The Chief’s Neanderthaler-face was usually expressionless when he was sitting bent over on his office sofa, clinging to the whisky bottle. But if my words contained only a hint of deviating from the heterosexual world his mind
would spring into action. He would wipe his forehead and his widened eyes, ready to pop out of their sockets, would stare at me with excitement. Then his eyes winked at me as if something of great importance was taking place that need not be put into words. Instead of words his jaw moved from side to side like a goat chewing grass. Soon he became obsessed with touching me, first as if by accident, later more and more tinged with his homosexual desire. He must have imagined that all gay men secretly demand to be touched in his office. Or probably he thought that gay men are rent-boys, always trying to make a sale. His sexual behavior had seemingly waited for more than half a century to be changed in an instant. He gave the impression of a religiously inspired
‘sworn homosexual virgin’ that broke his promissory words and fell headlong for my uncut wiener.
Driven by his desperate need to make homosexual contact with a man, the voice of a pansy suddenly spoke from the mouth of the closeted and sex-starved spy Chief: "I want to swallow your semen and drink your pee", he said
in the oily way of a salesman who is about to offer you something you know you don’t want. Maybe I should have packed some of my desired semen on dry ice and send it via UPS to him. But his split personality wanted man-on-man sex by any means possible. "Does romance between men really exist?" he asked while his heart must have been pounding wildly at gerbil speed, because his hands were trembling as if before God. "I have never dated a man before". Befitting for an American with a puritan notion of moral while flirting with his homosexual dark side, the only man the Chief ever came close to was his homosexual skeleton in the closet.
To become a human being, was the Chief just missing a penis up his behind? "I am in love!" he was yodeling and I became the heartthrob in the mind of the lonely spy Chief. The druggie-wuggie craved hanky-panky and his brain was giving him the alcohol induced hallucination that he was in a gay romantic relationship, hidden from his estranged wife. He would employ every trick he knew to please me, despite the fact that I told him to have his
first homosexual encounter with someone who would appreciate it. "I will abandon my wife and career to be with you", the simian offered, whereas I thought it more romantic to hook up with a chimpanzee at the zoo. The unmoved spy Chief found him self cold-shouldered, turned into a crybaby and washed his face with tears. The Chief, the CIA‘s hatchet man, was misting up over his own tragedy! He mouthed unfortunate feelings of fondness and affection while I felt revulsion.
The rejected Chief crawled on the floor direction desk, his alcoholism urged him on. He came up on his knees, rummaged on the wrong side of the desk for the whisky bottles and cursed the furniture. Then he wobbled carefully on his knees to the other side of the desk, reached in, pulled the whisky out, opened it and took five gluttonous swallows, his Adam’s apple popping up and down. He must have felt dehydrated and whisky is the stuff of his life. Teary eyed he held his hand out to me and asked "Where do I go now?" I thought to suggest the American Bible Institute. All hell was about to brake
lose soon after. One day he curled up into an oversized ball and covered his balding head with his arms. His knees suddenly started to vibrate in a most curious way and a penetrating sweetish smell drifted up from the spy Chief and soon filled the office air. Then he shot out of the office and ran into the filthy bathroom across the murky hallway, trailing what one can smell from the sidewalks in the dark alleys of American cities – piss.
The gay freshman made a quick transition from the closet to homosexual voracity. He suddenly behaved like an animal on steroids, unable to quit his unquenchable addiction. With his moon face and horny mind he could have been on cortisone. He walked a thin line between his masochistic inclinations and his aggressive behavior.
Working for the Chief of spies was a long and tortuous nightmare.
American spies have long degenerated into organized bandits. The CIA once bugged a Las Vegas hotel room to find out for a mafia-boss if his girlfriend was having an
affair with a comedian. "I have investigated my ex-wives because I believe I am not the biological father of all my children", the Chief yelled with pink eyes, cupped his hands like a megaphone and damned the female world in his foul-mouthed way. "Fcuk you all, bitches!"
Caught with his pants down, he began to tell the story of his own Dr. Jekyll – Mr. Hyde double life. As if wanting to introduce a new kind of undergarment, the Chief would often sit on the sofa dressed-down into black rubber underpants which stank to heaven, and a feather boa in the delicate shade of dog-shit brown. He was not exactly from the fashion police, his background was more like the Gestapo.
One cold January morning he slipped his drab cold-war trench coat from his shoulders and dropped his greasy looking pants. "Sometimes I am misbehaving on the morning train". Pumped for a real stinker, the serial sex offender reached into his crotch and pulled a not-so-clean dildo from his squeaking ass. "I love these bumpy rides
on the train when I am packing", marveled the vulgar flasher. Unceremoniously he had deflowered himself with his favorite dildo. Even John Updike would have thrown up.
The Chief has always been drawn to the seamier side of life, closer to reality television than to ‘Masterpiece Theater’. His offices were located in a run-down building in the seedy part of town. The upper-floors in that building were not rented out and for that reason the bathrooms there much cleaner than downstairs. This is where I normally went to relieve myself. Running like a pig, the Chief would follow me sometimes upstairs to get a partial look of me sitting on the can. He would peek through the crack between the frame and the stall door.
His lewd conduct in the men’s room was not unlike that of former Senator Larry Craig, who later claimed the case against him was misconstrued. Indeed, as everybody knows by now it was the undercover restroom-policeman who solicited Senator 'I Am Not Gay' Craig on an airport
toilet for sex between men by waving his hand under the stall’s partition.
Standing in a wide stance outside the stall, the Chief expanded his staring into a bold question one day. "Sir, can I lick your boots?" his voice asked from beyond the stall door. Did he want to dine on the wind and drink the dew? Surprised I flipped the lock open, leaned back and watched the closet-case go down on his knees, breathing the dust or whatever there was on the floor as he bent down to lick my boots. "Please don’t tell my wife", pleaded the masochistic Chief while his tongue was black from licking boots. Phlegm dribbled from his distorted mouth and soiled his shirt. I actually enjoyed the tickle coming to my sensitive toes from the Chief’s swishing tongue. The creepy bootlicker unbuckled his belt and opened his fly, pulled his knickers down to the knees and reached for his cock inside the underwear. He began masturbating until he announced the spilling of his seeds with a groan, foaming up the bathroom floor. He pulled his tongue off my boots, stood up, got his pants back on,
closed the stall door and walked away with a "I like that, thank you Sir". The masochistic Chief must have left the soiled men’s room floor behind with a feeling of bond toward my boots that he might not be able to explain to his wife.
The CIA should have him dishonorably discharged for
‘men’s room indiscretion’, since his preferences grew ever more unworldly. He was about to turn himself into the proverbial toilet. The other morning he was in the upstairs bathroom kneeling next to the urinals as I stepped in.
Seeing the pig on the floor I made a wild guess what he was waiting for – ‘Happy Hour: All You Can Drink’. As nature was calling I raised my leg pantomiming a dog.
The frisky Chief looked like the caricature of a pitbull -thirsty for what is not yet the national drink of America.
During ‘tea-time’ Pee-Wee Paterson liked to guzzle ‘it’
with his eyes shut in ecstasy, which made me act rather generously. I let fly, changing - Yes I Can! - between fast spurting and slow dribbling. He caught most of it in
his gaping mouth with little drool on his chin and drank it all with gusto. That soft-drink must have been a watershed, something big and aquatic like a tsunami for the Chief. The feelings of the tearoom-party really flustered him, since afterwards moans of passion, a little burp of after taste and a whiff of pecker breath rose from the Chief‘s throat.
He acted in the office often very selfish, for example when he rocked his nimble fist ferociously, masturbating himself until he was red in the face. "Doesn’t my wiener look like that banana-shaped magazine of an AK-47", he asked while looking at the contours of his not-so-deadly weapon. The laughingstock worked himself into a sweaty frenzy, his thinning hair flailing while his eyes blinked nervously. Occasionally he was mopping the sweat from his forehead. Frantically, frenzied, heaven only knows how he finished it! Finally a long string of jelly was dangling from his cock, which had a repulsive odor. "I want to be thought of as intelligent and honorable", mumbled of all things the American spy Chief.
Bearing in mind the Chief is coming from a family who invented academic lynching on a global scale, I got the impression that the ‘Land of Opportunity’ is all but a cruel joke. The semi-naked Olympic drinker hunched over on the sofa and looked like a haunting gargoyle. Lost in apathy his eyes stared empty on the floor while he was sitting there vegetating. His brain had fallen asleep and forgot to tell his body what to do.
Like a defecating pig with a besotted flabby belly, the semi-obese stinker suddenly blurted out the CIA &
Paterson spying operations while smearing semen all over his shaved pubic bristles as if icing on a cake. Observing his jelly-masterpiece and with the corners of his mouth sagging he finally emerged from his idiocy and stammered: "I manage secret worldwide spying operations at universities and research centers"! And so the code of silence was broken by the uncombed helmsman. Paterson Inc. is giving the CIA a thousand eyes on overseas universities, academics, students, research, political enemies, fingerprints, bank accounts and much more.
"We are a covert operations contractor for the CIA".
Paterson Inc. had expanded its original university supplier business beyond any legal and moral justification. "Our affiliation with the CIA is classified information". The brainchild of the CIA had grown into an ugly monster.
"We are kicking academic ass since five decades". He held his juiceless balls and coughed as if testing for hernia. "Our work is so sensitive that I am not allowed to discuss it". He was about to divulge the spy contractor’s secrets until his lips would grow blisters.