The Plumbin' Plumber
My life started innocuously enough one February morning.
I was late for ENG EK 500 (Probability with Statistical Applications) one cold, blustery February evening and rushing around the apartment we shared when the hot water faucet gave in the bathroom. Just like that, with a loud pop, as I went to turn it off it gave up the ghost -- would turn as you like it but not turn off anything whatsoever. I didn't have any time for that, so I just went to school. The commute, half hour, the class, two hours and a little over talking to the prof, the commute back, a sliver shy of four hours all told, but I couldn't believe my eyes when I returned.
The things, all the things, were covered in petrified pixie dust. The coach had a quarter inch worth of hoar-frost all over, sparkling like it fell out of the Disney truck. Most metal surfaces had disappeared. The floor was impracticable. The bathroom wall had extruded itself a solid foot towards the faucet, with a steamy spring cutting itself a complicated path out. For some reason probably to do with ancient stresses and the temperature differential the bathroom window popped at some point after I left shattering glass everywhere ; the interaction between the freezing winds outside and the hot vapors inside steadily redecorated the place.
My finances hadn't been in the best of places before this mishap, but it changed everything. I was very depressed at the time, and had been slowly building towards it over the college years. Mechanical engineering isn't all drinking and party sluts all semester long, you might imagine. New England isn't much into fucking, or living well for that matter. I was frustrated, desperate to save money and eating crap because of it, slowly gaining weight, too busy and tired to do anything about it...not a good place to be.
It's not legal in the state of Massachusetts to offer plumbing services without a license, be it as a "quick and cheap" ad on backpage or in any other shape or form. That's exactly what I did, in between taping over the hole in the bathroom window and collapsing into comatose sleep.
When I woke up in the viscously moist apartment, I had 147 messages from people needing work done. I said "fuck it" out loud, took the last of my savings and bought some basic tools, missed the entire day's worth of classes (I did call the office and told them I had caught the stomach flu eventually) and spent the whole day working as a criminal plumber. The work is remarkably easy to do when you can bill someone else for the needed parts rather than trying to make do with "household items", and everyone is remarkably eager to pay for materials considering the hefty discount on labour involved.
I visited 21 places in between 8.30 AM and 20:22 PM, long live the MBTA. By the time I rang the 22nd doorbell I had a wad of cash no doubt more substantial than any dope dealer's within a ten mile radius, and about twenty pounds worth of assorted spare parts besides -- it turns out that by the fifth time you go out to buy a faucet you just splurge and buy three and save yourself a couple of trips in the future. I was so tired I could barely stand, but also on a crazy sort of high. Charging people five times what I could make in my legitimate line was its own sort of ecstatic joy, but them thanking me profusely for the quick service and tipping generously -- it's one of those things you have to experience, can't be described. One agitated short guy with no neck just put five hundred in my hand from the get-go. There was nothing wrong with his toilet that the plunger couldn't fix, but he also didn't look like he was about to ask for change. What was I going to do, protest ?
It was the 22nd that changed my whole life, however. It was far out, I got off the orange and went all the way to Hersey, past West Roxbury. "That's a hundred just to get here" I thought to myself, which it absolutely would have been, if I had a van of my own like normal plumber folk do. An absolutely stunning lady opened the door, she must have been in her mid thirties I guessed, with a strange sort of innocent air about her and 1990s Mariah Carey-ish doe eyes. Come to think about it she was totally going for that look, what with the knitted top and curled hair and all. There was also a dude in his 50s, watching TV in his satin robe.
Their kitchen sink water pipe had sprung a leak, and they were well panicked about the insistent spray and the puddle steadily forming on the kitchen floor. No big deal, I reassured them, just give me a minute. The lady offered me various things I didn't need, and eventually went and joined the dude in the livingroom. I cut off the water, took out their ancient flexible, picked a replacement from my bag and screwed the ends in. The fit was marvelous on their ancient copper fittings, the whole thing was done within four minutes. Having learned from experience that taking too short is not actually a good idea, I sat there in front of the sink, caressing the new pipe I had just installed. Somehow, suddenly, the thought of getting back to the subway through the cold, dark Arctic climate didn't seem appealing at all. I simply did not want to leave.
At that exact moment a plan sparked in my head, absurdly audacious and for that reason irresistibly delicious. I just could not think away. A while back I had read this guy's novel online, Disgrace it was called. In it this black guy in South Africa simply has his way with the author's daughter. Just like that, because he says so. Because he's there, as it were. Well... I was here, wasn't I ?
I'm just going to go in there and say "Hey, is it ok if I sit and watch the game ?" I told myself. No way you have the guts to do that, I told myself at the same time. No way asking for permission is what Petrus would do, I also told myself. Eventually, in a state of mental excitation like you wouldn't believe, I managed to drag myself over to their livingroom.
"All done ?" the guy asked.
"Yes, it's done." I said, all the day's tired exhaustion ringing through my voice. She went to the kitchen, and at the same time, with superhuman, straining effort I crumbled on their couch, opposite him. "I'm going to watch the game" I said, plainly, as a matter of fact. He switched channels. That blew my mind, and I nearly creamed in my pants. There I was, calling the shots in these people's house. There was no stopping me now.
She was back a moment later, looking puzzled at the arrangement. "Rub my feet, will you honey ?" I said, barely any hint of the circumstantial question in my voice. She looked at him. He looked at her. I was expecting them to kick me out any moment now. What happened next is entirely inconceivable unless you actually try it yourself. They didn't kick me out. She got down on her knees by my feet and started taking off my shoes. Then she took off my socks. Then she started rubbing my feet in her hands. It was very pleasant, her soft, carefully curated hands gingerly caressing my tired feet, but I wasn't going to stop there.
"Use your mouth" I said, and much to my surprise she squirmed herself on her back under my feet and started kissing them. I glanced over at the dude across the couch, he was jacking off. "Bingo", I thought to myself, "this whole show is mine!"
"Take your top off" I said, and she did. As she lay there topless under my feet I rested my left foot on her fake rack while she was licking and rubbing my right. The dude clearly came.
"Go get me a beer, honey" I said. Then turning to her dude, "Would you like a beer too ?"
"Yeah" he managed, all hoarse.
"Get him one as well." I yelled after her.
"Name's Vinnie", he offered.
"Nice to meet you, Vinnie" I said. Normally I'd have said "My name is..." but under the circumstances that hardly seemed appropriate.
Vinnie's girl came back, tray with beers and glasses held with both hands right under her jubilant tits. She set it down on the coffee table, and as she bent over I cupped her right tit. Nice and juicy.
"Come here, honey." I said. I had finally decided to do something about the raging hard-on that had been angrily building for a while now. I placed her arms on the armrest, moved behind her, pulled down her jeans and pink panties. She arched her back, and one second later I was balls deep in her. The dude started jacking off again.
I fucked her like a fucking animal, eventually collapsing her over the armrest and just ramming it home like there was no tomorrow. This was the first time I had gotten any in over a year, and it was easily the best I had ever got. By very far, no doubt about it, better than the sum total of all the dozen or so shitty lays I had to my name up until that enchanted evening.
I came inside of her, not asking her or anyone anything, not caring one whit. They've got a posh enough place, they'll be ok, I thought to myself, and I felt like laughing, roaring. As she was panting under me, my dick still buried inside of her, I asked the dude if they had a spare key. He mumbled an affirmation, and I told him to bring it over. He did. Can you believe that ? He did, he brought me a key. I put it in my pocket like so much spare change. "Alright, I'll be back later." I offered.
I stood up and buttoned my pants. "That'll be 300." I said loud and clear. "A hundred for fixing your sink, and two hundred for fucking your whore." I continued. I couldn't believe what was coming out of my mouth. He could, apparently, because he got up, and came back with the money. He counted five crisp hundred bills in my hand.
"Is this advance payment for fucking her next time ?" I asked, entirely business-like. He nodded.
"Hear that, whore ? I'm all paid for next time, too." She stared at me, eyes open wide, entirely expressionless.
"Say thank you, daddy." I said.
"Thank you, daddy." she replied, mechanically. It wasn't clear at all whether she was thanking me or the dude who paid for her. Who was her daddy ?
I grabbed my toolbag and took off. Suddenly the Arctic climate wasn't either as cold or as dark, but on the contrary, twinkling with loving opportunity. That was the end of my career as a Mechanical Engineering PhD, and the beginning of my life. The next day I cancelled all classes and spent most of the afternoon fucking around in Gimp, getting my new business card design just right. The Plumbin' Plumber, it said, and included a female silouette dancing on a pole very gracefully. It was all very tasteful, nothing but pink and gold lame and such.
But about all that, perhaps another time.
Wednesday, 6 June 2018
K Mircea this is hilarious