I entered a erotica fiction contest for the popular comedy podcast Double Threat, and I was lucky enough to have my submission given a superlative on the show. What follows is that submission. Content warning: lots of double threat in-jokes, and very rated X.
“It’s still not right!” Brett yelled, spitting his chilli, then spilling the Tupperware on his lap in a blind anger. Immediately embarrassed, he looked around the podcast convention floor to see if anyone had noticed. Kevin Bartelt had. He was pointing and laughing.
“You look Photoshopped!” Kevin cackled, high-fiving Sean and Hayes, who, for that one moment, dropped the act.
“Shut up, Bartelt,” Brett yelled, “You couldn’t produce mucus, let alone a podcast!”
“You know what, Brett? Why don’t you go fuck yourself!”
“I would if I could!” Shouted Brett, and ran out of the room.
Hot tears ran down his cheeks. He was stressed out from running a podcast network, nobody had paid attention during his symposium on the art of transitions, and now this. To top it all off, he hadn’t been with his wife in weeks.
In a humiliated fog, Brett found himself in an empty studio the convention organizers set up to record away ad-reads.
“I just can’t take this tension!” He wailed.
“Maybe I can help,” said a deep, sultry voice behind him. Brett quickly turned, wiping at his eyes.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t know anyone else was here,” he managed, trying to make out who the tall, muscular man standing in the doorway was through the dim lighting.
“I knew you’d come here,” said the man, moving closer, gently closing the door behind him.
Brett felt like he should be scared, but there was something undeniably magnetic about the man. Honestly, Brett was horny, and this guy’s cut figure was doing it for him.
“Who are you?” Brett asked, his pulse quickening.
The stranger stepped into the light, and Brett gasped.
“I’m Brett,” said the man, smiling softly.
Brett was staring at a perfect replica of himself. Confused but still turned on, Brett tripped over his words.
“What? How?”
“The Crypt Keeper grants a wish to one pervert every year. This year, he chose yours.”
“I don’t understand,” said Brett, although he was starting to.
The other Brett cocked a luxurious eyebrow.
“You said you would fuck yourself if you could. Isn’t that what you wanted?”
Yes, honestly that was what Brett had wanted, but it was different now that it was real. Brett had watched some porn, so he was familiar with masturbation, but could he literally fuck himself?
In that moment, Brett realized that, yes, he absolutely could. Brett nodded at his double, and the other Brett smiled seductively.
“It looks like you’re dirty. Let me clean you up.”
The other Brett knelt, licking the chilli off Brett’s crotch, then unzipping his pants with his teeth. Before anything more happened, Brett suddenly turned away, panting heavily.
“What is it?” Asked the other Brett, genuinely concerned, “Is something wrong?”
“No,” said Brett, “It’s never been more right, but it’s still just so…weird.”
The other Brett nodded, understanding perfectly. He leaned his chest against Brett’s back, pressing his gentiles against Brett’s butt cheeks.
“Would it help if I wore the Captain Crook costume?” Whispered the other Brett, knowing full well the answer.
Brett nodded.
“Yes, but just the head, and nothing else.”
The other Brett happily obliged; pirate on top, chiseled man-beast all the way down.
“It’s perfect,” Brett breathed. “All it’s missing, is a little magic. For my first trick, I’ll make your cock disappear,” said Brett, confirming his whiteness, and took the Captain’s full nine inches in his mouth, making satisfied slurping noises.
“You’re sound is off,” said the other Brett, “Here, let me adjust your mic.”
The other Brett rolled a condom over a Shure SM7B microphone.
“Be gentle,” Brett said, offering himself up. He made a surprised but satisfied squeak as the microphone popped inside him. Bracing against the console, Brett accidentally turned on the sound system, which was cued to Julie’s playlist.
“Diiiaaaaaaaarrrreeeeeeaaaaaaa!” Howled Frank Zappa from the speakers.
“I’ll turn that off,” said the other Brett.
“No,” commanded Brett, “Leave it on.”
Every noodling guitar run sent tingles all over his body, and in that moment, Brett had an epiphany.
“I know what’s missing from my chilli!” He cried.
Both Brett’s knew the answer, but Brett desperately wanted, no, needed, the other Brett to say it. Instinctively knowing this, the other Brett whispered the answer in the Captain Crook pirate accent.
“Fish.”
Brett rubbed and glazed so hard, he felt like he was spilling an entire pot of chilli.
The other Brett instantly reverted to his true form, John Kassir.
“The curse is lifted! I’ve never felt this good with another man before, but if you think I’ll be on your show, you’re batty!” He squawked, and vanished.