Porn for the Visually Impaired

Her thin lips pursed as tight as an anus. Her pallor deepening from a shade of persimmon to full-blown pomegranate. Her posture rigidly stiffening as if her puppeteer pulled her strings taut. Her body shimmied and shook so violently, I believed it to be a precursor to a seizure. . .

OK, so I'm at work one day slaving at a pile of paperwork that I did not want to tackle, in fact, I had been putting it off for weeks.

Normally, I'd stream some music from my computer--but the dastardly IT people crushed my hopes of afternoon relaxation by blocking that innocuous fun.

Damn, I thought. Actually, I said it aloud. Then I remembered that I had been listening to the audio book "The Night Listener" in my car.
Hot damn (I thought this, too weird to be said out loud)! The "Night Listener" is a creepy little story about a guy that strikes up a phone/letter relationship with a dying 13-year-old boy --- but later comes to suspect that this boy doesn't exist.

The main character of this novel is a gay man who's long-term relationship has just ended. Threading through the thriller are elements of the character's life -- including his recent split from his boyfriend.

So in popped the CD and as soon as the soothing deep voice made music of the words, I began to breath slower and feel a calm come over me. At this point, the narrator was relating tales of his childhood, his relationship with his mother and father, describing the green hills and valleys of his boyhood. Pretty benign stuff.

As I pored over the paperwork one of my "colleagues" annoyingly popped her Jesus-loving head in. This gal is a born-again judgemental, lying Bible-thumping self-righteous hypocrite who would as soon as throw me under a speeding train naked than get in trouble with our director. She'd rather highlight problems with other staffers so our director cannot flog her for her own misdoings. She's dumb as dirt, but sly as a fox, if you know what I mean.

"I have fond memories of the camp." The narrator honey voice crooned as "M" stomped in my office with her Jaclyn Smith coordinating pastels from K Mart, stopping just across the desk directly across from me, and only inches from the speakers.

I could tell she was going to question one of my expenses. The look of condemnation on her face was as much a part of her as her Walgreens-purchased at-home hair-frosting kit. Her expression remained smug. Just as she was about to speak. . .

". . .It's where I first learned to suck cock."

That's right, kiddies. ". . .It's where I first learned to suck cock." She heard it (albeit, unwillingly) as clearly as her pastor's sermons.

Here thin lips pursed as tight as an anus. Her pallor deepening from a shade of persimmon to full-blown pomegranate. Her posture rigidly stiffening as if her puppeteer pulled her strings taut in one swift, hard move. Her body shimmied and shook so violently, I believed it to be a precursor to a seizure. . .

And I, devil that I am, stared my brown (with a touch of green) commando eyes through her pale watery blues all the way down to her core. There was no flinching, no apology nor scrambling to shut the offensive narrative down on my part.

I asked her what she wanted and implied a wearying impatience with my hand movements and countenance. She stammered out a few words and scurried out.

Since that day, I've replayed the moments over and over. A cloud of emotions seem to stir when I think of her humiliation, my unrelenting attitude in light of her embarrassment and how easily her angst could have been relieved had only I lowered the volume as she entered. Those words,

". . .It's where I first learned to suck cock."

those words truly had me thinking: I wonder if there is audio porn available for the blind? I mean, don't they have it rough enough?