Road Hump

He was having problems with bedroom traffic – until they put a hump in the road.

Ross is used to waking on a weekend with his mouth as fetid as a used jockstrap, his head pounding from booze and drugs, and his bed shared with a stranger whose name he can’t remember. Until, that is, one Saturday morning when no amount of aspirin will relieve the hammering in his brain. It’s coming from outside his inner city terrace and when he goes to investigate he falls head over tit into a newly dug trench outside his front door. Not only that, he’s ready to fall head over tit in love with the big macho road digger who helps him out of his predicament.

Excerpt:

It was no use; the hammering in my head would not go away no matter how many aspirin I’d taken during the night to avert a hangover, or using three pillows over my aching noggin to protect it from the slightest vibration. I screamed “Shut the fuck up!” at nobody in particular hoping it might have some results, but it didn’t. The hammering continued.

There was no way I was gonna get any sleep with that racket in my head, so I got up, slipped on my mini-robe which scarcely covered my butt cheeks, my tackle drooping just below the hem, and went downstairs to make myself a coffee. Caffeine sometimes relieves my headaches. I made it strong and black, flopping on the lounge in exhaustion because of lack of sleep.

I was still wired from a combination of the previous evening’s cocktail of recreational substances and booze, plus I was horny as fuck – that hunger you get when you’d hump anything that came within grasp of your needy ass – and the strong coffee wasn’t helping one bit. In fact, it was making it worse. I squeezed my ass against the lounge, prodding the butt plug in farther, scraping it across my prostate, almost blowing my load. God, what a slut. I wish. If I were a slut, I’d have at least a dozen names on speed dial, or else I’d live in an apartment block like the nearby Vaseline Towers so all I had to do was knock on any door and offer my ass. Hell, if I were a real slut, I’d have a sling and a plastic sheet covered playroom.

No, I’d settled into a yuppie enclave. An old working class area that had been taken over and prissied up by young professionals and the sort of queens who thought sex was only for the bedroom with the lights off. Not me at all. I’m the sort of guy who wants a spotlight, an audience, and a camera crew, with groans and dialogue that would make a porn star blush. Of course, there would also have to be a team of hot men to service my throbbing ass and a representative of the Guinness Book of Records to verify my super-slutdom.

Not gonna happen. The most men I’d ever had at one time was precisely two. And that hadn’t worked out. They were more into each other than me so I doubt they even knew when I got out of bed to dress and catch a cab home so much were they in the throes of whatever it was they saw in each other. I was well on the way to being The Slut Who Never was.

To distract my mind I switched on the TV but, being Saturday morning, it was cartoons or the latest pop music.

It had to be a plot: everything was doing my head in. The hammering got louder and I was about to scream when it struck me that the sound was not inside my head at all but coming from the street outside. Good, that gave me somewhere to focus my frustration.