Heather Brown - Juicy piece

The reflection of Madame Fellatio of Honey Pot magazine (Do-you-need-advice-on-your-sex-life? Are-you-horny? Got-something-kinky-you-want-to-share? Write-to-Madame-Fellatio-and-she-will-help-you) stared at me from the electric coffee pot as I sat at my desk. The shiny metal cylinder beamed Madame Fellatio's perplexed facial expression. I looked at it for almost five minutes before I noticed how severely the anxiety showed on her face.

The lines creasing her face concerned me. A young woman only 25 years old shouldn't carry such an obvious burden in the expression on her face. The problems of her job were glaringly obvious in the troubled mask she wore. The frustration was building day by day, and her normally pretty face was marred by the lines more and more frequently.

Looking at her reflection in the coffee pot, I wondered how long it would take for the lines to become permanent, indelible souvenirs of the frustration of the job, the awesome responsibility of being Madame Fellatio.

Increasingly, when my brain came to a deadening halt and I couldn't coax a word out of my typewriter, I sat and stared at Madame Fellatio's troubled face. I would become so mesmerized with the daily evidence of the frustration of her occupation that her identity seemed to be totally her own, as if she were not a creation of Melville Shark, the money-grubbing publisher and editor of Honey Pot magazine, but a kind of patron saint for all the people in the world who were hung up on sex, her existence fueled by the sex problems of others, a freaky legion who depended on her to ease their guilt and shame.

"Hey, Madame Fellatio," I could hear Shark's crass voice slithering the way it did over my shoulder, the voice I imagined a snake would have if one could talk. "Time to get cracking. We've got a deadline to meet."

I looked at her face for a reaction to Shark's command, but it remained frozen in the shiny metal of the coffee pot, failing to respond to his call for action. I wondered how long she could ignore Shark, who was notorious for his losses of temper and sharp tongue whenever things didn't go his way.

Although my back was to Shark, I knew his face was turning red and the spit was bubbling around the corners of the thin slit of his mouth as he got ready to cut loose with a sarcastic stream of abuse. My eyes remained trained on the reflection of Madame Fellatio, fascinated by what her reaction to Shark would ultimately be. I wondered how long she could take it – the letters, the job, the deadlines, Shark screaming at her.

"You dumb cunt!" he exploded from somewhere behind me. "I can put you back in the unemployment line where I found you!"

Her face showed nothing as he raged. It was only when her reflection was joined by his purple face in the cylindrical mirror of the coffee pot that she showed any reaction. She looked as though she had just smelled something bad.

I could have gone on watching the drama unfolding on the silver screen of the coffee pot indefinitely, I suppose, reacting to it as though I were sitting out in the audience, unseen by either of the players. However, Shark did not permit that to happen, and brought me to my senses by screaming my name.

"MI right, I'm warning you, Eugenia," he bellowed, "unless you've got that column on my desk by 3:00, then you're out on your ass! There was a Madame Fellatio before I hired you, and there're plenty more living on tuna fish sandwiches who'd do anything for a weekly paychecks."

As I heard his footsteps clatter out of the room, the mask of Madame Fellatio dissolved, and for the first time I saw myself, Eugenia Saunders, looking at me from the coffee pot. I realized that I had been watching myself again – spying on myself like I was two separate people – instead of doing my work.

That was the strangest part of it. I would forget Madame Fellatio was actually me. That for eight hours a day, five days a week, I was paid over $200 to sit in front of a typewriter and answer letters from the sex-starved readers of Honey Pot magazine concerning every type of sexual hang-up and activity conceivable. As I sat there and looked at the troubled reflection that belonged to both of us, it didn't seem possible that Madame Fellatio and I were the same person. It didn't seem possible that my brain could send the messages to my fingers to press down the correct keys on the typewriter to create the answers the people who wrote the letters wanted to read. I couldn't believe they were writing those letters to me. And I couldn't believe I was answering them.

Although the deadline was less than an hour away, I was still working on the answer to the first letter I had opened today. I had gotten as far as: "Any type of sexual activity is healthy as long as both parties agree to it…" But I found it impossible to continue. The letters were no longer funny. I could not go on finding the same joke funny thirty times a day for months on end. And on most days I received more than thirty letters, all of them alike, all of them pleading for understanding, all of them begging for answers.

On my desk were piled those I had received this morning, all of them unopened except the one I had been drearily puzzling over all day. I picked another one up and opened it, reading it to search for some inspiration, hoping that this letter would be the exception to the rule and inspire me to write a decent enough column to temporarily get Shark off my back.

"Dear Madame Fellatio: I have something on my mind that I've been wondering about and I thought maybe you could tell me whether I've got anything to worry about or not. I'm not supposed to be trading your magazine because it says on the cover in small print just under the price that it's not supposed to be sold to minors, but I go to a drugstore out of my neighborhood where they don't know me and pass as eighteen. I hope this doesn't disqualify me from getting my letter answered."

"I've been doing something that always makes me feel real good, but so far nobody knows about it except me. Although it makes me feel real good, some little voice in the back of my mind tells me sometimes that if my mom or dad or and other adults found out about it, I'd get into trouble. So I guess the only thing I can do is tell you about it and wait for your answer."

"I suppose when I see their panties, I should just keep right on going instead of thinking about their pussies, but my dick won't let me. My balls suddenly seem like they're on fire, and my cock gets so stiff it practically rips my pants. All of a sudden all I can think of is getting one of those girls off by myself so I can pull off her panties and rub my prick against her cunt. I imagine filling her tiny mouth with my cock, jamming it down her throat so far that she can't scream while my fingers press between her legs and massage her cunt."

"It's always easy to get one of the girls to come with me."

"Once I get her alone and pull out my long stiff cock the girl always stays. She's fascinated by my cock and balls and always wants to touch it. Nobody can tell me they don't like it when they're that age. Innocent, hah! They love to feel my cock, and in no time at all have forgotten all about their candy bar and want to taste my sweet prick instead. When I'm with a girl, I love the way my hard cock slides into her sucking mouth, the way her tongue laps at my prick like it was an all-day sucker while my hands are busily pulling her panties down under her dress. I've done this so many times that I know exactly what to do, exactly how to turn her on good, and while she's sucking my prick, my fingers almost immediately find the almost microscopic nubbin of her tiny clit. But it isn't long before I've teased it into maturity, massaging and rubbing her bare pussy until it's inflamed with hot blood and engorged with sticky juice as gooey as maple syrup on the flapjacks my mom makes me every morning."