Comic Release

Bonus story time, lebbis and gents! This gut-tickler of an idea struck me just recently, and was far too much fun to resist. It'll be very different from my normal material. This is my first in the Humor category. Even though I include a bit of humor in most stories, it doesn't dominate the main action. My four non-numbered "bonus" stories to this point (both "Redefining Punishment"s and both "Voxe"s) were written in first-person. I rather like that distinction, and want to keep it up.*Ahem!* Uh, you know what I mean. Do please enjoy, and of course, as with these or the regular Sagas, feedback's welcomed, valued and appreciated.

Additional notes: this story is set in the year 2005. And please observe the multiple categories listed below. I'm submitting this under Humor, but these others are just as accurate in description.

Categories: humor/satire, lesbian, non-human, toys/masturbation

Saturday, June 25th, 2005, 11:36 p.m.

I blew out disconcerted breath as I left the club and went home. It had been an okay night, but hardly great.

I took the stage for my slot, and did my half-hour set. I would've preferred it later in the evening—as the crowd got drunker—but it wasn't up to me. I suppose I did...all right, but...admittedly, I'm my own harshest critic. This is a good thing and a bad thing. You have confidence—especially after getting your first laughs—but it's shaky. But at the same time, you make yourself work harder. Comedy's not always pretty, folks, and it's sure as fuck not easy.

There were few girl comics tonight, and no lesbians at all other than me. This should've given me an edge, and probably did, but I still felt I could've done better. I was having sort of an off night with my timing and delivery, two musts in this racket. Making people laugh is my life's blood and the air I breathe, but dammit, I know how hard a business this is to break into. For anybody. I thought about it over and over as I drove home. There's a good deal more that goes into this craft than your average non-comedian realizes.

The girls'll complain, saying, "Oh, comedy's so much harder as a woman." And to a certain extent, I see their point. The world's used to laughing at dudes and making fun of them, so they do pretty well getting up there and just putting themselves down. And the girls—myself included—do that too; it's a good way to make friends with the audience and sway them to your side. But all the straight girls seem to know how to do's verbally shit on men. Y'know, not literally. Unless they pay an extra fifty.

The fact of the matter is, comedy's hard for everybody. Doesn't matter: guy, girl, black, white, gay, straight, whoever you are. A fucking spotlight on your face, sandwiched between a brick wall and a hundred people you don't know, talking funny into an electric stick and just praying to God the crowd's drunk enough, horny enough or with you enough to get it...yeah, anyone can do that. Change one word in your routine, or time it half a second the wrong way, and the whole thing can go down the shitter.

We may still be something of a novelty, but it's not like the world's oblivious to female comics, or even lesbian ones. We've had Lily (Tomlin) since the late '60s. Suzy Westenhoefer came along about a decade ago, and as everyone knows, Ellen famously came out eight years back. A few others've made it semi-big, and a lotta small-timers like me're still clawing our way up. Us gay chicks occupy a decent percentage of female comedy, and I'm pretty proud of it. So naturally, I wanna kick in my part as honorary member of the Lesbian Slayers. "We'll kill ya! We'll knock ya dead! Die laughing at our gayness, motherfuckers!"

Lately, though...I dunno, I guess I've been feeling uninspired. Material-wise. As a comic, you look at things through a different lens. You all know the mantra: "funny 'cause it's true." So you basically have to take what's going on in the world—or your own life—and mold it in an ironic way that the crowd finds amusing and can relate to. OH, oh, yeah, and then have the balls to get on up there and actually do it. I'm speaking metaphorically, of course; I don't have actual balls...or do I, ladies? Only one way to find out!

I got home, flipped on the tube and booted up my PC. I immediately hopped online, as I've done every day since my parents got AOL ten years ago. I fucking love the Internet. It's been with us a full decade now, and it's my resource for every-goddamn-thing. I don't use AOL anymore, though; I use something new called Mozzarella Firefox. Works great, but makes me hungry as hell.

Okay, I have a confession to make. When I got my tiny little studio apartment with my own computer, IP and connection, it was an embarrassingly short time before I started looking for porn. Hey, c'mon, don't judge me; I'm only human. I've got needs like anyone else...burning, yearning, churning, always fucking returning needs. And there's actually some decent lesbian porn out there...well, by my standards. Sure, some of it sucks. But some of this stuff you can't get in video stores, which I guess is the point. Some of these sites want you to subscribe, and pay a monthly charge on your credit card. And even if they are discreet, I somehow doubt I'd find it pleasant to open my Visa bill and see "$29.95: Muff-Munchers-dot-com" staring back at me month after month.

Besides, I can't afford it. I work at fucking Costco during the day, and make only a fraction of that at the clubs at night. The club owners haven't let me go yet though, that's a good thing. At least I still have a steady gig. But my material's gonna go stale eventually, and if I don't come up with some good new stuff, I might actually have to get a "real" career.

It comes easy to some comedians, I thought, aimlessly browsing. They just watch TV or go about their day and down anything funny that happens. I, li'l ol' Sharon Lessler, am no comedy prodigy. I've gotta work at it, and stay on top of current events to do topical humor, a fair chunk of my act. That's one of the reasons the Internet's my "wife" at the moment. I spend more time with her than anyone. She's the perfect mate! She's always there for me, she's never in a shitty mood, she's not demanding, she doesn't care how much I drink, she doesn't mind if I bring home other chicks—or other computers, for that matter—she knows everything, she never lies or cheats on me, and she's always D.T.F. Well, again, not literally.

I clicked and navigated through the Minnesota Daily, looking for bits and things to use as puzzle pieces for my routines. Speaking of puzzles, something I hadn't seen before caught my eye.

"What the hell is this?...'Sudoku: the brand-new Japanese number craze'?...'Place the numbers 1 through 9 in the grid so that every row, column and 3x3 box...'

"Oh my God, I can't figure that shit out; that is fucking insane. Heh! Craze, my ass; no way that'll ever catch on."

I went on, finally deciding I was done with the paper's site. Not sure where to go next, I took a break and went to grab something to munch on. Unfortunately, I couldn't munch anyone's muff at the moment, including my own. If I could bend that way, life would take a whole new path. If comedy didn't work out, maybe I could be a contortionist, eat my own pussy, and have it done right for once.

I returned from the kitchen-slash-fridge to the living-slash-dining-slash-computer-slash-office-slash-study-slash-everything-fucking-else room, to see something bizarre on the TV screen. Something sex-related. Knowing sex on television can't hurt you unless you fall off it, I sat and curiously tuned in. A rather hot-sounding female voice was narrating the infomercial-looking program, as equally sexy, playful music filled the background.

"Looking for a fun and kinky way to spice up your digital sex life?" she asked.

"Yes," I promptly replied.

"Then try Orgyware!" she announced. "The first fully interactive computer software to create your own three-dimensional playmates, who'll do, say and be anything you like!"

"Okay, lady, that's a stupid name. I can think of half a dozen names probably better than that. It is an interesting idea, though."

"With Orgyware, you can shape and design your benefitted friends to your libido's content," the voice purred. "Choose from any number of participants, to build your own group of fully-functional CGI sex buddies. With top-of-the-line text-to-speech capabilities, the most sensual voices, and a complete experience that'll blow you away."

Okay, I won't lie: I hadn't gotten laid in a while, and she was starting to turn me on. I felt my pussy wake up and start paying attention. The next thing my screen showed me was a smoking-hot babe in a translucent periwinkle dress. She spoke.

"Hi. I'm Kimberly. And believe it or not, I'm completely virtual."

My eyebrows arched in a trifle of surprise.

"Honestly, I'm not sure I do believe ya, Kim; you look a little too good."

More lasses appeared on the screen around Kimberly. Whoa. Yeah, I'll be truthful about it, this was more impressive than it looked at first. These were virtual girls? They looked...remarkably real. They could be actresses, I thought to my coochie. Right, Little Sharon?

...RIGHT, Little Sharon?...

"Orgyware created me. You can play with me, or any of my friends. We'd love to meet you. We'll do and say whatever you tell us to. You deserve the ultimate experience. Satisfaction...and arousal...guaranteed."

They were convincing me, I had to admit. I was getting a little wet.

"And if you think Kimberly and her friends look sexy with their clothes on..." cooed the sultry narrating voice. "...Just wait."

The screen blinked white, and Kimberly appeared again...without her dress. But...yeah...goddammit...they were pixelated and blurred.

"Ah, ah, ahh-hh..." scolded Kimberly, waving an admonishing finger. "No peeking...until you try Orgyware!"

"Oh, fuck you, you cunt-teasing bitch," I exclaimed through a laugh. It was funny and frustrating at the same time.

"And you ladies can join in the fun as well," added the voice. "Whip up your perfect gentlemen, to make you feel like the woman you always wanted to be."

A dude appeared.

"Hi there. I'm Dave. If you're not meeting the gents who treat you li—"

"No! No no no!" my pussy and I shouted. "Go the fuck away, Dave! Bring Kimberly back!"

But by this point, I was highly intrigued. Maybe my lack of recent girl attention had a hand in it, but I was liking what I was seeing.

"Orgyware is the hottest virtual erotic software on the Net," the voice told me. "Just look at these testimonials from real users."

Quoted words like "astonishing," "awesome" and "mindblowing" rolled onto the screen. I knew these things—and the names of the "users" who "said" them—could've been pulled out of thin air by the company itself. But it was harder to care by now.

"With Orgyware, you'll never be lonely again."

I knew the voice couldn't be too indelicate, but I wished she'd break the rules and say something like, "We'll give you the motherfucking orgasms of a lifetime, Sharon. We're gonna make you cum like a damn volcano." But, that'd be a hell of a promise to back up.

The screen then showed a montage of what I had to assume were virtual models. They were all looking sensually into the "camera"—at me—mostly women, a few men, some waving, blowing kisses, peeking seductively over the shoulder. Again, being a comedian, I wished they'd...oh, I dunno, grab themselves, make me some risqué finger gestures, something.

"Well, thanks, guys, but again, I don't think 'Orgyware''d look so great on my Visa statement."

"...And don't forget the best part: Orgyware is free of charge! We won't even ask you for a credit card."

I sat up. "You are fucking kidding me!" I hopped to my feet, ran back to the computer and looked it up. There it was, with a link. I downloaded it, just in time to hear—

"...With this software, you'll never be 'soft-ware' it counts again!"

"Oh, har har fuckin' har," I mock-laughed, jealous I didn't think of that joke myself. "So funny I forgot to piss my pants."

I shut off the TV and ran the application. The screen went black, and a dark blue silhouette of a human head appeared. It played me the same cool, low synth music from the infomercial.

"Ooh...whoa. Okay."

WELCOME TO ORGYWARE, SEXY! said a speech bubble. No voices, but I guessed that stuff would come later. LET'S GET STARTED!

"Let's indeed," I said. The text in the bubble slid out, and it asked, WHAT WOULD YOU LIKE ME TO CALL YOU, HOT STUFF? PLEASE TELL ME YOUR NAME AND PRESS ENTER.

I chuckled. This was corny, but kinda fun.

"What would I like you to call me? You're already kinda nicknaming me, Orgyware."

Should I use my real name? "Sharon"? Kinda boring. "Shar"? Nah. "Sharry"? Nope.

"Got it." I rested my fingers on the keys and typed.

A-S-S-F-U-C-K Enter.

HELLO, ASSFUCK!

I burst out laughing hysterically. Oh my fucking God, it actually said it.

NICE TO MEET YOU. AND WHAT WOULD YOU LIKE TO CALL ME, ASSFUCK?

I couldn't stop laughing. Suddenly, I was playing my own little game with this thing.

S-H-I-T-N-U-G-G-E-T Enter.

OKAY, I'M SHITNUGGET! THANK YOU FOR NAMING ME, ASSFUCK!

I collapsed on my keyboard, banging my fist on the desk. Tears flew from my eyes. I was laughing so hard I thought I might shit a nugget right on the chair. I'm sure the program was designed enthusiastic to encourage users, but somehow, the exclamation points made it so much funnier. I looked back up to the screen.

I'LL BE YOUR FIRST COMPANION! NOW YOU CAN BEGIN DESIGNING ME! WOULD YOU LIKE ME TO BE MALE OR FEMALE?

A F-U-C-K-I-N-G A-L-I-E-N Enter.

I'M SORRY, MY DEAR ASSFUCK. WE CANNOT DESIGN ALIENS. WOULD YOU LIKE ME TO BE MALE OR FEMALE?

"Oh," I said, further impressed. I didn't expect it to actually acknowledge I typed that. But of course, I wasn't done messing with it.

A G-O-D-D-A-M-N I-L-L-E-G-A-L A-L-I-E-N Enter.

I'M SORRY, SEXY ASSFUCK. WE CANNOT DESIGN ALIENS. WOULD YOU LIKE ME TO BE MALE OR FEMALE?

"Oh, fine." Guess its capabilities could only go so far. F-E-M-A-L-E Enter.

OKAY, ASSFUCK. The silhouette altered to a more feminine figure. I approved.

WHAT COLOR AND STYLE OF HAIR WOULD YOU LIKE ME TO HAVE?

A B-L-U-E M-O-H-A-W-K Enter.

FANTASTIC, ASSFUCK!

The silhouetted hair vanished, and...I couldn't believe it. Lo and fucking behold...a bright blue...goddamn...mohawk.

"You have got to be kidding me!" I guffawed. Wow, this thing really was more advanced than I'd given it credit for.

DO YOU LIKE THIS HAIR, ASSFUCK?

Y-E-S, I L-O-V-E I-T I-T-S F-U-C-K-I-N-G H-I-L-A-R-I-O-U-S Enter.

EXCELLENT! NOW WHAT COLOR EYES WOULD YOU LOVE TO GIVE ME?

PAODIG;LI4J;I4NT;IR3;2N2Z5 Enter.

I'M SORRY, LUSTY ASSFUCK. PAODIG;LI4J;I4NT;IR3;2N2Z5 IS NOT ONE OF OUR STANDARD EYE COLORS. NOW WHAT COLOR EYES WOULD YOU LOVE TO GIVE ME?

G-R-E-E-N Enter.

BRILLIANT! WONDERFUL CHOICE, ASSFUCK! Two nice emerald eyes appeared.

"Oooh. Pretty. Okay..."

WHAT TONE AND TEXTURE OF SKIN SHOULD I HAVE?

This time I typed back a question: CAN I CHANGE THE HAIR?

OF COURSE YOU CAN CHANGE MY HAIR, ASSFUCK! WHAT COLOR AND STYLE OF HAIR WOULD YOU LIKE ME TO HAVE?

"Wow!" I assessed. I typed back, starting to really like interacting with this thing.

LET'S SAY BRUNETTE, LONG AND WAVY. YOU'RE PRETTY SMART, SHITNUGGET!

THANK YOU, ASSFUCK! ORGYWARE IS A VERY INNOVATIVE PROGRAM! DO YOU LIKE THIS HAIR, ASSFUCK?

I DO, SHITNUGGET! DOES THE CARPET MATCH THE DRAPES?

YOU MAY DESIGN BACKGROUND SETTINGS IN LATER STEPS!

I MEANT YOUR PUBES, SHITHEAD.

YOU MAY DESIGN PUBIC HAIR IN LATER STEPS! WOULD YOU LIKE TO CHANGE MY NAME TO SHITHEAD, ASSFUCK?

I started cracking up again. NEVER FUCKING MIND. WHAT'S THE NEXT QUESTION?

The thing ended up asking me dozens and dozens more questions. But I guessed it took all this input to design a really quality virtual companion. And Shitnugget did inform me at one point that I, Sexy Madame Assfuck, could type in I'M FINISHED at any time.

I was liking my new creation so far, though. I'd molded Shitnugget into a pretty damn hot green-eyed Cathy Zeta-Jones. I didn't mind admitting that Orgyware had me Hornyware. I answered the section of questions about how I wanted her voice to sound. After this, I was about ready to start reaping the proverbial fruits. If I was going to do this, obviously I wanted to do it right. So, hoping I understood the complicated speech and body language tags, I threw together a whole mess of them, combined with what I wanted her to say, and fed it in. A circle of spinning bars appeared, below which read the words, "INTEGRATING...PLEASE WAIT, ASSFUCK."

Several moments later, Shitnug—er, Cathy came to life. To my utter amazement, she arched her eyebrows, smirked at me, and said— "Get naked for me, Sharon. I wanna see that wet hot American pussy."

Holy fuck.

Said wet hot American pussy made a tiny splatter of pre-cum in my panties. Suddenly, I wasn't laughing anymore. Declaring that my personal computer was my "wife" was taking on a whole new meaning. I typed a message to her.

GIMME A FEW SECS—PUN INTENDED—I'LL BE RIGHT BACK.

The program took its time to process, and answered accordingly. I typed back.

AND CALL ME SHARON.

"Okay, Sharon."

OH, YEAH, AND YOUR NAME'S CATHY NOW.

"I'm Cathy. Nice to meet you, Sharon."

That's a fucking understatement, I thought, stepping away from the computer. I obeyed the command I'd told Cathy to give me, taking my clothes off. I grabbed a towel, came back, slipped it over the chair and sat, scooting my ass to the edge.

I entered another shitload of tags, instructing Cathy to grab her tits, close her eyes and moan for me. And she did it.

"Ohhhh!"

This was fucking insane. Sure, it could've been a little more realistic, but you'd hardly know it to play with this thing (and with yourself at the same time). I knew the app was called Orgyware, but I didn't feel like creating any more girls tonight. Maybe tomorrow night I'd come up with another chick—Buttmonkey, perhaps—and make her and Cathy do every-fucking-thing to each other while I watched. Whatever Buttmonkey's real name ended up being, I thought I'd make her a sizzling hot ginger with a thick matching carpet. I got a kick out of picturing Cathy going to town on her fuzzy tangerine. Hell, that'd be one dot-com I wouldn't mind munching myself.

While Cathy was idle, she stood relatively still with a pleasant expression. I was starting to jill off to her like crazy. I took a minute here and there to look up how to do other stuff, like zoom in to various parts of her body, or make her lay down and spread her legs for me. While she was talking to me, I realized I'd forgotten to give her Cathy Zeta-Jones' accent. But that point was filed under "Don't Give A Shit At This Point." I'd give her an accent next time. Or give Buttmonkey one.

NOW JILL THE FUCK OFF FOR ME, CATHY, I typed as fast as I could with my left hand. Luckily, if one was busy, I was pretty good with the other. AND MOAN MY NAME.