“There is a Financial Solution for Every Emotional Problem!”

It was crystal clear: if we were going to pull off this year’s Halloween sex party, we needed to hire an exterminator immediately to kill all of the cockroaches.

“These servant’s quarters are infested!” said Deirdre.  “We can’t have people over here for group sex with all of these disgusting water bugs everywhere.  It will be madness!  We will be quietly discussed in sympathetic tones by the liberal children of our peers at art gallery openings.  We will have to vacation in Asia or Peru.”

We had fired our October servants and were planning to use their apartments in the basement of our building for our “Real People”-themed Halloween sex party.  It was no surprise to me that our servants had been living in absolute squalor. Luckily, the last thing we made our servants do before we fired them was clean and oil the toys in our sex chest, and then we made them bring the whole chest downstairs so that we had something to sit on while we assessed the situation.

Deirdre was miserable.

There were so many cockroaches in the wall between the kitchen and the bathroom that you could hear them rustling like wind through brittle leaves.  If you put your ear up against the wall, you could hear them chittering, defecating, mating, and chewing.  There were so many that they poured out like rivers of mercury if you banged on the wall, coming out of every unsealed hole, pipe,  and outlet, frolicking on the countertops like hippies with bellies full of acid.

Neither of us were particularly fond of cockroaches, but neither of us were particularly troubled by them either. 

Both of us had gone through Shaeffer Shield’s “Emotional Training” in our thirties and so we weren’t troubled by very much at all.

However, we knew that if we were going to host a successful Halloween group sex party, it would be important for everyone to feel comfortable. 

“I’ll call an exterminator,” I said.

“Will he be able to get rid of all of them fast enough?” Deirdre asked.  “Halloween is this weekend!”

“There is a financial solution for every emotional problem,” I said sagaciously, quoting my Freedom Leader. 

I went online, searching for the most expensive exterminator in Manhattan.  I went straight to Epiphanies, the private Darknet for millionaires set up by Shaeffer Shields in the late nineties.  I didn’t even bother with the regular web.   I wanted someone good, preferably someone with an Ivy League degree.  My friends Bobby and Nicki Blakely were online and they recommended a man named Lester Brunch, saying he was the “fastest, most professional exterminator on the island.”  I called him, and he said he could be at our place within the hour. 

“Good day to you, sir,” he said, stepping out of the elevator.  “Terribly sorry if I don’t shake.”

His hands were covered in thick black leather gloves.    He was wearing a breathing mask, but he took it off for a moment so I could see what he looked like.  He was a cadaverous man in his sixties with merry eyes and perfect rows of white teeth.  He was short and muscular – whip-thin – and his eyes immediately darted into the dark corners of our apartment where I assumed he was already spotting intruders.

At first I thought he had lied about his pedigree.  He looked like a man who ate sandwiches purchased in gas stations.  But then he mimed sticking his thumb up his own ass and then dotting his upper lip as if he were giving himself a Hitler mustache made of his own feces. 

“Ah, a Harvard man!” I said.  I made the same sign and we laughed together, both remembering our college days.

“I already see six trespassers in your place and here it is still daylight, chum,” said the man.  “Surely you don’t live here?”

“No, we merely want to get this place ready for a Halloween party,” I said.

“You have a thoroughly impressive infestation,” he said.  “I’m glad you called me.   I’ll get right to work.  Now tell me: do you have pets?”

“No,” said Deirdre.  “Just subs, thralls, and one or two power bottoms.”

“Okay then,” he said.   He took off his backpack and started taking gear out of it.  He stacked five wrapped packages shaped like bricks on the floor and began to open them.  Inside the bricks was a glowing blue gel that looked like plastic explosive.  He carried the bricks into the kitchen and cleared his throat.

“What’s that?” I asked him.

“Oh, this is something we call Extreme X,” he said.  “It’s the best possible cockroach poison available on the market.  Science has basically solved the problem of shelled vermin.  Exterminators only exist nowadays as an extortion racket.  They use products that are fifty years old so they have to come back.  Also, they never service two houses that are next to each other in the same quarter so that the troublemakers just run back and forth.  The roaches are the real clients, you know.”

“That makes sense,” I said.  “You are telling me you are different?”

He stared into space for a minute.

“Please,” he said.  “For me, being an exterminator is an act of will.  My Freedom Leader insists that I work as an exterminator until I no longer have an emotional reaction to bugs.  I am terrified of cockroaches.  For me, being an exterminator is a personal calling.”

I nodded.  “Emotional training,” I said.

“Precisely,” he said.

“Who’s your Freedom Leader?”

“Adolph Shields,” he said.

“Oooo, he’s good,” I said.

“He’s the best,” said Lester.  “Shaeffer Shield’s own adopted son.”

“So what does Extreme X do?” I asked him, changing the subject.  It is embarrassing to probe into the Emotional Training of someone you hardly know.

“Extreme X is a phageodessicant,” said Lester Brunch.  “It was invented by the North Koreans after they figured out that the CIA was sending roaches with listening devices attached to their nervous systems into North Korean military bases.  Extreme X is extremely effective.  The roaches love Extreme X.  They can’t get enough of it.  It smells better to them than water.  It even smells better to them than baby shampoo, and roaches love baby shampoo.   They eat so much that they waddle back to the darkness slowly, like Sunday drivers full of fried chicken and bourbon.  You can see them falling off the walls because they are so heavy with the Extreme X in their guts.”

“We are trying to kill them,” I said.  “Not put them on welfare.”

“Oh, it kills them all right,” he said.  “After an hour or so, they are back in their nests and they don’t feel so good.  They start to lose feeling in their legs.  They start to twitch and have strokes.  They begin to dehydrate.  And they start vomiting.  They vomit explosively.  They vomit with vigor and with real passion.  But the Extreme X isn’t processed, you see.  It still smells wonderful.  The roach babies crawl up and eat the vomit.  Other adult roaches in the nest eat the vomit.  Now the Extreme X is simply closer to wherever the roaches might hide.  The roaches carried it there themselves.  They are social creatures.  And the process continues until all the roaches are dead. It doesn’t take very long.”

I watched him work.  He smeared Extreme X in all the cupboards and on the kitchen countertops.  He smeared it on the shower tiles and around the toilet bowl.  He smeared Extreme X in the corners and along the baseboards.  It glistened for a moment and then faded to a dull sheen.  It smelled like warm strawberry pie.

“How do you know where to put it?” I asked him.

“You have to put the goop wherever there is moisture, “ he said.  “They go for the moisture.”

When he was done, I paid him in Apple stock and then we shared a glass of fine scotch.

“Well, Lester, thanks so much,” I told him.  “Like I said, we have a huge Halloween party coming up this weekend and it is very important that all these roaches be dead by then.”

“It should be fine,” he said.  “If you like, however, I can come to your party in case you need me to take care of something on the spot.”

“Hmmm,” I said.  “Well, the thing is, it is a costume party.”

“Perfect,” he said.  “I will come dressed as an exterminator.  I will have all my gear and if anybody sees me killing a bug they will think I am only playing a part.”

“Hmmmm,” I said.  “Well, the thing is, it is also a group sex party for Epiphanies members.”

“I see,” said Lester, nodding.  “You think I would not be very much fun at a group sex party just because I am old.”

“No, it’s not like that at all!” I said.  “There will be plenty of seniors there.”

“Will Mitsy Walton be there?” he asked, his eyes gleaming.

“You old dog,” I said.

“So you don’t mind if I come?” said Lester. 

“Yes, please DO come,” said Deirdre.  “And bring whoever you like.”

“But DO make sure to bring your gear just in case,” I said.

Deirdre gave him a “Swarthmore Special,” a German-style chainmail fistfuck using sex greaves and motor oil and I gave him a quiet Gentleman’s blowjob, spitting his semen into a ziplock bag so he could take it home with him. 

The genetic information of a wealthy American aristocrat of advanced age is priceless.

Then we said goodbye.

The next day, it seemed like the roaches were gone for good.  I put my ear up to the wall and all I could hear was blessed silence.  We were certain we had solved our roach problem just in time. 

“He did a marvelous job,” said Deirdre. 

“When you need something done right, always find a Harvard man of a certain age,” I said.

We didn’t give the roaches a second thought, and instead continued to make the preparations for turning our servant’s quarters into a “Real People” home.  We had furniture delivered from IKEA.  We put bills everywhere and artfully left out children’s toys and dog food.  We bought a television and put it on a channel that showed only cooking shows.

All of our friends were instructed to come dressed as real people. And they showed up right on time. 
Tagg Romney came dressed as a girl scout.  He even brought his sex goat, Buttermilk, but his sex goat wasn’t wearing pearls like usual and she was instead smeared with dirt to make her look like a real farm animal.   She wasn’t happy about it.  The expression on her face was classic.  We took video for the private Epiphanies video channel.

Bobby and Nicki Blakely came dressed as football fans.  They even painted their faces and Bobby was even carrying a beer in a plastic cup.

“I poured it myself,” he said.

“I helped,” said Nicki.

The whole Gowanis Canal Casual Sex Team came, all Yalies, all crew, and they came dressed as people who shop at the Gap.  It was hilarious.  They even left the tags on.

Deirdre and I were dressed as immigrants, which everyone enjoyed.  We wore clothes from Salvation Army and I grew out my fierce, Dutch mustache.  Deirdre drew bags under her eyes to make her look tired.

“Who wants to go down to a drug store and get a flu shot?” joked Pepper Showalter, whose daughter Pamela had hosted the last Epiphanies sex party.  Pamela wouldn’t be attending this sex party since her mother was here at this one.  They took turns going to Epiphanies sex parties to keep things from being awkward and competitive.

Hosting  a sex party is a lot of hard work.  First of all, there is always the problem of what snacks to buy.  The prevailing wisdom is that you should buy “country club pool food,” because anything that can mix with pool water and still not make you nauseous will probably also mix well with semen, tears, Viagra sweat, and mare pheremones. 

We served club sandwiches, carrot sticks, grey caviar, and “fancy” Lays potato chips, which we thought fitted well with our “Real People” theme.

The second rule of a sex party is that you have to make sure that everyone is having a good time.  Not everyone is fine with a “gentleman’s blowjob” when there is a lull.  This meant we had to hire extra thralls, secretaries, subs, and leathermen to service us during dull moments.  We instructed them to wear their normal clothes.  They were professionals, and most of them already knew not to make eye contact to keep from getting “impetuous eye” or “shame cramps.”

Lester Brunch showed up in his exterminator’s uniform as promised.  His only conciliation to his class was the Harvard baseball cap that he wore.

For awhile, everyone simply mingled and chatted until we were ready to begin.


I scampered into the back bedroom, disturbing batty old Mitsy Walton and a woman I didn’t recognize who was dressed as a Starbuck’s employee.  They offered to help me with the sex toy chest and we lugged it into the party area while everyone cheered.

I unlocked the chest and threw it open.

I expected more cheering.  But instead, everyone gasped and someone dropped their martini glass.  I heard it shatter.

The toys in the sex toy chest were covered with cockroaches. The cock rings, double dildos, ass beads, semen goblets, judas bracelets, Catherine rods, dildo heels, love wands, vibrators, sonic vibrators, rattan vibrators, Turkish handcuffs, and eagle feathers were teeming with slippery black bodies and tiny roving dots.

I couldn’t believe we forgot to tell Lester about the sex toy chest. The last thing we made the October servants do before we fired them was oil and wash the sex toys.  The roaches must have been drinking the water and eating the flavored lubricants, forming a pocket colony that simply had no exposure to the Extreme X that covered the rest of the moisture areas.

It was a disaster.  I hung my head in shame.  I considered suicide. 

I tried to remember my emotional training, but my heart was beating fast and I was certain I was going to feel sadness, anger, or maybe even frustration.  Other people were thinking about me in a negative way.  They knew me.   They weren’t just part of the lazy hordes. 

Was I about to feel FEAR?

But then Deirdre saved the day.  She jumped out in front of everyone, took off her sombrero, and put it over her heart.

“We have roaches,” called Deirdre, “just like real people do!”

Everyone was tense for one eternal moment.

“Don’t worry,” shouted Lester Brunch, leaping to stand beside her.  “I will take care of them!  I will kill them all for a small amount of money and we will talk about the health of my family while I do this.  I will tell anecdotes about my job.”

“We will pay for it with a credit card,” I chimed in, grinning.

“Oh my,” said Deirdre.  “Can we afford it?  The children need braces because we cannot afford maxillofacial surgery to have their skulls beauty-corrected.”

“I will loan you some money,” said Tagg Romney, getting into the spirit of things.  “I can let you borrow some cash.  The kind you keep in your pocket that does not accrue power-interest because it is not invested in a sensible corporation that is guaranteed to grow much faster than the common interest rate because you are able to politically manipulate the monetary system to ensure this.”

Soon we were having such fun that we forgot all about the roaches.  Lester Brunch went around spraying and stomping with his thick leather boots and no one suspected that he was actually a real exterminator.  The day was saved. 

The best part was when someone had to explain to batty old Mitsy Walton what a cockroach was and she said they were simply delightful. 

“Does one keep a cockroach as a pet if one is a worker bee?” she asked.

“No, no Mitsy,” said Deirdre.  “They are horrible, disgusting pests.”

“Well, I don’t care,” she said.  “I think I am going to bring a few home to my grandchildren.”
What could we do?  We stared, gawking, as she bent down and tried to pick up a cockroach that was perched on a big pink dildo shaped like the Statue of Liberty.  The cockroach was much too fast for her.  It scampered up her arm and nestled in the folds of her neck, tickling her and making her laugh.

“He looks just like a Rolls Royce,” said Mitsy Walton.  “Poor people always have the most fun, don’t they?  God really does love them best.”

“Yes Mitsy,” I said, leading her to a thrall dressed as a public school teacher.  The public school teacher looked at the cockroach darting in and out of Mitsy Walton’s neck folds and gave me an “Are you a fucking kidding me?” look. 

I gave her my “stone face” until she broke eye contact.  The thrall went to work on Mitsy, parting her labia and lip-locking her clit with stoic concentration.

“Mind the Rolls Royce!” cackled Mitsy.  “I don’t want any scratches!”

Everyone said it was the best Halloween sex party ever.  Later, some guests even asked me where I bought the roaches.

“There is a financial solution for every emotional problem,” I told them, winking and quoting my Freedom Leader.


Anonymous said...

i was afraid this story would not live up to the promise of it's opening paragraph, but it in fact exceeded it.

Anonymous said...

Dude, what's up? Your last three or four stories have felt like somebody doing a bad parody of your style. Instead of being off-beat and disturbing in a sophisticated way, it's like you went for the weirdest, grossest shock value thing you could think of. Muppet sex bots! Cockroach sex toys! Giant meatbag cocks! (I couldn't actually get through that story, I skipped to the last paragraph, so I have to admit I'm not sure what's up with that.)

I don't want to be discouraging, man, you have one of my favorite blogs and I'm upset and confused that you haven't been approached by a publisher yet, but this isn't your best stuff. By far.

Anonymous said...

dont worry about the haters, they are bots. i am a genuine reader and i want to have sex with you.

Anonymous said...

you are one of a kind