Sex Objects

About 30 years ago, I was in university. Times were very different, back then. For example, it was possible to write a porn story and sell it to a “men’s magazine” for around $250. I was working on an English / Creative Writing degree and living in student residence. Most of my fellow students were very serious. They all wanted to write profound literature. I wanted to get paid.

I wrote several porn stories and sold them to The Score Group. They were surprisingly supportive editors. More than once, they gave me meaningful feedback on stories. Occasionally, they read a draft and asked me to submit a rewrite. When they published my stuff, they sent me a free copy of the magazine. They were more respectful and supportive of my work than most literary magazines.

Enjoying this weird success, I wrote the following satirical erotic story. When I submitted it to The Score Group, they politely passed on it. I wasn’t surprised.

I had a blog. We all had blogs back then. I posted the story online. It has since grown legs and occasionally shows up in weird corners of the web. On one particular website I used to play on, I was known as “the guy who wrote that toaster story.”

And yes, what you’re about to read is that toaster story. It is “erotic.” By which I mean, “pornographic.” If you can’t handle dirty words and weird sex, stop reading.

Without further ado…

A very sexy toaster.

Sex Objects

My toaster went crazy one Sunday morning. I was sitting at the breakfast table in my bachelor apartment, drinking a cup of caffeinated orange juice and eating a bowl of Plankton Flakes. It was around ten AM and I was just trying to relax, reading the newspaper. According to the front page, the colony on Mars had discovered intelligent crustaceans who tasted like chicken and lobster rolled into one. The Mars colonists promptly went on strike. They refused to mine the planet any further until earth shipped them massive quantities of garlic butter.

“Power to the people,” I snorted in disgust, and flipped to the crossword.

I was trying to think of an eight-letter word for ‘typical’, when something under the table brushed against my foot. Peering down, I saw my toaster. It had been a birthday gift from my mother: a pink box with blue eyes, six stumpy…