A NYC girl finds money and happiness during the Coronavirus lockdown through sex toy parties and group masturbation

“Bring out your dead!”

The cries rang up from the street into my Brooklyn apartment,  Now while that was humorous in a Python film, here in the real COVID-19 world it was horrifying. The USS Comfort, a naval hospital ship which now sat docked in the New York City harbor to provide aid, looked as bizarrely out of place as the S.S. Minnow at an Emmy presentation. 

M*A*S*H units lined my favorite place in the world, Central Park, but thankfully without Alan Alda. The bombardment of depressing pandemic news reports had placed my Xanax supply in serious jeopardy. But not my weed, thankfully. I’m not a barbarian.

Equally as depressing my sex drive had vanished like eggs from grocery shelves. The strict but necessary social distancing guidelines made personal interaction as difficult as the Sunday Times crossword. That left my old friend masturbation. But even it had lost its allure after the eighth or ninth time daily. Not to mention the emotional turmoil of not being able to work. 

My disposable income had become just ‘disposable.’ I would spend days staring out my window at empty streets, looking like scenes from a zombie apocalypse without the zombies, contemplating get rich slowly schemes.

My first endeavor was converting panty liners into protective masks. Sadly all I had available were used ones which made it appear as though I was hemorrhaging which cut into my sales but did serve as a deterrent to untimely visits from Jehovah’s witnesses.

My mind raced to find ways to combine my two favorite things, masturbation, and money, to get me through these troubled times. When suddenly it hit me like a five-pound dildo! I would bring spanking-new sex toys to the lockdowned masses, to those women in desperate need of new avenues of stimulation. No leaving their homes, no masks, just good clean dirty fun.

My first step was inventory control. I scoured my hands then the Internet for the newest innovations: from dildos and vibes to butt plugs seemingly the size of a Mini Cooper. Plus a deluxe hand sanitizer/ lube to keep it fun and germ-free. I named my budding enterprise “Jill in a Box.” After placing an ad in the Village Voice I sat back and waited for orders to pour in like fan mail to Brad Pitt. It instead trickled like fan mail to Zasu Pitts (paging IMDB ap).

I did eventually get my first party request in Queens. So I packed up my party favors and rode a train across town. Once there I sought out the locale of my philanthropic efforts: the Dystrophied Arms Retirement Home and Mausoleum. My hopes for riches were dashed but I kept a stiff-upper-lip. 

A Granny Clampett wannabe answered the door then guided me into her “courting parlor” where she introduced me to her two GILF friends, Dora and May. They had an antiquated hookah on the coffee table inspiring my hopes for a jovial afternoon.

They all three seemed depressed. I don’t know if it was a lack of sex or gossip or their own impending doom. Plus their treasured yard sales were temporarily verboten. But I was here to boost morale and heart rate.

I felt momentarily guilty attempting to extract cash from these living-on-a-fixed income ladies. The thought left me feeling as slimy as a slice of Oscar Mayer baloney but I quickly got over it.

These gals seemed in good shape. Their boobs were still on their chests, not playing hacky sack with their knees. Encouraging. To break the ice my hostess, Flo, offered me a frosty tumbler of prune juice. A request I happily declined since I’m as regular as Old Faithful. Still, it was a sweet gesture as were her fresh-baked oatmeal raisin cookies, a munchies cure if ever I tasted one.

I then began unpacking my wares to their accompanied giggles and profanity. When I laid out a sizable dildo, Dora screamed and exclaimed, “It looks like a giant pee bob!” She then stroked it skillfully with one hand while slipping nitroglycerin pills beneath her tongue with the other. While waiting for her heartbeat to stabilize I played some mood music to establish an ambiance. 

In hindsight, ‘Gilbert Gottfried sings Sinatra’ might not have been a wise choice. His off-key screeching seemed to set off BP monitors throughout the facility. Nurses were running about wildly like a Benny Hill skit.

Nervously glancing around the room I noticed three TVs were on, all set to Netflix’s ‘the Tiger King.” There is simply no way staring at Joe Exotic can assist any woman to cum. So I searched for the remotes. With my stomach rumbling I broke out my crowning achievement, my big-ticket item that would bring the ladies into the 21st century; the 3D VR headset linked to Porn hub to provide realistic, pussy-wetting back into their granny panties. 

I placed it gingerly over Flo’s head and cranked up some serious hardcore porn. The small room echoed with her ooh’s and aahs. She reacted immediately to the scene playing out in her brain. With each three-dimensional thrust of Ron Jeremy’s jabbing prick, Flo began bobbing and weaving like a young Apollo Creed. As her elderly reaction time slowed the dick head would nail her in the forehead and she would sink back in her chair, semi-conscious with her hips bucking like an Adderall-addicted bronco.

Like Burgess Meredith to Rocky Balboa, I came to the rescue in her corner. She looked like a country music fan so I slipped her a thick, black dildo named ‘Fuck Owens’ (yes I’m aware it should have been named the Charley Pride but I’m not fuckin’ Ken Burns!)

She guided the substantial toy between her splayed legs, actions mimicked by her two mature friends. I even joined in, grabbing my faithful LOTR-inspired toy ‘Dildo Baggins’ and eased it quickly into my weeping pussy. I was even too pre-occupied to obtain credit card info upfront. A bad business move since a post-orgasmic woman has no motivation to pay which is why my gas was turned off. My attention was drawn to the now-writhing Dora who was slipping a sale-priced white butt plug from Blunder Muffin into her surprisingly firm bottom. 

Once impaled anally she screamed, “This takes me back to Eisenhower! Oh, fuck my tight ass, Ike!” At least it wasn’t Nixon.  I lay on the green shag carpet and began fucking myself roughly. It helped that their eyes were on me. Slapping my clit and breasts in a frantic rhythm, like the USC marching band I felt my release approach stealthily. With chest flushed and toes curled, I teased my winking pucker with my fingertip.

An observant Dora asked, “Dear, do you need a suppository? I have dozens.”

A drooling May added, “I have an enema as well and it’s a corker.”

While I appreciated their offers my well-trained finger knew its purpose and probed deeper, pushing me over the edge, squirting until the shag carpet resembled a rain forest in ‘Arachnophobia.’ Inspired, the three ladies came with me as I weakly passed out order forms. Additionally, four curious nurses dropped by, evidently no longer content with their rectal thermometers.  My cash would soon be flowing like our collective pussies. 

Standing weakly I gathered the glistening toys, took them outside and rinsed with a garden hose attracting pigeons by the hundreds. I expected to see Hitchcock mosey past. With the tip, they gave me I could afford to take an Uber home so while singing “Happy Days are Here Again,” I climbed into the stylish ’72 Ford Pinto and sped away with hundreds of feral alley cats in hot pursuit. Perhaps I should have rinsed more thoroughly.



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