"Bring out your dead!"
The cries rang up from the street into my Brooklyn apartment, Now while that was humorous in a Python film, here in the real COVID-19 world it was horrifying. The USS Comfort, a naval hospital ship which now sat docked in the New York City harbor to provide aid, looked as bizarrely out of place as the S.S. Minnow at an Emmy presentation.
M*A*S*H units lined my favorite place in the world, Central Park, but thankfully without Alan Alda. The bombardment of depressing pandemic news reports had placed my Xanax supply in serious jeopardy. But not my weed, thankfully. I'm not a barbarian.
Equally as depressing my sex drive had vanished like eggs from grocery shelves. The strict but necessary social distancing guidelines made personal interaction as difficult as the Sunday Times crossword. That left my old friend masturbation. But even it had lost its allure after the eighth or ninth time daily. Not to mention the emotional turmoil of not being able to work.
My disposable income had become just 'disposable.' I would spend days staring out my window at empty streets, looking like scenes from a zombie apocalypse without the zombies, contemplating get rich slowly schemes.
My first endeavor was converting panty liners into protective masks. Sadly all I had available were used ones which made it appear as though I was hemorrhaging which cut into my sales but did serve as a deterrent to untimely visits from Jehovah's witnesses.
My mind raced to find ways to combine my two favorite things, masturbation, and money, to get me through these troubled times. When suddenly it hit me like a five-pound dildo! I would bring spanking-new sex toys to the lockdowned masses, to those women in desperate need of new avenues of stimulation. No leaving their homes, no masks, just good clean dirty fun.
My first step was inventory control. I scoured my hands then the Internet for the newest innovations: from dildos and vibes to butt plugs seemingly the size of a Mini Cooper. Plus a deluxe hand sanitizer/ lube to keep it fun and germ-free. I named my budding enterprise "Jill in a Box." After placing an ad in the Village Voice I sat back and waited for orders to pour in like fan mail to Brad Pitt. It instead trickled like fan mail to Zasu Pitts (paging IMDB ap).
I did eventually get my first party request in Queens. So I packed up my party favors and rode a train across town. Once there I sought out the locale of my philanthropic efforts: the Dystrophied Arms Retirement Home and Mausoleum. My hopes for riches were dashed but I kept a stiff-upper-lip.
A Granny Clampett wannabe answered the door then guided me into her "courting parlor" where she introduced me to her two GILF friends, Dora and May. They had an antiquated hookah on the coffee table inspiring my hopes for a jovial afternoon.
They all three seemed depressed. I don't know if it was a lack of sex or gossip or their own impending doom. Plus their treasured yard sales were temporarily verboten. But I was here to boost morale and heart rate.
I felt momentarily guilty attempting to extract cash from these living-on-a-fixed income ladies. The thought left me feeling as slimy as a slice of Oscar Mayer baloney but I quickly got over it.
These gals seemed in good shape. Their boobs were still on their chests, not playing hacky sack with their knees. Encouraging. To break the ice my hostess, Flo, offered me a frosty tumbler of prune juice. A request I happily declined since I'm as regular as Old Faithful. Still, it was a sweet gesture as were her fresh-baked oatmeal raisin cookies, a munchies cure if ever I tasted one.
I then began unpacking my wares to their accompanied giggles and profanity. When I laid out a sizable dildo, Dora screamed and exclaimed, "It looks like a giant pee bob!" She then stroked it skillfully with one hand while slipping nitroglycerin pills beneath her tongue with the other. While waiting for her heartbeat to stabilize I played some mood music to establish an ambiance.
