Apocalyptoromance

Preface: The year is 2012, and the world has fallen into an apocalyptic nuclear war. The world's nuclear arsenal has wiped out every human on earth, except for one man...Marcus. Marcus suffers from an underdeveloped left arm, and is a scientist.

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Marcus had been lying still in his cot for nearly twenty hours straight. Sleeping was impossible due to the constant flickering of his now dwindling light sources. He knew the gasoline was low, and the last two generators would give out soon. He figured he'd get at least another hour of light before he had to make the choice. The only choice he had left.

Marcus' life work was creating an apparatus capable of sending one person back in time. 24 years, two marriages, and every living soul on the planet would be the cost of this work. The epic war that battled for his untested time machine had left Marcus alone now, deep in his underground laboratory. He had only himself.

"What do I choose!?" His scream echoed for miles through the empty and chilly corridors. If it wasn't enough that this evil machine had caused so many countless deaths, it would now force Marcus to decide his own fate. Two options, and suicide wasn't one of them. There was only 1 gallon of fuel left for one of the generators, which was enough for 12 minutes of power. 12 minutes. This is exactly how much time it would take to run the time machine for one trip back into time, or it would provide Marcus with 12 more minutes of light to masturbate.

The dilemma was unbearable. On the one hand, Marcus might be able to travel back in time to save humanity, and on the other he could give himself one last pleasurable experience before accepting the end of existance.

The time machine was designed as a two person operation. One person would flip the switch, while the other would be transported through time. Marcus knew that if he flipped the switch himself, he would be instantly transported back in time to an unknown time and place, but his hand would be left in the future still attached to the switch. The chance that he would be sent back in time, to a place where he could not save himself and the world, was only worsened by the fact that when he arrived he'd have no good hand to masturbate with.

The last flicker of light fizzled to darkness. Marcus knew what he had to do. He couldn't afford not to take the chance. He owed the world. He decided he would send himself back in time, and if he could, he'd end his own life before his research into time travel even began.

The last gallon of fuel was poured into the generator. Marcus removed every input, except for the machine's. He felt the pressure build in his chest as he maneuvered into the transport silo. He shut his eyes and spent his last moments remembering all his joyful masturbation in the last few days, and then with a flick of his wrist, FLASH!

Marcus slowly opened his eyes and found a horror he hadn't even imagined. He had traveled back to the moment where he decided to use the time machine! He called out in horror to his past self, "WAIT! Don't pull the switch!"

"If you do that, you'll only travel back to this moment!"

Marcus and his past self, speechless at the discovery, knew that no matter how many times it was repeated, time travel now would be an infinity of this very moment. Nothing could be done. Nothing will ever be done to change this.

"Well, what do we do with the last bit of fuel we have left then?", they simultaneously asked each other. Marcus wanted to masturbate, but he was now missing his good hand. Past Marcus proposed he would 'assist' and masturbate them both. After a few minutes of debate, they decided that it wouldn't be gay because, future or past, both of them were the same person. So, it would only be masturbation.

And just as Marcus began to touch Marcus, a Hawking black hole opened up in Marcus' penis. "Oh no! Two separate entities of matter cannot occupy the same space, and we've now opened a black ho..." Before he could finish his last word, the solar system was swallowed up by the black hole. 200 years later, Marcus gave birth to a pineapple. It hurt.

Steven loves Rebecca

Steven was usually wrong, but it never let him stop trying to explain the unexplainable. This time, however, he had a real doozie on his hands. He was struggling to explain to his girlfriend, Rebecca, the difference between yellow and pink lemonades.

"You see, pink lemonade is pink because the lemons used have had very limited UV exposure. The farmers apply spf 45 sun lotion to them on Mondays in June."

Rebecca wasn't buying his bullshit this time. They argued for 4 days without sleep or food. They drank only pink lemonade. After the fourth day, they agreed the only way to solve the argument was to travel to the lemonade factory in the next town and ask the lead lemon squeezer. So, off they went.

Steven was too cheap to spring for a taxi, and Rebecca couldn't afford a car due to her massive gambling debts she incurred betting at the hermit crab race track in Myrtle Beach, SC. They had to walk the whole way, except for the 400 yards where the sidewalks had been replaced by rolling tramways in front of the factory. The two were glad to get to the factory, as they were tired from arguing about lemonade and walking a long way (except for the part where they rode the rolling tramway just then).

Just as Steven was about to knock on the factory's front door, robber bandits jumped out from behind the hedgework. "Give us your keys to your car!", they shouted.

"We don't have a car. We used the rolling tramway!", proclaimed Rebecca.

"Damn, everyone is using that thing these days! Well, were going to kidnap your boyfriend and hold him hostage until our demands are met. We're taking him to our secret hideout."

Poof! They disappeared. One of the robber bandits must have had a smoke bomb or something. Rebecca was not sure what to do. The only person that she thought could help her was the wizard.

Rebecca found a car that was unattended by the factory hedgework, and she drove it straight to the wizard's house. She ran straight into the wizard's house without even knocking, which was really rude (but given the circumstances, it was the last thing on her mind). She entered the living room to find the wizard watching Baywatch and eating a bowl of Sour Patch Kids while sitting in his favorite chair.

The wizard's chair was a warm and delightfully worn-in merlot colored leather wingback chair. It was the kind of sitting piece found in many a dignitary's library. The winged back spread wide at the top, and dove inwards near its sultry hips. The low glow of the tv reflected the age of the supple leather at each button and stitch. The armrests held a stained aroma of pipe tobacco smoke, but only so slightly that the smell was never overbearing. This chair was caring. This chair was home.

After noticing the chair, Rebecca noticed this wasn't actually the wizard, but it was actually his brother Robert. Robert was wearing a snuggie, so it was easy to see how Rebecca could be initially confused. "Robert, my boyfriend was taken by robber bandits to their secret hideout! Can you help me?"

"Well I would, but I have plans later to make love to this chair I'm sitting in. You're going to have to handle this without me."

"Where do I even begin?"

"Well I heard that the robber bandits have made the lemonade factory their secret hideout, because it was convenient for this story!", exclaimed Robert.

Rebecca raced back to the lemonade factory and rescued her boyfriend. Then they had sweet sweet doing it for 2 hours with no foreplay. The end.

Sneeze Alley

The car reeked of cigarettes. It couldn’t have been more than ten minutes from their last group smoke break, but it never fails. One of them will light one up, and then the others won’t give it a moment’s hesitation. Courtesy is never a gatekeeper, but I don’t piss too much of a fit. We’re on the way to our Friday customary Mexican lunch outing.

Mike’s driving like a prick. We all drive like pricks. “Why do I always have to drive? Man, somebody better be buying my fucking lunch.”

He puts on a big stink about it, but he really doesn’t mind. And I’m sure as fuck not buying him lunch over it either.

We’re going to El Rodeo, a common-scene Mexican restaurant that is mildly authentic and equally appetizing. The appeal is in the prices and proximity to our college. I say “our college”, but the truth is we’ve been graduates for a couple months now.

We don’t feel it yet. Life that is. It’s just around the corner. Jobs, cars, bills, deadlines, plasma TV’s, subscriptions, prescriptions, returned inhibitions, and matching furniture.
But for now, its just three burritos, a quesadilla, six beef tacos, four baskets of chips, an enchilada, and something called a chile relleno. I didn’t want to think too much about anything beyond the food. We sit Mike, Chris, and I on one side; the Jims on the other. The usual banter:

“Oh fuck I’m stuffed. I’m gonna have to shit so bad later.”

“Yah. Like a doo-doo play-doh factory. Haha”

Their lunch conversations are always a cultural experience, but I’m no better. “Whoa, hey guys. Look at the two by the door.”

Two younger girls, probably freshmen, had just walked in as Jim paused his ‘food and poo’ correlation conversation. “Damnit Sam. How do you always see them first?”

“I know right. He’s got like a puss radar…or a T&A-Dar.” No, it wasn’t radar. I don’t know what it is with me though. I’m single now, and it seems like a primal instinct has kicked in. I could judge whether a potential mate was sexually acceptable from fifty yards. I can see if her outfit screams, “I went through six outfits before choosing this purposefully casual little cotton pajama number, not because it makes me look hurried, but because I know you’ll like the slogan printed on my ass.” or “My shirt may be excentuating my ta-tas, but don’t forget to take notice of the necklace my boyfriend got me.” A combination of good sight and better observational skills. Puss radar? No. Sexual sniper? Maybe, but it’s not like I don’t maintain a level of sensitivity in the matter.

Take the freshmen girls for example, who are now seated two tables over, one blonde and one curly-haired redhead. After guiltlessly assessing their assets, I immediately put myself in their shoes. Is it pleasurable or revolting having a table of guys, in their twenty-somethings, visually grading every aspect of your persons visible to the naked eye? Judging your hair color, facial geometry, shoulder muscularity, evidence of hanging skin at the elbows, the faint existence of peach fuzz at the base of your upper lip.

I’m sure the answer to that is a matter of the reversal. They, of course, will notice our cleverly candid glances, and in turn will decide if they approve or not based on how they grade our observables. They play the same “who would I fuck in this room if it was the end of the world” game as all guys. Females do differ slightly, in that while they will approach most situations with a more qualitatively emotional value than males, they are always more calculating and formulaic in this mating game.

These two will first notice they are outnumbered and that alone can make the stare-down a discerning event. After quickly assessing our appearance, they’ll get straight to business – guessing age, occupation, financial status, personalities, the way we handle ourselves publicly vs. privately, and even make a quick assumption on whether we’re the type of guys looking for something complicated or not…and they’ll do all that while staring at the fucking menu. It’s amazing on how many parallel levels a woman’s mind is working. Hell, even the dumbest Barbie-doll blonde carrying her little shit stain of a dog in her Doonie & Burke can process a whole season of reality TV while battling the ‘magical voo-doo’ of calculating a twenty percent tip for a $6.79 burrito combo, and she’ll even have the left over mental capacity to remember she is out of apple cinnamon cereal bars for tomorrow.

I’m so damn sensitive.

After spending a few seconds to stare at the girls again, we take last sips of our sodas, get up, and pay at the register. “What’s everyone doing today?” Chris gets four “I don’t know” replies. We still weren’t thinking beyond our noses, except for Jim, who I knew damn well is still excited about the big turd he is going to pass as soon as his ass hits porcelain.

I really just wanted to go home and wash my car, but sure enough, “We could go bowling, or go to Chris’ house and get drunk?”, is what I blurt out.

“Hmm. I’d do bowling. There’s beer there right?”

“I’m fine with that.” “Me too.”

“Fine, but I’m hitting the shitter as soon as we get there!”

Damn it. Now I’d have to wash the car on Sunday, because I already promised to help Tim with his ‘mystery’ video project tomorrow. I should have let them think of nothing for an hour and then made Mike take me back to my apartment.

The bowling alley is only a block down the street from the Mexican restaurant, and by default only another block away from the college; so I was hoping I’d at least get to stare at some college girls that happened to be taking a bowling class. Sure enough, at least ten girls in goofy pajama outfits were bowling in a class, lazily getting their required PE credit.

“Five bucks, Sam.” “Hey! Five bucks man!”

I wasn’t even paying attention. The guys had already paid up for their bowling shoes, and I was still eye-balling the group of young co-ed’s that were laughing, giggling, and bouncing every time they knocked over a pin. I snapped out of it, and paid the guy behind the counter his five dollars, grabbed the shoes, and headed to our lane.

We had to score our own games on paper at this alley, so naturally Chris was pissed that he didn’t get to put a clever nickname for himself up on a computer screen. He was saying something to that effect, and I fell into my girl staring trance again. I don’t know whether it was the fact that I was single for the first time in 2 years, but all I could think of was wanting to wear one of those girls like a ski mask. I wanted to hop on the Magic School Bus, be shrunken down, and go bus driving through a tiny college aged vagina. I don’t think I really ever snapped out of that trance, but I still found time to down eight beers and finish most of two games of bowling without the guys noticing too much.

We were going to play at least two more games, but the bowling class was finishing up and I was bummed that my mind would have to get off the magic bus and return to the, now drunken, sausage party. Most of the girls seemed glad to get the fuck out of the bowling alley and get on with their day, but two of the girls in the class hadn’t taken off their bowling shoes yet. In fact, they were heading up to the bar to order beers, or maybe a pretzel or something.

“Anybody need a beer?” – I figured I should make a strategic trip to the bar. Each of the guys yelled something about beers as I made it up the stairs to the back bar. I stopped half way up and stretched my left leg wide to the left; briefly. My balls were stuck to my thigh. After reorganizing myself, I finished climbing the stairs and got my first close up glance of the girls.

Just looking at the first girl was like walking through the grocery store when you are starving. Everything looked good. She must have been wearing space pants, because her butt was out of this world. She also must have been wearing space boots, because she was one giant step for ‘Sam-kind’. She was also wearing a space sweater, because she had big tits. I think she had space hair, space legs, and space camel toe too. I didn’t really pay attention to her face, but I bet it was nice. Oh… and her friend was alright.

“Hey, can you girls help my friends, and I, out? See, we have an odd number of players and need to make fair teams for our next games.”

Space girl was all like, “But there’s two of us and that would still make odd teams right?”
Damn. I forgot about the crutch of a girl she was with. “Well, I figured you and I could take a break from bowling and chat a bit over some beers.” My math skills suck, but thank God, ‘space girl’ was just as lost.

“Ok. I’m Sarah, and I’ll have a Corona.”

“Hello Sarah, I’m Sam, and you’ll have three or four.”

Thank god her friend had pouted and stomped off to go bowl some more, or I would have had to buy her a beer too. Sarah and I sat at the bar for an hour exchanging pleasantries and getting sloshed. She talked a bunch about her classes and her life plans or something, and I made sure to stay focused on her nose and nod every few seconds to affirm her. I’d make a few jokes, and she’d laugh.

She had a great laugh, and every time she finished a laugh, she’d lick her upper lip and take another swig of Corona. I must have been getting turned on to notice something like that. At the end of an hour, she must have been getting turned on too, because she was now touching my knee every time she agreed with whatever point I was making; and each touch was lasting just a bit longer than the last. This ebb and flow continued just enough longer for us to reach that point where we were drunk and horny and knew the other person was too. But, what to do? We were in a bowling alley and neither one of us could drive us anywhere.

Sarah was braver than I. She grabbed my wrist and said, “Come on. We need a bathroom break.” We stood up, and instantly I realized just how piss drunk I had gotten. I must have blacked out the walk to the bathroom, as well as whatever event occurred in the bathroom that caused us to end up in some sort of storage closet for bowling shoes, but there we were. We were like two giant squids, trying to swallow each other. We violently and squirmingly kissed each other as our bodies collided with each other’s and the shelf of shoes on each of the narrow walls in the closet. I continued to black in and out due to drunkenness, but at each return to consciousness, I saw Sarah with one less piece of clothing. I was beginning to miss a few pieces of my own too.

Time was flying, or at least it felt so. It was a whirlwind until her bra came off and then BAM! Slow motion set in as two of the most wonderful and perky bosoms fell from their supported positions to their natural pedestals of glory. There was only one problem that continued to grow more eminent as she then removed her bottoms. I was piss drunk and an erection was going to take a miracle of sobriety. I knew what she wanted, but if I was going to deliver, I’d need to keep my mind off the whiskey dick situation and buy some time. I figured I’d go down on her for a bit, and she was very responsive.

It was wonderful, and she thought so too as she keeled back against one of the shelves and knocked down three levels of shoes to the floor. I had my eyes closed as a general rule for muff diving, but I can only assume it was the disheveled shoes that caused this next part. Dust had been stirred up, and now I felt a sneeze coming on very quickly. I needed to pull back, but just as I started to, Sarah moaned and shoved me back in position. It was like a parallel climax. She began to moan deeper, and my sneeze tickle had moved all the way from the back of my sinus to the tip of my nostrils. We both took deep breaths. She began to rattle her hips and I, still forced against her crotch, let out the messiest sneeze I’ve ever had. It was like blowing fake mouth farts against a pile of warm deli meats, and while I thought it was a very strange sensation against my face, I can only imagine what it felt like to Sarah to have a guy inflate her cervix with a sneeze just before having an orgasm.

If there was any hope in my soul that she was kinky enough to have enjoyed that, it was quickly squashed as she simultaneously shrieked and queefed out the sneeze air from her cervix. It was the funniest fucking thing to ever witness. My drunkenness immediately switched to a humor induced sobriety, and I mildly dressed myself as I cackled feverishly in that shoe closet. I don’t even fucking remember what she did as I was laughing so hard. I put most of my clothes on and left the room.

I walked down the hallway that led back to the alley, walked over to the lane where my buddies and Sarah’s friend were angrily waiting for some sign as to where we were. I grabbed my shoes and keys and said, “Guys, I’m leaving. I’ll meet you at the car.”