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Hightower's Antics
Horace
P. Hightower details the manner in which he compensates
for the boredom of his employment at a staid New York City law
firm; both within the hallowed halls of the firm and outside,
he's always athirst for a novel adventure. He's fond of persuading
married females to indulge in fly-by-night flings, having sex
in public places, and playing pranks.
Episodes:
1)
Sextasy in the Cathedral (I)
"At
length I found myself facing a life-sized marble statue of an
attractive female Saint: she was on her back on the ground, arms
and legs flung out at her sides, wavy hair streaming in every
direction; her head was tossed back, her eyes were half closed,
an expression of rapture suffused her face. The beauty of her
face, slender symmetry of her body, commenced to have an effect
on me..."
2)
Sextasy in the Cathedral (II)
"I
shoved myself harder against her and her body eagerly returned
the pressure, insistently quivered; a rapid series of deep sigh-like
breaths continued to pass in and out of her mouth; her sable coat
-- as if by magic -- slid backwards, revealing the full length
of her left thigh; in another moment I was kneading its soft nakedness
(she wasn't wearing stockings) with both hands and her coat was
flung over all, a concealing veil."
3)
Kinky Kicks on Company Time (I)
"Where
have I not had sex at the firm? and what sexual practices have
I failed to indulge in at the firm? and when have I not been able
to laugh at conceited disciplinary idiots at the firm, on account
of all the fun I was having in the immediate vicinity? That incomparably
cute full-figured Catholic girl first comes to mind -- so sexily
clothed in a conservative manner -- cashmere turtleneck sweaters,
pleated skirts of a respectable length, everything stylish but
simple..."
4)
Kinky Kicks on Company Time (II)
"Yes,
a steady buildup of anticipation -- impatient desire -- followed
by the consummation of it! The inner dips and rolls, awashings
of the soul! The Catholic lovely and I became connoisseurs of
the difference between hunger and the surrender to it; we invented
a diversion, which we labeled "The Sharp Contrast Game." The idea
was to intentionally immerse ourselves in some mind-numbing idiotic
preoccupation and then steal off for a reward in each other's
arms: we never tired of savoring the changeover from tedium to
titillation."
5)
Kinky
Kicks on Company Time (III),
or Cubicles and the Cutsie Club
"Listen:
in any workplace there are unhappy, depressed, stupid people whose
only pleasure in life is killing the happiness of others, and
seeking to have things run according to the dictates of their
dismal personalities; so you've got to -- I repeat, got to! --
counterbalance their unhealthy influence by having sex under their
noses at work as much as possible!"
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Bio:
Horace relates an anecdote from his college days:
"Finally, in my junior year of college -- having fulfilled
the annoying two-year obligation of residing in a dormitory --
I was able to move off-campus, into a building famous for the
funloving disposition of its inhabitants. Nor did it hurt that
the superintendent was an attractive thirtyish woman who enjoyed
availing herself of the willingness of male students to show her
a good time, and gratefully turned a blind eye to student shennanigans.
There always seems to be a killjoy in the mix, however, and my
new building was no exception.
"Three doors down from me resided a short, prematurely balding,
already pot-bellied, thick-spectacled lout who disliked just about
everyone on sight, and ceaselessly complained and threatened,
and occasionally summoned the police. He walked in a hunched over
monkey like manner and was incapable of passing anyone in the
hall without darting them a hostile glance. One afternoon a girl
-- sweet-tempered, in the second semester of her freshman year
-- was playing music in her apartment, and the lout stormed into
the hall, screamed, 'I've had it!,' and began pounding on her
door with a hammer. Her next door neighbors -- two Brazilians
on the soccer team -- came into the hall, sarcastically asked
him if picking on a girl made him feel like a man, and offered
themselves as someone to pick on instead. The lout had yelled,
'You're all sick!,' stomped back to his apartment, and slammed
the door. On another occasion he barged straight into the apartment
of the two girls who lived above him just as they were leaving
for class, and raced to their bathroom. When they caught up with
him he was on his hands and knees examining the base of their
bathtub, shouting that he was fed up with the fact they never
used a shower curtain, and were constantly flooding his apartment.
When they truthfully stated they never failed to use the shower
curtain (which, after all, was there in full view), he called
them irresponsible lying sluts and said he wasn't fooled by the
fact they'd mopped up their floor to conceal the evidence (another
'fact' that was a concoction of his imagination). Only when they
threatened to call the police did he finally leave, albeit while
yelling additional insults.
"By
the second semester our patience was exhausted: we were students,
after all -- for the most part barely emerged from our teens --
and we were going to play music at all hours as loud as we pleased;
and we were going to use the whole building as the boundary in
endless games of tag and water-balloon and firecracker wars; and
we were going to have weekend parties in which the doors of several
apartments were left open in welcome with kegs in each; and we
were going to ride the mini-bike up and down the halls and play
soccer in the halls; and we were going to purchase cheap electric
guitars, play them badly at volumes loud enough to make the whole
building shake; yes, we were going to do all of these things despite
this clown who stubbornly refused to move to a building more suited
to his preferences.
"One
Friday the lout heatedly announced to a couple people in the hall
that he was going away until Sunday night to take a break from
us 'animals,' and stormed out the front door with a pack strapped
to his back. Later that night three of us were joking about doing
something unpleasant to his apartment; before long, we decided
it would be disgraceful not to replace joking with action. The
unpleasant something we decided upon was the following: Saturday
morning we obtained a bucket of blood and mashed entrails from
a butcher across town, lined a large cereal box with a plastic
bag, and poured a portion of the bucket's contents into the box.
Then we pressed the sides of the top of the cereal box together
so that it could be pushed under the open space at the bottom
of his door. Once the top of the cereal box was worked under his
door, we jumped on it, thereby propelling its contents into the
interior of his apartment. We repeated this process until the
bucket of blood and entrails was empty, taking care to angle the
box in a different direction each time and splash as much of his
apartment as possible.
"By
Sunday afternoon, it being warm spring weather, the lout's apartment
was reeking of rotten meat. That evening, we placed a few strips
of yellow Police Line: Do Not Cross tape over his door
and also attached a sign that read, Homicide Scene: Keep Out
and awaited his return in my apartment. Naturally, the lout didn't
believe the tape and sign were real and instantly tore them down.
But when he opened his door and perceived the bloody mess within,
as well as whiffed the stench, he became utterly unglued. Nonsensical
wailings, verging on out-and-out terror, were heard. He exited
the building, but wasn't gone for long. When he returned he was
screaming -- always to an empty hall, with no one venturing outside
their apartments -- that he'd called the police and they'd disclaimed
all knowledge of the matter and had not put up the tape; that
he knew he was the victim of vandalism; that the police were on
their way to make a report. Nothing, of course, was ever proved.
"Suffice
to say the killjoy finally realized he was unsuited for life in
our building, and that we were rid of him by the following Wednesday.
A celebration was held on Friday -- our first and only toga party,
billed as The Balls Out Bacchanalia of the Century, replete
with flowers and cuttings of ivy taped up and down the hallway
walls, chariot races (dollies with girls astride, towed by guys
with ropes wrapped about their waists), wild animal hunts (baggies
of water-soluble red dye flung at guys in gorilla suits), a Miss
Rome pageant (the catwalk a row of tables placed side by side),
champagne in place of beer, Orgy Here! signs above the
entryway of every room, a hacking-to-pieces in effigy of a reproduction
of the departed lout (a large sheet stuffed with straw savagely
beaten with pool cues), and -- lastly -- Roman candles discharged
up and down the hallways."
Hightower
now resides in New York; his favorite activity is "forgetting
what day it is by whatever means available."
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