May 30, 2021

OPD: Chapter One (The Jury)

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This entry is part 1 of 3 in the series OPD

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Rated: R

Waiting has always been hard.

Not the kind of waiting you do while standing in line to get on the latest ride at Disney World. That kind of waiting is annoying, but it almost always ends with a rush of endorphins, a smile, and a family-friendly memory to take home.

Waiting on a jury is different. It’s like being told that your mom’s been taken to the hospital to have sperm pumped out of her stomach and then having to wait for her to tell you how so much of it got there in the first place. You don’t really want to know the answer but life can’t continue until you do. And whatever she tells you, you know you’ll never see the world the same way again.

To be sure, mine isn’t a nice metaphor. It’s horrible, actually. But it’s the only way to make my point crystal clear; there just isn’t anything nice about waiting on a jury.

Incidentally, the current record for the most semen swallowed by a woman was allegedly set in Los Angeles in July 1991. According to lore and legend, she had 1.7 pints of the white stuff pumped out of her stomach. How that much semen got there I’ll leave to your imagination but it is a safe bet it wasn’t through matrimonial relations with her husband.

Ask me how I know shit like that and all I can offer for explanation is that it’s an occupational hazard. Or not. Maybe I’m just a compulsive masturbator who has dived too deep into the cesspool that is the internet. Whatever. My point is, that waiting on a jury to reach a verdict sucks even more than your mother.

Fortunately, I’m waiting alone.

My client, Janice Grimsby, spent the better part of the past four days nattering in my ear and giving me a headache. Just when I thought I couldn’t take anymore, she up and walked out mumbling something or other about me as her lawyer. I don’t know, I wasn’t listening. Truthfully, I’d like to leave too. The whole process is incredibly fucking stressful. I’d like to go back to my office to wait but waiting makes me jittery and when I get jittery I jerk off and too much jerking off is never good.

So I force myself to sit here, on a bench outside the courtroom and wait. It’s been four days of waiting so far and not for the first time, I wish I could fast forward to the end. Like I do with my TV. I’d like to fast forward to the part that plays after the commercial break. How goddamn convenient would it all be if all my cases could be wrapped up in the span of 60 minutes with all the boring, bland or awkward bits cut or edited out for time and interest.

Not that this case will ever become a made-for-TV movie. Sure, there’s a scintillating Hollywood hook involving a sex toy and bedroom gymnastics that would put most porn stars to shame. But considering Janice is 72 years old and is suing the Ride’m Hard Sex Toy Company for allegedly killing her husband after she shoved the ever-popular pink flamingo vibrator up his ass during one particularly boisterous sex romp, I’m guessing that Hollywood won’t be optioning the rights to this particular tale any time soon.

And this wasn’t your run-of-the-mill dildo, the kind your mom bought out of the back of a magazine and tucked under her mattress for those nights when your dad was too drunk or too tired or too old to get it up. Nope, Janice’s vibrator is what’s referred to as a strap-on and she was in the middle of giving her husband Dwight the business end of it when the damn thing overheated, surged and shorted out. That fact alone is probably enough to cause most sane people to cringe and smirk but it doesn’t lend itself to any kind of lawsuit.

Whatever your views on the sexual act my clients were engaged in, I’m sure you’re probably thinking that the dildo in question was being used for its intended purpose. Surely, I hear you saying, Ride’m Hard can’t be held legally responsible for a simple mechanical failure, even if it happens during the heat of anal intercourse?

Normally I’d agree with you. Normally. Except that this particular mechanical failure didn’t end when the dildo stopped buzzing in old Dwight’s ass. No, if that had been all, he might have been disappointed but he wouldn’t have been dead. The real problem was that when the dildo in his ass shorted out, it sent an electrical charge into his prostate that caused him to ejaculate uncontrollably for hours and hours.

Forget Viagra. Poor old Dwight, a week short of his 70th birthday, was sent to the ER and died of heart failure because his dick became the Energizer Bunny.

Incidentally, the act of sodomizing your man with a dildo is called pegging and it is a whole lot more popular than you might think. Ask me how I know shit like that and all I can offer for explanation is that it’s an occupational hazard. Or not. But I’m repeating myself.

The point is that after the shock of what happened to her husband wore off, Janice went looking for someone to blame. To help her, she decided she needed a lawyer. Not just any lawyer. Not the kind of lawyer who practices from a corner office in some high-rise office tower somewhere. Not the kind of lawyer who eats steak tartar for lunch and gets driven home in a limousine. What she needed was a lawyer on the bottom rung. What she needed was a lawyer who wasn’t going to get caught up in legal niceties and problems of legal causation. A lawyer with a reputation so low that no amount of talk about seedy subjects like dildos and ass fucking could ever make it worse. A lawyer just smart enough to think it possible and just desperate enough to try. In other words, what she needed was a lawyer like me because whatever I had to lose, I’d long since lost. I won’t bore you with the details. Maybe we’ll come back to that. Maybe.

Right now, all I think you really need to know is that Janice needed a lawyer and after a lot of door knocks and door slams, she found me. I’d love to tell you that I took her case to bring a bit of dignity back into her life. Or maybe I could tell you that I took her case to bring some justice to her little corner of the world. Sure, I could tell you all of those things but what would be the point. This isn’t that story and I’m not that lawyer.

Let’s not kid ourselves. There’s just no dignity or justice to be had in a case of a man dying from an ejaculatory overdose caused by a malfunctioning strap-on. I think it’s safe to say that if you leave this world after a serious ass-pounding delivered by your 72-year-old bride, you intended to milk that moment of its dignity in favour of pure carnal pleasure.

Oh don’t get me wrong, I’m not suggesting that the moment wasn’t something. It certainly was more than an ass fucking. I mean imagine just how much love and trust Dwight must have felt towards Janice that he was prepared to reject two thousand years of societal indoctrination and surrender his definition of what it means to be a man and to have a penis, to his wife. At the risk of waxing poetic like a granola for a minute, if we can get past the sensational bits of the story, that moment between Dwight and Janice is pretty extraordinary and beautiful. To love a woman so intensely and with that much trust that I’d drop the pretence of masculinity long enough to let her penetrate me physically and mentally with her dominion, fuck, I can’t even conceive of how much love that would take. And I’m not so callous that I can’t believe it wouldn’t be pretty damn liberating to submit my masculinity to that moment, to that woman.

Sadly, I don’t expect to be lucky enough to ever have that kind of relationship. And I’d probably fuck it up if I did. I’d probably cower in fear in the face of that kind of love and intimacy. Who am I kidding, I doubt I’d ever get beyond the fear of humiliation and shame I’d experience by even asking a woman to do what Janice was doing to Dwight. Not that I want a woman to fuck me up the ass, you understand. I’m simply pointing out that there’s something raw and uncorrupted and sweet about what they were doing.

But as pure and intimate as their lovemaking may have been, sex is still sex and it’d be hard to be dignified when you’re making your O face for a group of strangers in a public space, even if that space is a hospital ER. No, whatever was good about that moment was lost the second Dwight found himself ejaculating uncontrollably for an unintended audience of doctors and nurses. At that point, the moment went from intimate and fun to humiliating and laughable. Instead of being liberated, Dwight will be forever memorialized as a punchline in some story told by a doctor over cocktails at every pharmaceutical event till the end of time.

Needless to say, my decision to take the case wasn’t driven by my sympathy for Janice or some ridiculous desire to restore her dead husband’s dignity, though that’s what I had spent the last week and a half trying to tell the jury. No, mine was a much simpler motivation, one as old as time, one that will make you cringe, and that’s that dead husbands pay my bills.

That’s right, Dwight was a paycheque, nothing more. In the law game, when you find yourself clinging to the bottom rung of the legal ladder, you can’t be choosy or particular about your cases. Not if you want to eat that month. I know that I run the risk of alienating you by being so blunt. Judge me if you must. I’m not looking for your sympathy. I’m just giving you the facts. So you go ahead and stand on your soapbox and roll your eyes and look down at me from your perch of quiet comfort and entitlement. I’ve got bills to pay goddamn it, and when Janice walked through the door, she was my promise of a better tomorrow. Or at least that’s what I told myself. I told her, I’d take her case and whispered all sorts of sweet nothings about justice and dignity and, of course, love. Love always seals the contract.

So I sued Ride’m Hard for causing poor old Dwight’s death. I cobbled together the case on the theory that a battery-operated dildo should come with a warning not to stick it up a man’s ass. My theory was that the electrical charge from the strap-on caused Dwight to ejaculate uncontrollably and that eventually caused his heart to stop. That was my theory.

A theory that Ride’m Hard didn’t accept. And no wonder. Beyond the obvious problem of proving that it was the malfunctioning dildo that caused his heart to stop, as opposed to say, the aggressive ass pounding he was taking from his 72-year-old wife, there had been other problems to overcome including his recreational drug use, his two pack a day cigarette addiction and his history of cardiac failure. Add in Dwight’s history of being a sexual submissive and the lengthy testimony from a well-educated urologist on the subject of Dwight’s sausage, his ability to ejaculate and his sexual compulsion, and I really have little hope of winning this trial.

And so here I am waiting. Waiting to hear whether the well-heeled lawyers of the Ride’m Hard Sex Toy Company are going to walk away with another win for their client. Waiting to hear whether my fate as a loser is sealed. Not going to lie, I don’t hold out much hope but until the good men and women on my jury deliver their verdict, there is still some, and some is enough to keep my ass glued to my bench.

“Jury is back.”

I turn to see the judge’s clerk smirking at me. I nod at her.

“How long do I have,” I say.

“10 minutes.”

“Fine. Thanks.”

I heave myself up off my bench and scan the corridor for my client. She’s nowhere to be found. I figure she’s gone outside for a cigarette so I head for the exit. Sure enough, she’s hovering under an awning and cupping a cigarette against the bite of the cold morning wind. I brace myself against the cold and tromp over to her.

“Jury’s back,” I tell her.

She shoots me a look of panic. “Already?”

“Already,” I say. “What the hell are you smoking. It’s been four days. I’m surprised it even took them that long.”

“What do you think?”

“I think we’ve got ten minutes to get ourselves back into the courtroom.”

Without waiting for her reply, I turn and walk back to the door. I hear her struggling to keep up but I’m anxious and I don’t want to stand around jawing with her about the case. We’ve done enough of that already. I grab the door and hold it open for her. She smiles and pinches my ass as she goes by. Fucking old ladies. I’m nothing but a piece of meat to her.

Five minutes later we are back in courtroom #5 and waiting again for the judge and jury to arrive. I can’t look around so I keep my eyes fixed on the wall behind the judge’s chair. The waiting will soon be over. Sure enough, the judge is back and soon the jury is brought back to their chairs. It’s considered customary to look over at the jury and meet their respective gazes. I suppose the thinking is that by looking at them, you build warmth and rapport or some damn thing. But since they’ve already reached a decision, I can’t see how having a moment with them now can make any damn difference. Frankly, I’m terrified and looking at them is liable to make my panic that much worse. So I keep on staring at the wall behind the judge and pray that it will all be over soon.

“Ladies and Gentleman of the jury, have you reached a decision?”

“Yes, your honour.”

“And what say you?”

“In the matter of Janice Grimsby and The Ride’m Hard Sex Toy Company, we the jury find in favour of the Plaintiff, Janice Grimsby.”

I’m stunned. I won? What the hell? What were these idiots thinking? Who cares. I won. I’m a fucking superstar. I want to jump up in the air and pound my chest and yell, oh ya, that’s right bitches. I can hear the chime of the cash register pounding in my ear. I can barely contain my excitement.

“Damages?,” asks the judge.

“We the jury award the Plaintiff, Janice Grimsby, $59.99 in damages, being the cost of replacing the broken sexual apparatus.”

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. $59.99. What the fuck. This is the idiocy of our legal system. A jury calling a motorized strap-on dildo a sexual apparatus and refunding Janice her money after 4 days of deliberating over the evidence. Fuck. Winning $59.99 after a two-week trial is kind of like paying a hooker for a hand-job only to ejaculate before she’s even fished you out of your pants. You got the happy ending, just not the one you were paying for. And like the premature ejaculator, there’s nothing for me to do now except hang my head in humiliation, zip-up and shuffle out of the courtroom with a sticky mess in my shorts, the only thing I have to show for my efforts.

“What the hell,” Janice yells. “What the hell was that?”

I turn to look and see her screaming, red-faced, at the backs of the jurors who are trying to flee the scene like a bunch of gang-bangers after a midday drive-by.

“Janice,” I say quietly. “Let’s go.”

“Go?” she yells. “Go. What the fuck, Oz. These pricks kill my Dwight and all I get is a lousy $50?”

I’d love to join her on her soap-box but I’m tired and annoyed and all I really want to do is get the hell out of the room without punching anyone in the fucking face.

“Mr. Donaldson?”

Fuck. Someone get a gun and shoot me now.

“Ms. Stevenson,” I say, turning to face the lawyer for Ride’m Hard. June Stevenson is a thirty-something debutante with long blonde hair, long slim legs and a long sharp knife. A knife she has spent the past few weeks repeatedly jabbing into my back and brain. I expect it will be a long time before I will forget her. As her eyes bore into mine, I shift myself awkwardly trying to mask the psychological wet spot left by the jury. She smirks at me knowingly.

“My client asked me to settle up with you,” she says handing me a slip of paper. Her voice is even with just a hint of contempt and amusement.

I glance down at the paper and realize with embarrassment that it is a cheque from Ride’m Hard for $59.99.

“Your client brought a—“

“We were confident the jury would return the right verdict,” she says without any effort to mask her glee. “Don’t spend it all at once.”

Series NavigationOPD: Chapter Two (The Bavarian) >>

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