Archive of Our Own

“Next round’s on me.”

This announcement came from the seat directly to Spamton’s left. The Addisons, crowded around a half-circle booth, cheered and tipped their glasses back.

“What’s the occasion?” someone asked. It was hard for Spamton to tell who in the low neon lights of the bar-slash-grill. His vision wasn’t great. Everyone’s faces seemed backlit no matter what angle they were at. There was new-age club music vibrating every drink on the table and all the thoughts in his head with every relentless bass thump.

“Big, big order from the bougies. They want new dress shoes for the waitstaff.”

“The whole staff?”

“You heard me,” he replied, flicking up two blue fingers in salutation to get the waitress’s attention, and then five to signal the number of drinks.

It was customary to take turns buying rounds on Saturday nights at the end of a successful week. Granted, Spamton never had the funds to participate, and as such was left out—which was fine, if only a little awkward when the waitress reached directly over his head to set glasses down for the others.

Two voices, from across the table: “Well, congrats. So glad your love of feet is finally paying off.” “Here’s to my good friend, foot guy!” A toast ensued.

“Shut up,” said foot guy, grinning, elbowing one of the others.

Spamton had already known about this, but to the others, it was news. They were ribbing him, but the celebration was real. A great sale was a great sale. 

The Addisons had gotten together as a group to set up shop in Cyber City at the turn of the century. Word was that big things were happening in advertising: the Internet was going mainstream, e-commerce was largely unregulated, there were things you could try here that you couldn’t get away with anywhere else. Blue was in shoemaking, Orange was running a clothes boutique, Yellow had an electronics outlet, and there were two Pink Addisons—a baker and a jeweler—who were largely indistinguishable from each other.

And then there was Spamton, a used car salesman. He’d borrowed against himself to purchase the bankrupt dealership and been handed the keys with nothing but a muttered “Good luck” by its previous manager on their way out. The shopkeeper’s bell on the door had rung out then, harkening in a new chapter of Spamton’s life, full of potential and promises.

All of which crashed into the floor and then sank through it harder than his minidisc stocks a few years back. He had never once gotten out of the red. He had had so many customers walk off the lot with nothing. He couldn’t land a decent promotional deal to save his life.

At these weekly gatherings of theirs, it felt like someone always had something positive to report save for him. He had run his mouth for a while in the past, claiming imminent success and profits just around the corner, if not to fool the others, then at least to fool himself. Ultimately, it was money that talked, not whatever came out of his big mouth, and so he had considerably less to say these days.

But things were changing.

“How about you, short stack?”

Spamton jumped. One of the pink twin brothers was looking down his nose at him, literally, bemused.

This was the first he’d been addressed since they sat down that evening. He had sort of assumed at this point that he’d merged with the garish wallpaper and become invisible. Now several pairs of leering, half-lidded eyes were glancing downward his way.

He had to respond, and fast.

“Actually–“ He cleared his throat. He had to remember to project. But also be casual. But also be confident. “Actually, fellas, I got my first billboard.”

Silence. The beginning of a snort, as though unsure if there was a joke somewhere.

“You know the Yellow Pages ad doesn’t count, right? I know it probably looks big to you, but…”

A few laughed at that. Spamton felt his face heat up. He’d cut out his own advertisement from the directory and framed it in his office, proud of his first half-page spread he’d made and paid for himself.

“I’m [100% guaranteed] serious! It’s over on the east end, two blocks off Main,” Spamton insisted, trying very hard to keep his voice personable and clear.

The specificity of this claim seemed to cause a few eyebrows to raise. The Pink one—who Spamton now saw was the jeweler, as he laid two ringed hands palms down on the table to raise himself—said, “Alright, show me.”

Spamton paused. “Now?”

“No, next Tuesday. Yes, now,” he replied, dusting himself off, then dusting his brother off, too. They all got up then, with a string of “This I gotta see,” “He’s screwing with us,” and “I’ll get the tab.”

This was a lot of attention. Spamton hopped down, not quite sticking the landing, and headed straight for the exit. 

They were quite the procession:  One sub-four-foot man making a beeline down the sidewalk with what appeared to be a cluster of his matching-outfitted, stretched-out shadows stumbling in formation behind him. For every two steps of his, they took one. They got off of the busier streets where the roar of passing vehicles reduced to a hum, and then a bit further, and then Spamton stopped. His shadows came one by one to a teetering halt of their own.

“There.”

The Addisons leaned forward, leaned back, a collective of squinting and rubbernecking.

Spamton flinched a little. Apparently, one of the overhead fixture lightbulbs had burned out since he was last over here, and it was making it pretty hard to see. 

“BIG SHOT AUTOS,” it was supposed to read. “BIG SALES! BIG DEALS! BIG BARGAINS!” And then there was a picture of him flashing a thumbs up in a convertible with a blue sky and yellow sun in the backdrop. He’d painted that himself.

Looking at it now, he felt self-conscious. He probably should have made the design higher contrast, and spaced the lettering better, and used a different font, and changed the layout, and…

“Well, look at you, Mr. Big Shot. Whose dick you suck standing up to get that?”

“No one’s,” said Spamton. His comeback game wasn’t great yet. “Just bought it.”

“What’s that, like, circle with lines coming out of it in the background supposed to be?”

“Oh, well, that’s the s–“

“What’s the lease for, like, a day?”

“Six months.”

A low whistle and some muttering.

“All right, all right,” conceded the jeweler. “Well, hey, it’s something. Taking a much-needed step up in the world, huh?” 

A pause, another look at the board, and then he clicked his tongue and turned to the others. 

“Hey, while we’re in the neighborhood, let’s hit… ‘Special-Tea.’” He pronounced his brother’s bakery name in air quotes distastefully. He was simultaneously propping up and being propped up by his drunken brother, like a man leaning against a mirror. “I swear, if you don’t call it something else, I’ll drop you.” 

“You’re just jealous,” his twin replied. Everyone knew he kept the bad name just to piss his brother off.

The Addisons seemed to have moved on entirely, and were already lurching away. They left Spamton in the shadows and with the distinct sense that something was wrong with him.

The Addisons had their own billboards, signs, and posters. It wasn’t like this was unusual or a big deal to anyone except him. He just sort of thought, maybe, they would…

He didn’t even know what he expected. Clearly he’d set his expectations too high, though, despite knowing better.

He began taking the backstreets to his dealership. Even with the pitch black pockets in the alleyways and the halo effect casting a glare around the sparse fluorescent streetlights, he knew his way.

He was feeling conflicted. Granted, this wasn’t some boo-hoo-everyone-is-so-mean-to-me situation. He had worn people’s charity down. He had exhausted a lot of good will. He had gotten absolutely wrecked on two beers (earning him the title Lightweight Champ) and said some choice words a number of times, that number being embarrassingly high. He owed a lot of money and a lot of favors to a lot of people he didn’t remember.

And yet. Something was wrong. He knew it. It was like there was something everyone else was in on that they weren’t telling him. Like there was a joke at his expense that he didn’t get, and no one would explain it to him, nor was anyone even laughing at it anymore. There was something that made you fit in and do well and make friends that he didn’t have.

He fished his keys out and stuck them in the lock of the backdoor. He had to jiggle it a certain way at a certain angle, but it gave eventually. He stepped in and locked it behind him, finally exhaling. 

Home sweet home.

Yes, he was living out of the dealership. Which was socially unacceptable at best, against zoning laws at worst. Fortunately, he had found in the place a large storage closet tucked away behind an inconspicuous wall in one of its hallways. He kept his personal belongings well out of sight and slept in there. This way, he could crawl straight from the computer in his office to his bed and catch a few hours of sleep. No commute. Affordable rent. Convenient location. Cozy, if poorly insulated. 

After acquiring it, he’d taken great pains to spruce the place up in cost effective ways. Appearances are important, after all. Plastic plants, the best stackable chairs you can get for 10 Dark Dollars apiece, and balloons. Lots and lots of balloons. In arches, in bouquets, in the far high corner of the ceiling completely unretrievable for weeks.

Despite being for used cars, the place did have its own little showroom—more like an oversized display case, really, but Spamton had had a grand old time rolling his current favorite vehicle inside to show it off. It was a charming convertible from the ‘80s: boxy front and hood curved around the headlights, small two-seat cab, nothing like the newer sleeker models they were rolling out those days. It reminded him of being younger, and usually it cheered him up. Tonight, it just made him feel secondhand, too.

Spamton was very, very tired. He spaced out for a long moment standing there, listening to the faint buzz of the one light that was on in his office. Everything was out of focus. He was deciding whether to let himself sleep or do more work, which was a decision he lingered on a lot lately.

The phone rang then. Spamton didn’t have to think twice about getting it. It didn’t matter that it was nearing midnight on a Saturday. The phone rings, you answer it. He knew that much. 

He hurried across the lobby and into his office, picking up right before the fourth ring. There was already an obligatory smile plastered haphazardly on his mouth so that his voice would sound “friendly” on the other end.

“Big Shot Autos, the best deals on wheels anywhere in Cyber City, this is Spamton speaking, what can I do for you?” 

“Sounds a bit canned, Spamton.”

The color drained from Spamton’s face. His voice caught. After too long of a pause, he managed to get a few words out.

“Mike! Hey, h-hey, hey! What can I do for you?” He repeated himself, wincing. He shoved the phone into the crook of his head and shoulder. Then, trying to be as quiet as possible, he turned the rotary dial in rapid succession, producing a series of clicks and whirrs before finishing and (accidentally) slamming his fist on his desk.

“You can chill out, for one.”

“Oh, no! I am, I’m good, that is, yeah. Totally cool.” The phone slipped off his shoulder and then nearly out of his hand from how tightly he grabbed it. He barely managed to fumble the mouthpiece within acceptable range for it to pick up his voice. “How are you?” 

“Also,” Mike continued, ignoring the question, “I told you to introduce yourself First, Initial, Last name, didn’t I?”

“Well, yes, I recall,” Spamton wrung his free hand into his slacks, sitting down in his chair, feet not reaching the floor. “It’s just, that, um, you see, people don’t really do that around here, Mike? Everyone’s kind of just… got the one name.” 

“It’ll make you stand out. Trust me, iiit’s…” Spamton could practically hear Mike gesturing, looking for the right phrasing. “Business professional.”

“Really? Is there some sort of—what name should I pick?”

“You think of something. Whatever you want. Okay?”

“Okay! No problem,” through gritted teeth.

“And you’re wearing suits now?”

“Iiiii am, but…” They were awfully difficult to find in his size. He really just had three, and one of them he had given to Orange for tailoring, but then Orange was such a busy guy, and he kept getting more important orders, and every time Spamton brought it up he brushed it off, and now it had been two months, and—

“Keep it up. You ever seen me in anything other than a suit? Ever?”

“No,” Spamton confirmed. Mike always looked immaculate on TV.

“That’s right, and you never will. You never know who you’re gonna run into. Right?”

“Right.” Admittedly, it felt a little weird being told what to wear by an older man he’d never met, but Spamton wasn’t about to think too hard about it. He had to roll his dress shirt cuffs over, and wear his pants high, and nothing fit in the shoulders and everything hung baggy off his small frame, and between this and dying his hair black the Addisons had been having a field day, but he was working on it.

“Anyway. You got the sale yesterday with that one customer, right? They came back?”

Spamton perked up. “Yes!” Then his shoulders slumped. “But, you know, like I told you, that car… the condition…”

“Its condition is ‘sold,’ buddy. That’s the only condition that matters.”

“It’s seriously going to last eight months. A year, at best.”

“And that’s why the warranty is six months. Right?”

“I guess so.”

“Think of things like this. There are things that are your problem. And there are things that are not your problem. And you’ve already got plenty of problems. Right?”

“Right.” That stung a little bit.

“Why add more problems? The car’s gone. Not your problem.”

“If it affects my reputation then it IS my problem… right?”

Mike sighed heavily. He clicked his tongue. There was the sound of a door knocking on his end. “Hold on.”

Spamton heard the tap of the phone being set down as his throat tightened.

Whenever Mike expressed disapproval, Spamton panicked. 

           I said the wrong thing again, he thought.

           I shouldn’t have said that.

           Mike’s going to drop me, he thought.

           Mike’s gonna go with someone else after all.

           Mike hates me. He can’t stand me.

           But we have a deal, he bargained with himself.

           We have a deal. Maybe we aren’t friends. Maybe we aren’t anything. But we have a deal.

What Mike was getting out of it, though, Spamton couldn’t fathom. But Mike had said he could help him. That his luck would turn around if he followed directions. That he’d get famous if he did as he was told.

And so far, it was working. He’d gotten a few cars off the lot now. He’d gotten some cash, which he had to hide or it would go straight to collections. He’d gotten his first billboard.

There was rustling on the line.

“Okay, I’m back. Assistants, you know how it is. Maybe not. Ha.” Mike laughed for the first time, at his own joke. “You will, though.”

Mike seemed to have moved on entirely. Spamton shook his head, trying to clear it. 

“Billboard. You got it, right?”

“Yes,” Spamton nodded, relieved. He could respond in the affirmative again.

“Get three more this month.”

The affirmation had been short-lived. “Th-that’s [Not one, not two, but three!] That’s, that’s a bit…”

“I’m gonna get you a commercial this quarter. Slot kinda depends on the broadcasting guy. We’ll see. You’re about the same size as that Addison who came on the shopping channel the other week, right?”

This was dizzying information. “Just slightly below that,” he lied. He hadn’t really realized up to this point that Mike had never seen him from the bust down. It made sense, though, considering that was his nonnegotiable cutoff point for all of his ads.

“Well, get some insoles, pal, ‘cause you can’t hide forever. I know you’re the email guy, but you gotta be the TV guy sometimes, too. Get your face and your voice in their heads. Speaking of voice. What the hell was that a minute ago?”

Spamton knew exactly what he was referring to. “Sorry. Too much marketing research, I guess…”

This was true, in a sense. He’d been gathering a lot of data on search engine optimization, keyword manipulation, which phrases targeted which demographic, and so on. Stilted speech wasn’t a new feature of his, though. His brain had decided from a young age that borrowing phrasing was easier than coming up with something new when put on the spot. The impulses were always there, and the more wound up he was, the worse it got. It was one of many reasons he preferred the prospect of pushing sales online over in person.

“Is that like a tic?”

“It’s nothing. It’s nothing,” Spamton explained very convincingly.

“Watch that. You’ve gotta keep calm under pressure. Don’t let it get worse.” 

Spamton decided it was a great time change the subject. “I’m–I’m thrilled, Mike, I really am. Over the moon. But, it’s just, three billboards…” he protested weakly.

“You’ll do it. We’re doing something big soon, you and me.”

You and me. “What is it?”

“I’ll tell you, but first, you tell me. The emails. Did you send them?”

Spamton nodded, forgetting Mike couldn’t see. “I did.” He scrambled to turn on his own computer’s monitor, the CRT flickering on to reveal his browser already pulled up.

“Alright. Let me check my… junk folder…” Mike trailed off, evidently clicking around on his own end.

Spamton tilted his head. “Your what?”

“Don’t worry about it. They aren’t a thing yet where you are. I found it. Let’s see what you got.”

Spamton had taken a capture of his screen and forwarded it to Mike earlier that day, and presumably, Mike was now looking at the same thing he was. It displayed as follows:

These were the mass email chains Spamton had been crafting and mailing out anonymously from bogus accounts, traceable only by the sender. The idea was to just get people to open it. Strike their curiosity. A few of them were for automobiles, but the subject matter could be anything, is what Mike said. Just get the addressee to click on it. That’s what Mike said.

Spamton felt similarly to how he’d felt looking at his own billboard. He had felt like they turned out pretty good at the time he’d made them, but now, he noticed some awkward phrasing here and there, some typos. His pinky finger stayed on the shift key too much sometimes. Evidently, there had been previously-unseen syntax errors upon running the commands. He’d been struggling between proper grammar (not his strong suit), and spelling (also not his strong suit), and fitting the catchphrase on the line before it got cut off. The hook needed to be within the first 50 characters.

“Boy,” said Mike. He whistled, the second one Spamton had earned that evening. “These are annoying.”

Spamton rubbed his eyes. He felt so tired. Of course. Of course they were garbage. 

“Yeah, keep it up. Do this, but like, worse. Even more so.”

Spamton’s hand stopped. “What?”

“I’m ticked off and I haven’t even opened them. Well, I can’t, this is a picture. But I kinda want to, at least some of them, just to see what sort of crap is in them.”

“…What?”

“Yeah. Think of it like this. You’re throwing advertisement spaghetti at the consumer wall and seeing what sticks. The more pasta the better, and this isn’t fine dining Italian we’re slinging here. See?”

“Right, yeah,” Spamton said, not following.

“Think of it like this. And I’m gonna level with you. Lot of people? Not that bright. And you? You don’t have to be the sharpest tool in the shed, either. You just have to hit the hardest. You can blunt force trauma this thing. See?”

Spamton winced. “Look, Mike, these metaphors are getting a little—“

“Okay, wait, one more. Think. Of it. Like this.”

Spamton waited, preparing for the next abstract concept.

“You’re not looking at the bigger picture. Of your life. Of what you can be. Imagine whatever picture you’ve got in that brain of yours. You see it? It’s big. Isn’t it?”

It was big.

“Now. Imagine that’s one measly pixel on the screen of what you’re really heading towards.”

Wow. That was huge. Monitors were getting up to 640 by 480 those days.

“And I’m gonna get there by… irritating people?” Spamton asked, disheartened. “By scamming them? Most of this doesn’t even have anything to do with cars. I like cars. I know cars, sort of. Can’t I just get better at selling cars…?” 

“Forget the cars.”

“What?”

“I’m serious. Forget the cars. The cars might as well be a coin-operated laundromat. Like a front.”

More metaphors. “Mike, listen—“

“No.”

It was a complete sentence and a final verdict, forceful. It shut Spamton up.

“YOU listen to ME. Listen very, very carefully to what I am about to say. 

You’ve got to stop focusing on the things you can’t do and pay attention to the things you can do. 

You cannot be somebody else. You never will be. Never. Okay? You need to do what YOU can do to get noticed. Not what the Addisons do. Not what the royalty do. Not what I do. What YOU do.

Here’s what I do, Spamton. I get on at 7 o’clock every weeknight and I give out stupid prizes to stupid people and they go crazy for it. Because I made it look appealing. Because I sold them on it. Because I convinced them they wanted something that I have and they don’t, even if they’d never even thought about it before. That’s what I can do.

But you’re YOU. And for you, all publicity is good publicity. It’s YOU who’s trying to get big here. Get yourself in the tabloids. Get clicks. Get your mug in people’s faces. Do whatever it takes. All means necessary. Playing nice has very little to do with being a celebrity. Okay?

You’re you. You can get under people’s skin without even meeting them. That’s the target you hit. We’re gonna double-whammy this. You sell your little cars and get your face out there on the surface so it looks legit, and on the underside, we’re gonna pull a marketing strategy so infamous everybody’s gonna know you one way or the other, and you’re gonna get IN. You’re gonna get into some very high places not even I can get to. I can see it. I’ve already seen it. And all you need to do. Is your part. Okay?”

Spamton was quiet for a bit. Mike’s tone had been hard, fast, a little manic. His speech held itself out as an explanation, but the only concrete thing Spamton could take away from it was that there was something Mike was desperate for, too.

Mike steadied his breathing. He cleared his throat. To Spamton’s surprise, Mike broke the silence first, and even sounded a bit sheepish when he spoke. “Got a little carried away there, but… You know how it is. I’m tired. I know I’m tired. Aren’t you tired?”

“I am,” Spamton admitted. His voice cracked.

It all felt late, too late. It felt like the credits had already rolled on his inconsequential life. Like he was already in some late-stage twilight phase in his mid-twenties. Like he was a background character who passed by in somebody else’s movie, somebody more important. But then here was a guy, a real protagonist, reaching out to him. Telling him that he was getting a sequel, and that it was going to be way, way better than the original. When did that ever happen?

“It’s gotta be you, Spamton. You’re it. Stick with me. Okay?”

Spamton’s lip quivered. He bit it. The image that Mike had once described to him, of a huge ball of fire that kept everybody under it warm and lit up the whole light-blue sky, flashed across his mind. He looked up at the yellowed walls, then down at the stained carpet. “Yeah. Okay.”

“One last thing. You said you’d have something for me next time we talked. Well, it’s next time.”

“Right. Yeah. I did say that.” Spamton sighed. He wasn’t sure he could take any more rejection in one evening. He really didn’t want to pitch this idea anymore.

“Go on, tell me.”

He couldn’t say no, not really. Only Mike could do that.

Still worrying his lip, he began. “Alright. So.” 

He lost faith in himself again, slumped over, took a breath, shook his head clear, then continued. 

“At the Mansion—the one here in Cyber City—for the waitstaff’s line, I think they’re still using dial-up. Well, I know it, actually.”

“Okay?” Mike responded. The two of them were already on broadband, as evidenced by the fact they were both connected to the internet and speaking to each other on the phone at the same time. “I mean, I’m not surprised. Aristocracy, tradition, being old-fashioned, all that.”

“One of the Addisons, the foo—the SHOES guy, Blue. I was at his store… buying some… shoes,” Spamton cobbled a half-truth together. He’d been there scouring the clearance with no success. “When he got an order. From the head butler. At the Mansion.”

“Uh-huh,” Mike said, waiting for the point.

“W-well, he did get the order in, but at the end, I heard it. I heard the line get cut off, you know, that analog noise—“

“Sure, I know it.”

“—that means someone else started using the modem. And Blue, he’d written down the callback number.”

“Okay.”

“So, me—I’ve still got this old rotary. I’m on it right now.”

“As am I.”

This comforted Spamton, somehow. “Well, you know, rotaries transmit frequency on a broader spectrum than touch-tone, right? And if they’re on rotary—which they are, I called the number to confirm it, I’d recognize that sweet 3000 hertz anywhere—and with selector systems like that, you know, they really weren’t built with security in mind, and so I phreaked it and—“

“You what?”

Spamton reddened and stammered. “I CAN TAP the [Antique! Vintage!] I CAN TAP THE phone.”

Quiet.

“Really?” Mike asked incredulously.

Spamton nodded fervently. “You just have to send the right pulses to get the phone to think it’s off the hook, and—“

“Well, I’ll be damned, Spamton. Where the hell’d you learn to do that?”

It came in handy for not getting billed for collect calls, which was still the standard for long-distance carriers at that time. Spamton had done it often throughout his youth. Actually, he’d just done a simplified version of it at the beginning of this call. He’d footed the bill once after his initial exchange with Mike, and that was the first and last time he’d accepted the charges. 

“You tap my goddamn phone?”

“No!” Spamton exclaimed, genuinely shocked. “No, no, Mike. Of course not. I can’t, anyway.” He didn’t even recognize the pitch of the ringtone when he dialed Mike, and the feedback that leaked through their chats every now and then sounded incredibly strange to Spamton. Not to mention this was, of course, all highly illegal.

“Okay.” Mike immediately relaxed, and turned his mood on a dime, as it seemed he so easily could. “Well, then.”

Spamton waited.

“Spamton.” 

He held his breath. He’d just confessed to a felony, after all. Potentially a war crime, on second thought. This was a monarchy. They loved capital punishment. 

“That’s incredible. Wow. That’s fantastic.”

There was the sharp twinge of pain Spamton always felt from being mocked. Then disbelief, then uncertainty, then hesitancy. Then a tiny ball of hope began spinning around in Spamton’s chest, ricocheting off the walls. “Really?”

“Yeah. Are you kidding? Holy shit. This is like a marketing campaigner’s wet dream.”

Spamton, feeling rather like he was in a dream himself, in a high, weak voice, repeated, “Really?”

“We can use this. We can use this big time.” It sounded like Mike had gotten up and was pacing on the other end of the line. “Wow. I’ve gotta think. But this is great.”

Really? Spamton thought, unable to think much else. His mind wasn’t working too well just then. It felt frozen, like it had crashed in this moment, so it would never have to leave it.

“I knew it, I knew it,” Mike muttered excitedly, talking to himself. “Okay. You. Forget talking in a week. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

Really? But, figuring he couldn’t say that a third time, he said, “Yes. Tomorrow. Understood, sir.” That was a weird way to put it, but that’s what came out.

Mike seemed too distracted to notice. He just went “Wow,” one more time, exhaled, and then, “Good job, Spamton. Good boy,” then hung up.

Spamton was alone in the office again. He set the phone on his desk before it could fall out of his failing grasp.

He was good.

Not “lacking.” Not “mediocre.” Not “second-rate.” 

He was good.

The dull ache of desperation, like an ever-present gas leak soaking into his brain, suddenly ignited. It exploded. He couldn’t pretend like it wasn’t there anymore or that it didn't hurt.

He wanted approval so much. So, so, so much.

‘Good boy.’ I’m good? Really? I’m really good?

He knew that it was somewhat demeaning, that he was being talked down to. There was a hierarchy, and Mike was placing himself higher up on it than him. It certainly wasn’t a workplace-appropriate, business-professional compliment. But the way his brain was reacting to it wasn’t, either.

It was praise. He’d been praised. Someone praised him.

His head burned and his chest pounded and his shaking fingers began running up and down his body on their own. Trying to touch him, trying to hug him, trying to pet him, like they belonged to someone else. Trying to continue the praise. 

He whimpered as he reached under his blazer to rub his chest, his stomach. He was barely conscious of what his body was doing to itself. His knees brought him to the floor.

Just two little words. Two little words and he was like this. Was he really so easy? Was he that pathetic? His self-loathing reared up like usual, but the fire set it ablaze.

Those two little words were expanding, fueling further and more outlandish fantasies.

           You’ve been doing so well, Spamton.

           You’re amazing. You’re the best. You’re so attractive.

           Good work. Good job. Good boy.

He shuddered, the only sound apart from the rustle of clothes and the dial tone of the phone still off its hook. His hands were palming into his thighs, wanting to travel inward. He wasn’t actually going to do this, was he? He wasn’t going to masturbate to his business partner’s approval.

He already was. His fingers, unwilling to wait for the go-ahead, rubbed gently into the crotch of his slacks. Just those slight touches made his groin react so readily. He’d been good, he reasoned, so he deserved to feel good now.

He touched himself through his clothes, the sound bite of ‘Good boy’ repeated and amplified and distorted in his skull. He felt hot. He felt needy. He wanted to be pressed up against someone very badly. Someone who would call him good again.

Feverishly, he tore his belt off, unfastened the waistband hook, and shoved his hand down his pants, groping himself harder. The door to the lobby was still open. The blinds weren’t drawn yet. Someone could have caught him debasing himself like this in what was meant to be his place of business. He was supposed to sit at his desk and shake hands and guide people through contracts in here, but instead he was on the floor, exposing and playing with himself. Shame and arousal washed over him in thick waves. 

His hand wasn’t enough. It wasn’t nearly enough. 

He looked around frantically. He got up, took four paces across the short hallway. He fell into the door to his living space, unceremoniously shoving it open, his pants losing against gravity and tripping him up. His twin-size mattress was there on the floor in the shadows, the only light source coming from the office lamp across the way. He returned to his knees on it and dragged over a king-size off-white pillow in the same frenetic motion. He hastily positioned it lengthwise before him.

Then he mounted it. Arms on either side, knees spread wide, pressing the weight of his lower body into the fabric. 

He had always been a humper. It felt much better to him to be moving his hips, to feel something between his thighs, to simulate the motion of what he really wanted to do.

Increasingly delirious and with a stand-in under him now, his briefly-interrupted fantasies resumed.

           Oh yeah. That’s it, big guy. Give it to me.

           You’re so good at this. You’re better than anyone I’ve ever had.

           Fuck me, just like that.

           Drive me around town, show me off, then take me home and fuck me.

           You’re such a man. You’re so handsome.

           I want you to fuck me. I want you so bad.

Spamton complied, thrusting in a frenzy. They were simple fantasies, carnal, fueling a basic instinct he’d been denied for so long. He was far too hot under his clothes, but he wouldn’t have stopped for anything. 

He slammed his pelvis against the giving plush over and over again. His legs trembled with exertion, and his feet struggled for purchase against the sheets. He panted and moaned, unable to keep his voice down in his excitement. 

           Be a good boy, Spamton.

           Be a good boy for me.

           You’re allowed to — it’s okay to — I want you to — 

Spurned on, he fucked harder, imagining he wasn’t the only one being pleasured the faster he went. He wrapped his arms as far around the pillow as he could and squeezed it, holding it down in place with his body weight, holding it still. His lower back curved in on itself so he always hit the same angle where it felt best.

“Oh, oh,” he whispered. His eyes rolled into his head, then closed. His face twisted in pleasure. His mouth hung open with labored breath. The self-aware part of his brain was as turned off as his body was turned on. 

           That’s good. Keep doing it, just like that…

He hit just the right spot. His whole body jumped, then sped up.

           Oh, Spamton. You’re so good to me.

Nerves were sparking at the lowest point of his torso, like icy-hot fluid flooding his insides with electricity jolting through it, shocking everything. It felt so unbearably good.

           That’s it. That’s it. Don’t stop. Whatever you do, don’t stop.

He kept going. Whines and whimpers came out of his throat in a constant babbling stream now. He wasn’t getting enough oxygen. His eyes were screwed shut tight.

           Be a good boy for me and cum, okay? Because…

He didn’t slow down, but his thoughts stalled for a moment. 

           Because…

And then his deepest, darkest fantasy overtook him, and he raised his head just enough to turn it, and he gently brought his panting lips down until they made contact with what was beneath him, and he kissed.

           Because I love you.

Then his guts dropped out from underneath him, and his head rose above the clouds, and he was suspended for a moment in nothingness, and then everything slammed together at one singular moment in time and he came violently. One, two, three, four, five long, hard waves of orgasm wracked his body as he forced his pelvis as deep as it would go into what was on its receiving end. He’d been right on the verge of losing consciousness, but his body had never stopped what it was doing. It pounded relentlessly, subconsciously, like it didn’t even need his head in the first place.

Four aftershocks ran through him as he splayed face down on the pillow, limp, nearly passed out, catching his breath. It took several minutes to be able to move at all. Once recovered enough, he rolled off the pillow and onto the mattress to lay on his back.

His hair stuck to his forehead. His clothes felt damp. The air was sticky. The pillow lay wrinkled and lumpy.

The ceiling swam with dark rainbow patterns and black holes that moved. The shapes grew in size if he looked at them too long, then reverted back when he blinked.

He thought about tidying himself up. He figured that way at least he’d look clean on the outside, despite his dirty mind.

But he just lay there. 

He didn’t want to do anything anymore. He nudged his pants the rest of the way off without getting up, using the least amount of effort possible, and then did the same with his blazer and collared shirt, all of which were shucked to the floor. This wasn’t like him. This wasn’t how he wanted to be. But it was all Spamton-tomorrow’s problem now, not his.

Without shutting the office lamp off or closing the door or hanging the phone up, he tugged a smaller, thinner pillow under his head and flimsy, cheap sheets to his chest. He turned to face the wall. He could just barely hear the dial tone from the next room over.

He lay completely still for several minutes.

Then he turned to his other side, and he reached out for the off-white pillow, and he brought it to his chest. He took it in his arms and held it and nuzzled his face into it. He breathed in deeply, and exhaled, and in his exhausted mind, he could almost pretend there was warmth where there was none.

Then he fell asleep.