Confessions of a Perverse Blue-Collar Worker
When Karen Asked Me for Her Dinner
I’m Jack, just another college-educated millennial stuck working various dead-end, minimum-wage jobs. If there is a shitty job out there, I’ve probably already had it.
I remember Karen. She was in her 40s, had that stupid short haircut that made her look like a blonde Sharon Osbourne and was probably somewhere between middle and entitled high class. By the time I caught a glance at her, right after she walked the door inside the shitty restaurant I worked for as a waiter at the time, I got that feeling in my guts that only those experienced in dealing with the public have about whether or not a specific customer means trouble. And Karen had that “I’m-an-entitled-bitch-who-is-frustrated-with-her-mediocre-domestic-life-therefore-I’m-going-to-take-it-all-out-on-the-staff-that-works-at-whatever-place-I’ll-order-my-meal-or-get-my-groceries-from” look all over her face.
So when I asked her “Hello, miss, what can I do for you today?” and without warning or reason she proceeded to scream and angrily complain about how long the waiting time had been and how filthy and dirty the restaurant was, it came off as no surprise. As a response, I did what I already had trained myself to do in years ever since I joined the workforce: deescalate the situation with apologetic explanations. But it looked like for Karen it did not really matter what I said and, the more I spoke, the more fueled she seemed to be. It shortly became pretty clear that Karen’s problem had nothing to do with the service or the establishment. All she wanted was to vent and take out her spoiled high class middle-aged woman frustrations on anyone she came across and was perceived as a working-class low-life by her petty, futile and shallow little mind.
As a young guy with a college education in journalism, who was stuck in a shitty blue-collar job because of systemic unemployment, I couldn’t help but think to myself “What have I done wrong to deserve this crap of a life?” I already had enough problems on my own. My professional life was going nowhere. I shared a decaying flat with three other young nobodies. No woman wanted to date me because I was broke. My full-time job as a waiter made me want to kill myself. There were barely any job vacancies opened in my field of studies and, when it did, nearly hundreds of unemployed and hungry recently graduated applicants lined up for that unpaid internship, which statistically seemed to make my opportunities nearly zero. And, since we’re speaking about statistics, I was also part of that demographic of young, over-qualified male workers that seemed to be at higher risk for suicide. I wasn’t sleeping much at night, which further worsened my chances.
Eventually, the altercations with Karen got personal. I don’t remember the exact words, but it was something like “It is your job to serve me properly as a customer, I have a busy and serious life, not a shitty job like yours.”
It was at that moment that I realized what I had to do. As a waiter, I had mentally prepared myself for that moment for a long time, but I always hoped that glorious opportunity to pass me by before it was my turn to take on that heroic and revengeful mantle.
I was going to cum all over Karen’s soon to be cooked vegan soup.
If you think about it, it’s not really that clever to treat someone who is going to either serve or cook your meal like shit. Those professionals actually have a surprising amount of power on their hands over your short-term future. And about whether that is going to involve a soup of shit, pee, spit, or sperm. For Karen, I had decided it was going to be the latter.
“It’s the quinoa vegan soup,” I said to Mrs. Wu, the Asian lady who probably had a Ph.D. back in China but now was just another exploited immigrant cooking meals in a country that did not give two craps about her dreams. She unceremoniously complied and said it was gonna take just another twenty minutes.
While what could have been the longest short wait of my life carried on, I did my best to clear my mind of anxieties and fears by focusing on writing down the orders of the remaining customers and serving the dishes that were finally prepared. Eventually, the time arrived and I grabbed the perfectly cooked quinoa meal from the kitchen. The moment had come and now there was no turning back.
So there I was, standing alone in the small corridor that separated the kitchen from the dining room and I had Karen’s vegan soup on my hands. I breathed deeply to calm myself now that it was time. I excused myself to the restroom, locked myself in one of the cubicles, unzipped my black pants, and brought my wiener out. I choked it with my left hand knowing I had exactly thirty seconds.
As a kid, I was always told I had a promising future. Being the only child from a middle-class family, as a sheltered and often over-protected boy, I learned to quickly live out my fantasies through literature and developed a liking for reading. In a time when most kids’ attention seemed to be sucked by reality shows and pointless trash TV, this gave me an advance and good start in school compared to most of my classmates. I was considered the class genius above all of his peers, adored and praised by both parents and teachers alike.
A child psychologist had also told my parents to make me listen to classical music. They say that those sophisticated melodies and arrangements can make a kid’s mind develop further, which in turn will pave the way to a higher IQ and better chances of one day getting a good job and being successful. Chopin, Mozart, Beethoven, Vivaldi, Bach, Debussy, Wagner… I knew them all. My family even made me learn to play the piano, which I could to a moderately decent extent.
And yet, many years afterward, there I was. Just a low-life waiter right in the bottom of the food chain, with my sausage in my left hand, in the restroom of a decaying and unremarkable restaurant in a crowded stinky and polluted city, about to show a middle-aged woman I had just met what was the feel of the involuntarily taste of a stranger’s sperm mixed with a vegan soup. And yet, for some reason I can’t fully understand, perhaps the consciousness of a lost childhood and its promises, all I could listen to in my mind as I was stroking my cock up and down was the sound of Beethoven’s Symphony No.5 in C minor, that glorious orchestral crescendo by the end, right before the ultimate climax of the composition.
As I was masturbating, I also imagined I was hate-fucking Karen’s bald and passive husband in the ass as she contemplated the scene from a chair, in powerless horror. He moaned painfully because he had never been on the passive side of rough anal sex before but, at the same time, he was willingly enjoying it. I have never felt sexually attracted to a man — however, in that moment, this scene seemed so arousing that I got hard and turned on by the simple imagining of Karen’s shock as I destroyed and fucked any trace of self-respect and dignity she had ever held in her domestic bourgeois high-class life.
I couldn’t help but to feel a little bit like a small revolutionary of sorts, a working-class hero who was momentarily fucking a high-class family. I was the Che Guevara of furious masturbation. The Malcolm X of spreading cum all over the dishes. The Spartacus of ruining a perfectly beautiful quinoa soup with my bodily fluids.
Apparently, my fantasized vision of choice worked and my cock exploded shortly before the half minute mark, the semen landing right on top of Karen’s vegan meal. I also got a little bit on my fingers, which I dripped into the dish and wiped the rest on the spoon she was about to use, cleaning the most obvious noticeable traces and mixing the soup very well.
With my body still aching and relaxed from the violent orgasm created by the thirty seconds climax, I proceeded to the dining room and unceremoniously left both dishes on Karen’s and her husband’s table.
Karen ate the soup, all of it, like a good girl. And she liked it, I bet she even wanted some more. And unknowingly, she had also eaten a working-class stranger’s cum.
In my delusional dreams, I’ve seen it. The prophecy of a world burning in an uprising, as all underpaid and abused waiters come together after learning to weaponize their cocks and bodily fluids against the ruling class. I’ve heard the rumors and I know there are many others out there like me. In my visions I see ourselves running around the ruins of Times Square after the collapse of civilization, free to roam with our dicks and genitals waving in the wind, shooting our loads in whichever direction we desire in a chaotic and uncoordinated but beautiful dance of naked bodies.
By my side, there is Mrs. Wu. She whispers into my ear: “Karen is gone now and there are no more dishes to serve. We are free.”
And I smile as the world goes up in flames.
This could happen to you too, wherever you are. If either you or your partner treats a waiter like shit for no reason, you have it coming. Your wife or girlfriend is getting a taste of working-class semen and you’re the one who’s paying for it. Only next time, be more polite than Karen.
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