the beach."

"I don't understand. Why would you apply for a job at a gay bar?"

"The ad didn't specify what kind of—"

"It's called Cumalot and you didn't suspect it was a gay bar?" Kay's silky right hip had jutted out. A hand now rested on it.

"It didn't give the name in the ad, the ad on Deanlist. It just said assistant bartender—bartender's assistant I mean. And gave an address."

"And you took the job?" Kay now asked indignantly.

"Cumalot...," Aaron mused, scratching his black beard. He'd also done a little wrestling, semi-professional. David Goliath, he'd styled himself. Though he only stood 5'10" in his lace-up wrestling shoes. Kay used to drag me to the matches, which were usually held in shabby hotel ballrooms. "Isn't that the place that serves Cumshots? It's like world-famous for 'em."

How do you know so much about Cumalot, I wanted to ask Aaron. Always suspected he was deep-down gay, and therefore in the closet. Someday to be known, ten years from now say, as latently gay. I could hear Kay a decade later, assuming by some miracle we still lived together. "After fucking me all those years I can't believe it. No wonder he always wanted to fuck me up the ass..."

"I read about it in the Wall Street Journal or some place," Aaron added, as if reading my mind.

"What's a cumshot?" Kay asked with only slightly less indignation. "I mean aside from when a guy pulls out in a porn flick and..."

"They serve shooters with human sperm in them," the Wall Street Journal subscriber supplied.

Kay made a face, twisted her head. "Ugh! Disgusting!"

A grinning Aaron: "Since when do find swallowing cum disgusting?"

"At a bar? Whose cum?"

"Did he tell you about the Cumshots?" Aaron wondered.

"Who?"

"Whoever interviewed you."

"No."

"Oh, man," Aaron said in slight disbelief. "That's like the thing they're most famous for. That's like, I don't know, applying for a job at Burger King and the manager don't tell you about the Whopper."

"This whole thing is grossing me out...," Kay said, arms now folded under teddy's embroidered bustier. 

"Or like—"

"He jacked me off before I left."

Silence filled the room. Or rather, emptied it. Aaron and Kay stood there staring at me. Kay's painted mouth hung open. Aaron's was closed—but his eyes were pretty fucking wide. What? they're expressions declared.

Don't ask me why, abruptly and out of the blue, I decided to spring the news. Tell the truth? Maybe because my wife—well, live-in girlfriend—and her lover were standing there shamelessly in front of me, post coitus, like it was the most natural thing in the world. And something I had to accept, and live with, and not protest. Fuckers!

Or maybe I just wanted to lay it all out. And be honest. Look, Kay, I'm taking an $11 an hour job at a gay bar on the beach doing the kind of brain-dead shit I did when I was working my way through college while you, thanks to mommy and daddy, had all that free time to fuck Aaron. And other guys. I worked my way through college. You fucked your way through it. So I took the job—yeah, I'm that desperate at the moment.

Oh and by the way, dear (I wouldn't even look in Aaron's direction as I spoke aloud, in my dressing-down fantasy), two or three times a day I'll be getting jerked off into a special odorless condom made from sheeps' guts or some shit, contributing my load to that night's world-famous shooter special called the Cumshot, which retails for fifteen bucks. And for which I'll be paid a bonus of five dollars per load. Two shots per load.

So don't be looking for any contributions, vaginal or anal, from me anymore as I will be spent. Sorry, darling, I gave at the office. Not that I ever get any from you anymore anyway! You're always 'saving yourself' for whatshisface. The washed-up wrestler turned GNC franchisee. Talk about a step down! And OK, yes, so he owns two stores now. And drives a Porsche Carrera. La-dee-da! Good for him! That shit he sells isn't even FDA-certified. Can you say PLACEBO!

And another thing, DEAR. Forget about when Mitch or Murray or whatever his J.F.K.-loving name is, is milking me with one hand, and squeezing my "cute" ass with the other as he did this afternoon...don't think when I'm bending over or reaching up or in some other compromising position guys in the bar—Charlie, whoever—won't be pinching my ass, fondling my spent little balls—"poor things"—or planting kisses here or there on me.

Who knows? Maybe someday soon I'll find myself on my hands and knees in the beer freezer—Brrrr!—taking someone's seven-incher up my—

"That's it. I'm outta here," Kay said, striding off with her open crotch. Seconds later the bedroom door slammed.

Guess I'll be taking that nap on the couch, I reasoned.

A wrestler's arm suddenly squeezed my shoulders. I rocked.

"You're gonna need vitamins, man," the owner of the Porsche Carrera parked out front advised. "Listen to me. You gonna be providing cum for the...? That's a tough gig, dude, believe me. You gotta build yourself up. I got just the thing: Meta-457 Extreme. It's got, like, Guernica in it or some shit. Studies show—this is no shit, OK?—proven fucking studies show it increases your sperm count by like double. 200 percent. You'll be like...hero material. Your boss? He'll love your ass! Give this guy a raise! It's kinda pricey-$69.95 for like 120 capsules. You take four a day. But I'll give it to you wholesale. We're brothers, right? Stop by either of my stores and tell 'em Aaron sent you. They know.. Now..."

Aaron, forceful arm around my shoulders, had steered me to the door of my own apartment.

"Now. First things first. I gotta fix things between you and Kim. Kay I mean. Kim's one of my employees. A real looker. Six feet tall. Maybe you'll meet her when you...Anyway, go out. Get some fresh air. Have a beer. Come back in, like, two hours. I'll fix this thing between Kim and you. Everything'll be...hunky-fucking-dorey. Believe me. Need a few bucks?" Uncle Aaron asked his cuckold.

"No."

No. My apartment door closed behind my back. And locked. I had Mitch's fiver in my pocket. Enough for one beer plus tip at Matmut's bar and grill down the street. I descended the apartment building's stairs.

Or...

Or...I could jump back in my used Prius, currently parked in front of my wife's lover's six-figure Porsche...jump back in, drive back across the bridge, visualizing as I did so Kim—Kay, I mean—on her hands and knees for the second time this afternoon being pile-driven in one hole or the other by the future gay ex-wrestler, David Goliath...arrive back at Cumalot on the beach, hunt down Mitch—Dad, I mean—and tell him I had another load to give. I could hear him now, as he gave my ass a pat.

"That's my boy!" he'll say...