All posts by pawel kowaluk

Sex Doll

“Striker, snap out of it, man,” Toad’s voice sounded distant and distorted, like a sub-band transmission gone awry.

“I’m out already,” said Striker, getting up from the ground. Reality around him was slowly moving back into focus. It was a real bad trip down the rabbit hole. A virtual reality run gone bad.

“The buyer’s out. We fucked up,” said Toad.

“We fucked up?” Striker was angry. “WE?”

“Okay, so I fucked up. But it was only five grand. We can make it up with a week of web grafting. Tops.”

“Whatever,” Striker started walking away, checking the account balance on his holospecs.

“Hey, Striker,” Toad followed him, “Wanna get a cyber drink?”

“Fuck off, Toad. I have to be places.”

“Okay, okay, cool it, Strike. You need to cool it, man. I am not your enemy.”

“You just set me 5 thousand credits back.”

“Only two and a half of that was yours, Strike.”

“Whatever, man,” Striker called his hover transport.

“Whatever, man, whatever,” Toad echoed his partner’s words. “You just dying to be with that whore again.”

“She’s not a whore, Toad,” Striker hissed without even looking at the man.

“She’s a sex doll. And she costs you money. Money what could go to your sister.”

“She’s not just a sex doll, Toad. You wouldn’t understand.”

The hover transport touched the ground. Striker thought for a second she was there, looking at him from the backseat window. But she was not. Why would she be? She had customers to service at the Pleasuredome. Why would she lose income over such a loser. Striker felt his evening depression roll in.

If You Like This Post, Share and Comment

Eating poisonous fish was the last thing he ever did. It was the end of a very eventful night which started with a bungee jump. He went to the peer with his friends where somebody had set up a tall crane you could jump off of. After much hesitation, he did.

“You know me, Dory, I am not much for extreme sports. I guess I value my survival too much,” he said.

But then one hour after it was done he realized all he could think about was that rush. He said so to his friends with whom he was drinking beers at the time, and he made them get up and get back to the peer in search of more attractions.

There was some scuba diving, but he did not enjoy that. It was too benign. He wanted to get into deep sea diving, but the guy told him it took a few weeks to get a license.

“I might not be alive in a few weeks,” he said to the guy.

So he went downtown and picked a fight with a scary-looking local cutthroat. He beat the guy up and left him in the street. Then he stole a car and drove to Chinatown. He had sex with a prostitute and then robbed a bank with a gun he stole from her. He gambled all that money away within the following two hours and ended up at a Japanese restaurant.

“This fish is very poisonous,” said the restaurant owner, “You can only eat a small fragment of it. And only if it had been killed properly, you see? Otherwise, the venom gets into your blood and you die.”

At first, the owner refused to serve him the entire fish, but the gun convinced him. So our hero was eating the poisonous fish whole when all of a sudden the cutthroat he beat up showed up with his tattooed friends. Guns were drawn and our hero was shot dead.

They missed him in the realtors’ meeting the following morning.

They Could Not Stop

My boss told me that when he was on a business trip, his wife would call about once an hour just to make sure he was okay. He laughed when he said it and I knew he did not like it. He told me she called late at night when he was in bed with Jane. They both stopped so he could talk and Jane was so cute when she tried to calm her breathing down while he talked, her mouth was open. And then he told me how Jane could not take the wait anymore and started to move her hips a little bit, making him slide in and out a little bit. They both came like they never had before.

I think my boss sometimes tells exaggerated stories.

Young at Heart

I was sitting at the kitchen table with my laptop powered down, a cup of coffee in front of me. The sky outside was getting gray-blue, the sun would set soon. I focused on being in the moment, something I read in a book about Steve Jobs or someone like that. I was winding down after a day of hard work.

Suddenly, the front door slammed open, and then shut. I turned around just in time to see my son rush by. I got up and leaned out into the hallway to watch him climb upstairs. His head was lowered, his bag hung carelessly, banging each step like he did not care about the contents. His mind was on something more important.

“Brad,” I said, “Are you okay, son?”

“Fine,” he said.

“Dinner in an hour, okay?”

“Whatever,” he said and disappeared.

I got back to my coffee and tried to imagine what made him this way. It made me smile. Am I a bad parent because of that?

The Night Fish

Sam and Mary were sitting on the dark beach. Sun had already set, then the sky was alight for a while, but it had grown darker and darker until you could see all the stars and galaxies.

Sam and Mary had not spoken, but it was not the kind of uncomfortable silence where you stress over coming up with a topic of conversation. Perhaps they were at that stage back in college when they first met, but it was since past them.

It was not comfortable silence either, the type you share with your loved ones where you just being together is enough. That stage was past them as well. This silence was just a simple disconnect. They were sitting on the sand, looking at the sky and the crashing waves, and thinking about something else. Separately.

Then suddenly something began to shimmer in the sea brine, a swarm of silvery flashes. Sam and Mary recognized it immediately, those were Nelson’s Sea Bass mating and the flashes were their scales reflecting the light of distant stars. Beams of light that had converged on this beach from millions of miles away to shine on an orgy of mindless sea creatures.

Sam and Mary looked at each other, each recollecting different memories. And each of them smiled.


He was a completely unimpressive man. Average looking, nothing special. Not muscular or fat, not handsome or ugly. He had a plain old job and was okay at it. He had some sense of humor, but not hilarious. He was not dumb but not bright either. He seemed to have no smell.

When she finally decided to sleep with him, she had to give him several hints before he realized it was time to act. She had to take his hand, and hold it in hers rubbing his fingers with her thumb. (His hand was not big, and it was not small either.) And then she had too look him in the eye, long and intense.

He was an average kisser. She thought this must be what the general motion of kissing is when it is not even put into practice, just theorized about. It was like reading about kissing in a magazine. She knew she was being kissed but felt nothing.

When she unbuttoned his shirt, she saw his chest for the first time. His rib cage was concave, ribs twisted and bent like there had been a storm inside his body. She placed a kiss in the middle of the deepest depression, she ran her hands all over his skin, she started going crazy with desire. She felt an orgasm just outside the horizon, coming slowly towards her.

Doomsday Scenario

Imagine yourself speeding. You are in your car, going just above the limit, trying to get home as soon as possible. There is no emergency, it is just another day and you are getting back from work. Nobody is waiting for you more than any other day. Maybe your wife called you asking when you will be home because you stayed a bit too long and she does not mean anything, she just wants to know, but you feel rushed.

Everybody is leaving work and going home, so the streets are packed. You had trouble getting through, but right now you found a straight, empty stretch of road and you floored it. You are making up for lost time.

Now imagine somebody steps onto the pavement in front of your car. Turns to face you. Kneels down. Extends their head to meet your bumper. Did they ever think what this would do to your trip home? Or to all your subsequent trips home?

The Mannequin

Frank was walking down the street when he saw a topless mannequin in a shop window. Its perfectly shaped plastic breasts with no nipples shone in the morning light.

Frank stepped inside, it was a small shop with too many clothes crammed into a small space. A forty-something woman was sitting behind the counter looking bored. She was attractive, with just some slight wrinkles but perhaps a little too much suntan.

“Hey,” Frank said, “I saw your mannequin. Does that mean you wanna—?”

“Yeah, I already got it,” she said, but she did not seem too happy, “Sorry, I was about to cover it, you were just faster than me.” She got up, walked past him, put a blouse on the mannequin and started buttoning it up before Frank spoke.

“Are you sure? I mean, you don’t sound too happy. It would be my pleasure to help you out.”

She did not respond until she was done buttoning it up. “Nah, I already kind of came. It would be hard for me to get to that level again. Besides, I think it was a bad idea.”

“I don’t want to impose,” said Frank, “I can leave you alone if you want.”

She looked him up and down. He seemed a sincere guy, kind of sweet. His hair was a little out of fashion, but that somehow made him cute. “Would you go down on me?” she asked, “I’m clean, I have papers. Besides, I’m shaved down there, so you would be able to see for yourself.”

“Sure,” he said slowly, “Why not. And you don’t have to go down on me if you don’t want to. I’m happy to please,” he smiled and blushed.

“Maybe I can do it to you with my hand,” she said, “We will see.”

She locked the door and pulled down the blinds. In the dim light, she looked younger. They sat down on the carpet. It was quiet for a second, except for the fan.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

“Nicole. Yours?”


“Nice to meet you, Frank,” they shook hands.

She lifted her skirt, leaned back, pulled her panties down. He leaned forward, she focused on his forehead, his outdated hairstyle. “Wait,” she said.

“What is it?”

“Uhm, I don’t usually have sex with strangers. I think this might be a bad idea.”

“Oh,” he said.

“No, it’s not you,” she said, “I’m sure you’re a great guy. It’s just it might be difficult for me. I need intimacy with the man. I need to feel something, feel cozy at least. That makes it easier.”

“I know what you mean,” said Frank, “I sometimes have a hard time coming when I am— I was with a girl once, and she was real unpleasant. She was mean to me. Said I was not a real man. Wanted me to get into fights because somebody looked at her. Wanted me to yell at the waiter. Yell at the hotel manager. I could almost never come. Sometimes I couldn’t even get it up for her.”

“Did she break up with you?”

“No. I broke up with her.”

“I guess she could not spare you,” said Nicole, “She probably found it hard to get a guy who would stick with her. Like a serious relationship.”

“I don’t know,” said Frank. “Can I ask you something?”


“Why did you do it? Why did you put up the topless mannequin?”

“I wanted to relax. I am sexually frustrated and lonely. Plus I get really horny recently. It’s like a phase in a woman’s sex life. I know, this sounds stupid, but I’ve been under a lot of stress lately. The shop is not doing so well. It’s unfinished clothes. You know, sometimes some seams are apart, sometimes they are missing buttons. There is a real scene for these back where I am from, but not around here. People don’t get what they are all about.”

“I’ve never heard of that,” said Frank. “Do people wear them unfinished? Shirts that fly open, sleeves that hang down from your shoulders?”

“Sometimes. Sometimes they finish then however they see fit. Sometimes they combine them. I once saw a boy and a girl wearing sweatshirts that were sown together.”

“Neat,” he said. “So somebody came in here before me?”

“Yes, this guy. He was a real animal, but he showed me his penis and it was impressive. He just came in here and pulled it out. I thought, hey, maybe it will work. He smelled like booze, and it’s only 10 a.m. He fucked me like a stinking beast, but I kind of came with him. I think. It was all really brutal. It was not good. He wiped his forehead with my skirt and left. I had to change. The skirt— I threw it away. I know I could have just washed it, but I don’t know. I just didn’t want to see it again, I would always see his beastly face.”

“Did he—? Would you say he raped you?”

“No. I mean, I wanted it to happen. I was ready. I was wet. It was just bad sex.”

“Wow, sounds pretty bad.”

“I don’t think I want to do anything after all,” she said and she put her panties back on. “I got you excited for nothing. Let me do it for you, okay? Will my hand be okay?”

“No, that’s alright. You don’t need to do anything.”

“Are you sure? Aren’t you going to be in pain?”

“Nah, I’m fine. I’m on my way home anyway, I can take care of myself. I work from home, you see. I was just out for breakfast.”

She did not follow up on that. They sat in silence for a minute, then he got up. “Well, it was really nice talking,” he said, “I hope the shop picks up some good business. I’ll tell my friends about it. Maybe I can post about it on my blog.”

“Thanks, that would be nice.”

She let him out. He looked back as he was walking away. The sign above the shop said WASTED BEGINNINGS. He made a mental note of that as well as the location for future reference.

None of This Junk!

The distant future, the year 20XX, night time in a large city. Jeremy was walking down the street briskly, his buttocks clenched. All around him people’s faces reeled like a spectacle from hell. All the human depravity possible, violence and apathy meant nothing to him, he had a pain of his own. He was shaking, aching, trembling, longing.

A man appeared in his way. Shady, murky, a large puffy jacket, a cap and shades (it was still night time). The man was secretive.

“Private rooms with seating,” he said, using the street code.

“No,” said Jeremy, walking on.

“Come on man, I know you’re aching. I see you here every night. For you it’s fifty.”

Jeremy knew how it was going to end. He handed the man a rumpled bill and a few minutes later he was squeezing into a tiny space. White tiles on the wall, a strong chemical smell, a cold porcelain bowl. Jeremy pulled his pants down, collapsed onto the seat and let it all go.

For a brief moment, he was in paradise. He was free. He was a little boy again, innocent and pure. The whole world was his toilet and he could relieve himself anytime he needed to.

He snapped back to reality to the sound of a helicopter above.

“Attention, citizens,” a booming voice said, “You are reminded that defecation is strictly prohibited by the Clean Up Your Act Act of 20XX. All defecating citizens will be placed in corrective facilities for water education, mountain of flesh education, and other types of education. Remember the words of our great leader—”

The voice slowly faded as the helicopter passed overhead and Jeremy was left alone in the silence. He hid his face in his hands and cried a desperate cry. The cry of a barbarian among society. The cry of guilt.

A Distraction

It was about two hours into the meeting, just me and Natalie from the legal department. She was going on and on about how legally a method is not a manufactured product, so technically it has some repercussions and I just zoned out.

“That’s it!” she said, snapping me out of a reverie, “Let’s write that down.”

“Okay,” I said, and repeated the last idea she had. Thank God for this weird brain thing, where even though you are not listening, you can still repeat the last idea.

“What were the other two?” she said.

“What two?”

“I just said three things,” she was not angry, she was just trying to retrieve some good ideas she had just lost.

“Sorry,” I said, and since it was obvious to both of us I was not paying attention, I made a joke, “I was not listening, I was just staring into your beautiful eyes.”

We both knew that was ridiculous and she moved on trying to recover the ideas, but I saw her blush. I thought about an article I had read. It said blushing is a defensive reaction and I thought now it indicates she does not want to be in this situation, even though I think it is fine. Kind of like when you walk up to a girl at a club and throw out some cheesy line while she is trying to have fun with her friends. You think it is flattering to her to be pursued when all she really wants is to be left alone. And you think she is in on the joke, that you are not really interested in doing anything, just want to make fun of guys who use pickup lines. You could say it is ironic seduction.

“Hey,” said Natalie, “Are you listening to me?”