Man on trial after allegedly trying out product at adult novelty store in Oklahoma City
The whole story is here, courtesy of Fox4 OKC
We all probably know this guy whether we’d admit it, or even know. The old guy at Mass with too many hugs for everything with a vagina and a heartbeat from cradle to one foot in the grave. The guy you worked with on that construction job who painted your fender for you while he told you about the most disgusting things he did with hot dogs and his obese wife. The guy at sales meetings who always has a hard drive full of PowerPoints of ‘stuff’.
I remember working for this man. He wasn’t a perv, that I knew about anyway. He and the other business leaders in his industry bought each other ‘novelty’ gifts for birthdays. They’d drop by and show off their wind up penises that hopped around the boss’s desktop. I walked into his office one afternoon and on the desk sat a box about five inches square, emblazoned with “Pocket Pussy” on every visible side. I acted like it wasn’t there. He said “That’s for Mr. so and so,” picked up the box, took out the pink donut, examined it. “I was wondering if one of us shouldn’t try it out first.” Long pause, reloads the box, sets it down saying “Just kidding. What’s on your mind?” WTF? I forgot because the visual of my boss’s pecker in the wrinkly rubber donut was too much.
I worked at a hardware store for a couple of months with this old fart, had to be a hundred. When you’re 20 that’s anyone over 50. On Saturdays, he’d sit in his office and read Penthouse Letters because all the rest of the admin people were gone and he had the space to himself. If you needed something you’d walk up the stairs, tap on his door frame, walk in just in time for him to slam a desk drawer on the mag and stand up to greet you with a suspicious wet spot on his slacks. And offer to shake your hand. I made it point to always have my hands full of hinges or orders that needed to be ‘pulled’. (Couldn’t resist)
In my extreme youth as an Avant Garde theater co-conspirator (read that as ‘space music’ synth arteest) there was a director in residence at the Contemporary Arts Foundation (a cinder block warehouse) who made extra money writing pulp porn. We’d sit around the tiny living room of his rented pad in a smoky haze and he’d regale us with his latest. He’d often speak as he wrote, and ask for contributions. He wasn’t a serious pornographer, more of a porn humorist. An X rated Carl Hiaasen. Talk about adverbial and adjectival descriptive excess. I heard shit in that room at a tender age still makes me laugh at the sheer audacity of it.
All that to say, unfortunately, we know this guy even if we wish we didn’t, and thank God he found an outlet for his urge before he hurt someone. But really? I mean that’s the epitome of “Hey fellas! Watch this!”