“My third date with Jennifer is tonight, and it feels like we’re on track to go all the way. But I’m concerned. I’ve looked through her photos on social media and her three ex-boyfriends were all very large men, each one over six-feet-tall. Broad as well, surely well endowed. I think she’s going to be disappointed by what I have to offer.”
“Have you booked an appointment with The Surrogate?”
“I’m not sure what that is.”
“He’s a big man with an enormous penis you hire for scenarios like this. As long as Jennifer enjoys being blindfolded during sex, you’ll have no problems at all. Once her vision is blocked, The Surrogate enters your apartment through any point of ingress you choose, be it a door, window, or vent. He services the woman with satisfaction guaranteed, then leaves through the door, window, or vent before you remove the blindfold and take all the credit.”
“So this guy’s full-time job is to have sex with women? Who do I have to kill to get a dream gig like that?”
“I know.”
“I’m not sure. Isn’t this like being cuckolded?”
“Not at all. It’s a surrogacy. It’s covered by insurance. Most employers offer his services as part of their benefits package.”
“His? It’s just one man, but he works for most employers?”
“He’s the best at what he does.”
“But, hang on. Don’t I need Jennifer’s permission?”
“The Surrogate operates under a standard work-for-hire agreement, so you retain the copyright to any sex he does on your girlfriend. Legally, it’s you having sex.”
“Okay, I’ll give him a call.”
*
Jennifer ties her blindfold on with a sly smile, then lays back in bed.
You step into the hall and pull the drawstring to open the attic hatch, and The Surrogate descends the folding ladder. He’s massive and wearing nothing but hiking boots and a white leather mask that covers his head, revealing only his deep blue eyes through small, roughly-torn holes. His penis is soft but tremendous, like a windsock full of mud. It beats his thighs as he struts towards Jennifer with such force it doesn’t strike you as a sexual organ, but as an industrial tool.
Jennifer says, “I’m ready,” and the Surrogate stands before the bed. But a long moment passes and he’s still standing there motionless, looking down. You quietly step to his side and see him pulling, squeezing, and kneading his penis, brutally working it like pizza dough.
The Surrogate’s white hooded face slowly turns until he makes eye contact with you. He shrugs, gesturing that he’s not sure why his penis remains flaccid.
“Come on, baby,” Jennifer coos. “Let’s get going.”
The Surrogate steps over to the dresser, opens a drawer, drapes his heavy penis into it, and slams it shut, over and over again, trying to pound life into the meat.
“What are you doing, cutie?” Jennifer says.
“I’m, uh,” you say, “getting the, uh, the lube. Yes. From the drawer.”
The Surrogate shakes his head, frustrated, and kneels in the doorway to the bathroom, drooping his long penis across the doorjamb, and then he points to you and has you kick the door shut as hard as you can on his penis. You close your eyes and do it, wincing silently. He stands up and dusts his big piece off, now sporting a purple and yellow bruise, but it’s no harder than it was before. He reaches inside his mask, withdrawing a pouch of brown liquid attached to a long needle. He stabs it deep into his penis, squeezes the pouch until it’s empty. He drops to a squat over the toilet and slams the seat down on his big hog over and over, but it’s still mush.
The Surrogate falls to his side, slamming against the bathroom wall. He’s cold and clammy now, dripping sweat. You hold him, gently lower him onto the tile floor, cradling his huge chest in yours. He looks up at you and moans — his voice a blown-out whisper — “This is my seventeenth job today. I am so sorry I failed you.”
“That’s too much sex,” you say. “Of course your gear’s out of commission.”
“There is no excuse for my failure,” he wheezes.
“No, it’s okay,” you say. “Biologically, it’s not possible to have this much sex. And keeping a piece as long as yours hard has got to be extremely taxing on your heart. On your entire cardiovascular system. Your cock alone probably holds as much blood as a big turkey.”
He shakes his head. “Satisfaction is guaranteed. Kill me.”
“What?”
He reaches into the back of his mask and withdraws a small pistol. He forces it into your hands, and then he guides you to jam the pistol into his heaving penis. “Kill me,” he says. “I serve no purpose with spoiled meat.”
You shake your head, aghast, but he squeezes your finger around the trigger, blowing his soft penis off, coating every wall of the bathroom in blood. Through the small holes, you see his eyes roll back as The Surrogate passes away.
“What the hell was that?” Jennifer says from the bed.
“I, um, dropped the lube. It’s a big bucket of it that made a loud noise.”
You stare at the dead Surrogate. The zipper on his mask is right there, and you can’t help your curiosity. You unzip it and reveal his face. It’s more ordinary than you thought — no movie-star good looks; just an average man. You pull the mask towards your face, peek inside. It wouldn’t hurt to try, would it? You pull the mask on, zip it up. You smile inside the warm leather, feeling powerful, and you’re sure it must be an optical illusion, or some side effect of the adrenaline in you, but your penis suddenly seems to have a little more heft to it.
Whirring beeps, like a dial-up modem, blare in your ears. Then a deep, electronic voice: “Welcome to your new life,” the man says. “You have donned the mask. You have taken the mantle. You are The Surrogate now.”
Forty-three women’s names fill your field of vision in a green computer font. “Today’s clients,” the voice says. “Service them, and service them well, because their satisfaction is guaranteed. You have until 11:59pm to satisfy these ladies before receiving tomorrow’s list. Begin.”
“Wait, why can’t there be more than one Surrogate?” you say.
“Begin,” the man says.
“I’m sorry, but I just think it would make more sense if–“
“The clock ticks.”
You race into the apartment hallway and sprint towards the elevator, slapping your penis, screaming for it to wake up.
