Fic: QAF "10,000 Fucks"
Title: 10,000 Fucks
Rating: A soft R, I guess.
Summary: Brian, age 22. This is what happens when a senior business major starts applying what he learns in the classroom to his personal life.
Disclaimer: It all belongs to CowLip and Showtime. Just their luck. The Tepper School of Business at Carnegie Mellon really does exist, and the dean would undoubtedly be hitting Brian up for an alumni donation if he could only find Kinnetik's headquarters.
Feedback: Yes, please.
Author’s Note: I began wondering when Brian came up with his theory of 'never the same trick twice' following a comment that mofic left to an earlier post. Once I started thinking, I got an interesting answer.
In high school, Brian hated most of his classes, because he thought they were boring. How many times could you sit there and re-read the same piece of literature, or some dead piece of history? But he made himself do it because he knew a scholarship was his one-way ticket out of the Kinney domestic scene, away from Jack and Joan. For that, he’d read Romeo and Juliet until his eyes fell out.
Math and science were his strengths, he knew that, everybody knew that. Who in their right mind would take both advanced chemistry and physics in their senior year, unless they loved it? Michael understood the real reason why, even if Brian never built the bomb he talked about during fall semester. It gave him a project to fill the time while he was cruising through those other courses on autopilot. At least it kept him from being bored.
He’d worried that Carnegie Mellon would be more of the same, half the classes in things Brian hated, but surprise, surprise! The freedom of college allowed him to find courses he liked. He took Introduction to Economics 101 as a freshman and it was half full of business majors who he easily topped in grades.
Following his Econ midterm, he rewarded himself by topping a junior business major, too. The guy turned out to be one of those post-coital talkers, and in spite of himself, Brian liked what he heard. Business classes sounded easy and interesting. In the spring, Brian managed to get into a Marketing class that wasn’t filled with upperclassmen, and he was hooked.
The class wasn’t always easy, that was a lie, but it hardly mattered. Brian realized that he’d been in marketing his whole life. He’d been selling himself as a product all along: to a scholarship committee as the perfect student, to his soccer coach as a team leader, to guys in bars as the ultimate fuck. Branding, packaging, consumer buying behavior-it was like he already knew it, a built-in second nature. No wonder he aced the class, and every other class he took in the Tepper School of Business’s Marketing track.
Now, in the spring of his senior year, he was taking an advanced elective on Target Markets. Basic demographics for types of products (3-5 for children’s toys, 13-17 for fast food products, 45-80 for men’s hair coloring). Age, gender, and social group often splintered differently, depending on the product, and the successful marketer figured out how to use that information for maximum effect.
The professor assigned a lot of individual projects, which meant Brian could work on his own a lot of the time. He liked that. One of the assignments was to take a known product and project its sales through a ‘lifetime of consumption.’ What was the longevity of a product once it passed through its core market of buyers? The example in the textbook was McDonald’s Happy Meals, a three curve demographic. Children 2-7 were the core demographic, and parents 25-40 who bought their food. A smaller blip for 60-75 when Granma and Granpa were the ones opening their wallets. Brian snickered as he read it: good thing those Golden Arches had a lot of other products for people 7-25 and 40-60, or they’d be out of business.
He read the assignment one more time, picked a product he knew something about-condoms-and started writing up his analysis. A little time in the library to get some specifics to add to his paper, and by Sunday night, the project was done. Monday morning at class Brian handed it in, and by Tuesday, he should have been on to the next assignment.
Only on Tuesday afternoon, he found himself lying on the couch of his crappy apartment, staring at the ceiling, slowly getting stoned. He rolled a new joint while he smoked the old one, trying not to think too hard. Trying not to think about condoms and that stupid project.
When Brian wrote up the assignment and handed it in, he’d adjusted the figures for condom sales based on age, gender, and social or ethnic diversity, the three standard variables for target groups. Eleven-year-old girls wouldn’t buy condoms, and neither would Catholics, two facts he’d included in the paper. He’d even managed to work in a reference to the other new variable they had been studying, lifestyle. College-aged men in fraternities probably bought more condoms than those who weren’t in fraternities. More parties, more pussy, Brian reasoned, though he’d been careful of the language he used when he wrote that part of the paper. No need to get graded down for being flip.
A few choice facts he also hadn’t included were about the gay community. Condom use was skyhigh on Liberty Avenue, something he saw nightly. Hell, even he’d taken to buying in bulk, to cut his expenses when money got tight. But Brian hadn’t put the figures in because he didn’t want the professor to grade him lower for including condom use among gays under ‘gender’ when the straight white male sap might call it ‘lifestyle’ instead. Fucker.
He thought about the projections he had made for gay ‘lifetime of consumption’, comparing it to his own personal statistics.
Gay males 15-16, 20 per year. Living at home. Pathetic.
Gay males 17-18, 100 per year. Post-car purchase. But still at home.
Gay males 19-22, 700 per year. Ah, college. And don’t forget to round up for breakage and loss and loaners, like the ones Mikey bums at Babylon.
Gay males 23-29, 1000 per year. Going strong. Threesomes. Yeah.
Brian could hardly wait to test that little projection and see if it was accurate. By age 30, he’d have used over 10,000 condoms. Note to self: buy stock in Trojans with first job bonus. Who cared if he inflated the numbers a little? He was getting off two, three times a night, and that was all that mattered.
So what was it that had him half-stoned, lying on the stupid couch staring at his stupid ceiling thinking about target-fucking-marketing?
The rest of his ‘lifetime of consumption.’
Gay males 30-40, 200 per year. You’ll be lucky to keep picking up tricks twice a week, unless you work hard on your looks.
Gay males 41-50, 52 per year. Mostly from jerking off at home and not wanting to make a mess while watching porn.
Gay males 51-death, 20 per year. If you can get it up at all. Totally pathetic.
Definitely a drop off from his sexual peak. 2500, 3000 condoms total for the rest of his life? More like falling off the fucking Matterhorn. And forget about what the men would look like at 50 or 60. Old farts who would make his dick soft.
Plus there was another problem. Were there 10,000 fags in Pittsburgh he’d want to screw? Brian had already run the numbers before he handed in the project, trying to estimate how many queers lived in Steeltown. 1.6 million Pitts residents according to the 1990 census, and half of them were women.
1.6 million
- 800,000
________
800,000
90% of the men were too old or too young
800,000
x .10
_________
80,000
80% of the remainder were straight and weren’t lying to themselves about it
80,000
x .20
________
16,000
and that 16,000 included all the queers his age who were fat, heroin-addicted, going bald, or sucked at giving head. And not in a good way.
However…if he only needed 10,000 (okay, call it 12,000) to get to age 30, he still had a large margin for error. It meant he could tell guys he didn’t want to fuck off, and still have plenty of ass left over for his ‘lifetime of consumption.’
It also meant he didn’t have to screw Terry Dowling tonight. Brian’s fuckbuddy of the moment had been calling and calling, driving him crazy to come over and ‘do that thing with his tongue one more time’. It was like eating tuna casserole for the third straight day in a row. Boring.
10,000 fucks would put boredom on hold indefinitely, though. Why repeat, when you could have a different ass every night? Big, small, tanned, dimples, a sea of possibilities. If supplies ran low, he could always get a job in New York. That thought made Brian smile, as he slowly exhaled another smoke ring.
His imagination took over: handsome men with big dicks, beautiful guys with shaved balls begging to be sucked on, smooth tricks whose skin smelled like musk when you flipped them over and tongue-fucked their asses. Holes that demanded dick, mouths that sucked cock like a porn star, hands that would jerk him off and thank him for the privilege. Men with tattoos, with piercings, with sideburns. All that beauty, waiting to be explored. A new bottom every night. Or a new top, on the rare occasion he felt like getting the shit fucked out of him.
And after his 10,000 fucks were over? Yank the product off the shelf before consumers got sick of it. Forget rebranding. Forget those low-quality, over-the-hill fucks. Get out before the goods were picked over, marked down for clearance. Commit suicide instead.
But until then…a different man every time.
You do the math.
Rating: A soft R, I guess.
Summary: Brian, age 22. This is what happens when a senior business major starts applying what he learns in the classroom to his personal life.
Disclaimer: It all belongs to CowLip and Showtime. Just their luck. The Tepper School of Business at Carnegie Mellon really does exist, and the dean would undoubtedly be hitting Brian up for an alumni donation if he could only find Kinnetik's headquarters.
Feedback: Yes, please.
Author’s Note: I began wondering when Brian came up with his theory of 'never the same trick twice' following a comment that mofic left to an earlier post. Once I started thinking, I got an interesting answer.
In high school, Brian hated most of his classes, because he thought they were boring. How many times could you sit there and re-read the same piece of literature, or some dead piece of history? But he made himself do it because he knew a scholarship was his one-way ticket out of the Kinney domestic scene, away from Jack and Joan. For that, he’d read Romeo and Juliet until his eyes fell out.
Math and science were his strengths, he knew that, everybody knew that. Who in their right mind would take both advanced chemistry and physics in their senior year, unless they loved it? Michael understood the real reason why, even if Brian never built the bomb he talked about during fall semester. It gave him a project to fill the time while he was cruising through those other courses on autopilot. At least it kept him from being bored.
He’d worried that Carnegie Mellon would be more of the same, half the classes in things Brian hated, but surprise, surprise! The freedom of college allowed him to find courses he liked. He took Introduction to Economics 101 as a freshman and it was half full of business majors who he easily topped in grades.
Following his Econ midterm, he rewarded himself by topping a junior business major, too. The guy turned out to be one of those post-coital talkers, and in spite of himself, Brian liked what he heard. Business classes sounded easy and interesting. In the spring, Brian managed to get into a Marketing class that wasn’t filled with upperclassmen, and he was hooked.
The class wasn’t always easy, that was a lie, but it hardly mattered. Brian realized that he’d been in marketing his whole life. He’d been selling himself as a product all along: to a scholarship committee as the perfect student, to his soccer coach as a team leader, to guys in bars as the ultimate fuck. Branding, packaging, consumer buying behavior-it was like he already knew it, a built-in second nature. No wonder he aced the class, and every other class he took in the Tepper School of Business’s Marketing track.
Now, in the spring of his senior year, he was taking an advanced elective on Target Markets. Basic demographics for types of products (3-5 for children’s toys, 13-17 for fast food products, 45-80 for men’s hair coloring). Age, gender, and social group often splintered differently, depending on the product, and the successful marketer figured out how to use that information for maximum effect.
The professor assigned a lot of individual projects, which meant Brian could work on his own a lot of the time. He liked that. One of the assignments was to take a known product and project its sales through a ‘lifetime of consumption.’ What was the longevity of a product once it passed through its core market of buyers? The example in the textbook was McDonald’s Happy Meals, a three curve demographic. Children 2-7 were the core demographic, and parents 25-40 who bought their food. A smaller blip for 60-75 when Granma and Granpa were the ones opening their wallets. Brian snickered as he read it: good thing those Golden Arches had a lot of other products for people 7-25 and 40-60, or they’d be out of business.
He read the assignment one more time, picked a product he knew something about-condoms-and started writing up his analysis. A little time in the library to get some specifics to add to his paper, and by Sunday night, the project was done. Monday morning at class Brian handed it in, and by Tuesday, he should have been on to the next assignment.
Only on Tuesday afternoon, he found himself lying on the couch of his crappy apartment, staring at the ceiling, slowly getting stoned. He rolled a new joint while he smoked the old one, trying not to think too hard. Trying not to think about condoms and that stupid project.
When Brian wrote up the assignment and handed it in, he’d adjusted the figures for condom sales based on age, gender, and social or ethnic diversity, the three standard variables for target groups. Eleven-year-old girls wouldn’t buy condoms, and neither would Catholics, two facts he’d included in the paper. He’d even managed to work in a reference to the other new variable they had been studying, lifestyle. College-aged men in fraternities probably bought more condoms than those who weren’t in fraternities. More parties, more pussy, Brian reasoned, though he’d been careful of the language he used when he wrote that part of the paper. No need to get graded down for being flip.
A few choice facts he also hadn’t included were about the gay community. Condom use was skyhigh on Liberty Avenue, something he saw nightly. Hell, even he’d taken to buying in bulk, to cut his expenses when money got tight. But Brian hadn’t put the figures in because he didn’t want the professor to grade him lower for including condom use among gays under ‘gender’ when the straight white male sap might call it ‘lifestyle’ instead. Fucker.
He thought about the projections he had made for gay ‘lifetime of consumption’, comparing it to his own personal statistics.
Gay males 15-16, 20 per year. Living at home. Pathetic.
Gay males 17-18, 100 per year. Post-car purchase. But still at home.
Gay males 19-22, 700 per year. Ah, college. And don’t forget to round up for breakage and loss and loaners, like the ones Mikey bums at Babylon.
Gay males 23-29, 1000 per year. Going strong. Threesomes. Yeah.
Brian could hardly wait to test that little projection and see if it was accurate. By age 30, he’d have used over 10,000 condoms. Note to self: buy stock in Trojans with first job bonus. Who cared if he inflated the numbers a little? He was getting off two, three times a night, and that was all that mattered.
So what was it that had him half-stoned, lying on the stupid couch staring at his stupid ceiling thinking about target-fucking-marketing?
The rest of his ‘lifetime of consumption.’
Gay males 30-40, 200 per year. You’ll be lucky to keep picking up tricks twice a week, unless you work hard on your looks.
Gay males 41-50, 52 per year. Mostly from jerking off at home and not wanting to make a mess while watching porn.
Gay males 51-death, 20 per year. If you can get it up at all. Totally pathetic.
Definitely a drop off from his sexual peak. 2500, 3000 condoms total for the rest of his life? More like falling off the fucking Matterhorn. And forget about what the men would look like at 50 or 60. Old farts who would make his dick soft.
Plus there was another problem. Were there 10,000 fags in Pittsburgh he’d want to screw? Brian had already run the numbers before he handed in the project, trying to estimate how many queers lived in Steeltown. 1.6 million Pitts residents according to the 1990 census, and half of them were women.
1.6 million
- 800,000
________
800,000
90% of the men were too old or too young
800,000
x .10
_________
80,000
80% of the remainder were straight and weren’t lying to themselves about it
80,000
x .20
________
16,000
and that 16,000 included all the queers his age who were fat, heroin-addicted, going bald, or sucked at giving head. And not in a good way.
However…if he only needed 10,000 (okay, call it 12,000) to get to age 30, he still had a large margin for error. It meant he could tell guys he didn’t want to fuck off, and still have plenty of ass left over for his ‘lifetime of consumption.’
It also meant he didn’t have to screw Terry Dowling tonight. Brian’s fuckbuddy of the moment had been calling and calling, driving him crazy to come over and ‘do that thing with his tongue one more time’. It was like eating tuna casserole for the third straight day in a row. Boring.
10,000 fucks would put boredom on hold indefinitely, though. Why repeat, when you could have a different ass every night? Big, small, tanned, dimples, a sea of possibilities. If supplies ran low, he could always get a job in New York. That thought made Brian smile, as he slowly exhaled another smoke ring.
His imagination took over: handsome men with big dicks, beautiful guys with shaved balls begging to be sucked on, smooth tricks whose skin smelled like musk when you flipped them over and tongue-fucked their asses. Holes that demanded dick, mouths that sucked cock like a porn star, hands that would jerk him off and thank him for the privilege. Men with tattoos, with piercings, with sideburns. All that beauty, waiting to be explored. A new bottom every night. Or a new top, on the rare occasion he felt like getting the shit fucked out of him.
And after his 10,000 fucks were over? Yank the product off the shelf before consumers got sick of it. Forget rebranding. Forget those low-quality, over-the-hill fucks. Get out before the goods were picked over, marked down for clearance. Commit suicide instead.
But until then…a different man every time.
You do the math.