4. Chapter Two

Chapter Two

Felix

“ Anilingus… ” Scrolling through the page in my browser, I skim the definition and quickly decide against the first word on the list.

There is absolutely no way I can read about orally stimulating your partner’s anus and all the ways to do it on my podcast. Nope, that’s not happening.

So, I keep scrolling.

“Electrostimulation?” No, not with stimulation in there. “Maybe melolagnia. That’s kind of fun to say. Melolagnia. And it’s basically just next level love of music. I could do that.”

With a sigh, I scrub a hand over my face and spin my chair to ask Roger what he thinks.

“How do you feel about melolagnia? So far, it seems like my best option. It’s not too vulgar, it’s kind of fun to say, and the definition won’t give me a stroke when I read it on the air.”

Roger lifts his head and gives me the most judgemental look he can muster before he resumes licking the pilling off his argyle sweater. Which would be really fucking weird if he wasn’t a morbidly obese sphinx cat, but he is, so it’s just really weird that I’m asking him about the new segment on my podcast.

Ugh .

With a groan, I turn back to my research for the next episode and scold myself all over again.

I can’t believe I agreed to this.

Opening the podcast up to listener suggestions was a last ditch effort to keep it afloat.

Not that I’m in it for fame or notoriety. That’s actually the last thing I want to happen, but when my followers took a nosedive into the low double digits, I had to do something.

Allowing listeners to send in words or excerpts for analysis was a good idea, I thought. One supported by the way ratings picked up again, and I felt a lot better about things.

Then I got that email.

Zia.

I shift around uncomfortably in my computer chair, refusing to go down that road again.

Because jerking off to an email exchange with a listener can’t be viewed as normal or acceptable.

Even if it seemed like it was the desired reaction Zia wanted from me.

I kept my responses cool, calm, and collected. I stayed professional and respectful, but reading those words and wondering why someone would want to hear me say them so badly had my mind wandering.

Had my hand wandering too, right into the front of my jeans and wrapping around my cock.

I’m not necessarily a prude, but I am a purist when it comes to my show. Even though I refused to read what Zia wrote on the air, it didn’t mean I didn’t read it multiple times while envisioning everything she detailed.

A pretty girl on her knees, her lips wrapped around my dick while big tear-stained eyes stared up at me…

I shake the thought from my head and go back to my research.

Maybe it wasn’t exactly what Zia had in mind, but I’m a male of my word, and one week later I was talking about nebulophilia on The Nerd Word.

Did I think discussing how someone can become aroused by fog or steam was going to cause a spike in my followers? Not at all, but it did, and when I decided on robot fetishes for the next week, it happened again.

And that’s when the emails started flooding in.

I got dozens of emails from listeners—new and old—who wanted to hear more of my voice saying those words. Men and women alike sent dirty narratives, serious propositions, and a hell of a lot of photos of naked boobs and erect penises.

I couldn’t believe the way my podcast started traveling up the charts, slowly but surely, because it’s never been very popular. As actual reviews started popping up after two years of never having one, I found myself excited to see what people had to say.

And I didn’t feel so alone anymore.

Which was enough for my exiled ass to make Crude Corner a permanent part of my regular lineup.

“Melolagnia it is then,” I say with a sigh as I slump back in my chair.

The literature lover in me wants to argue about having this segment at all because it takes away from the entire point of starting my podcast in the first place, but that lonely, isolated part of me that longs to be a part of a coven again… that part won, and it’s gotten very comfortable with using my voice to make panties wet and groins tight across the country .

And that’s a direct quote from a listener.

The alarm on my phone beeps just as the last page of research shoots out of my printer, reminding me that it’s not only time to get ready to head to the studio, it’s also time to eat.

I get up from my desk and make my way across the room to the fridge, pull open the buzzing appliance, then grab a bottle of coconut water.

The small fluorescent light above the sink hums and flickers as I pop the top and pour it into a mug. The light finally burns out as I stick the white ceramic in the microwave and zap my dinner for forty-one seconds.

I really don’t want to call my landlord for that.

I don’t want to call him for anything, honestly, but that fixture looks like a fire hazard waiting to ignite, and I’d rather not be the one who goes up in flames.

Scratching my bare chest, I take my mug out and blow on the steaming liquid, then pop my hip against the counter and look around my so-called studio apartment.

It’s not much.

There’s a twin bed in the far corner, a single folding chair and card table against the wall by the door, and my desk sits across from that along the entire length of that side of the room. My three-drawer dresser stands immediately outside the only other door, my personal effects on top of it because there’s no shelving or space in the tiny sardine can of a bathroom— just enough for the child-size sink and toilet, and a rod for the curtain that hides a shower head above a drain. The kitchenette consists of a beat-to-hell refrigerator, an electric cooktop I’ve never used, a sink that groans every time I turn it on, and a microwave that might just be one of the first models ever produced.

So yeah, my apartment isn’t much, but it’s in the basement of a borderline condemned pawn shop owned by a crazy old coot who has no idea what day it is most of the time. All of that means my place is dark, it’s cold, it’s cheap, and most importantly, I’m left alone.

Not that I want that.

The isolation is really starting to get to me but living up here, amongst the humans? Being left alone is a necessity I can’t afford to skimp on.

“Right,” I say to myself with a firm nod as I take a sip of my coconut water.

Still a little too hot.

It’s hard to replicate body temperature in a liquid that was never in a body, and using an ancient microwave to do it makes it even more difficult.

Tea kettles don’t work—it gives the water a strange taste.

Warming it in a pan does the same thing, and leaving the cans room temperature doesn’t achieve the same thing I need the vegan blood substitute to do.

Vegan blood.

What a joke.

It’s not a terrible alternative, but it sure as hell isn’t the same.

Coconut water doesn’t last as long, and buying enough to keep myself fed and sane is damn expensive.

And let me tell you, it’s not exactly easy to find a strictly overnight job with next-to-no social interaction that asks no questions—or for legal documents—and covers rent, utilities, my needs, and Roger’s expenses.

My gaze shifts to my cat, who’s now awkwardly sprawled on the bed trying in vain to lick his ass and tail.

“Maybe if you lost a few pounds, cleaning your butthole on my pillow wouldn’t be so difficult.” He stops and looks at me as I push off the counter and walk to my dresser. “Sticking to your diet would help.” I throw back my dinner and set the mug next to my deodorant, opening the top drawer to grab a pair of socks. “Can’t complain too much, I guess. Not since you finally stopped fainting like a goat every time I put your leash on. You’re down a whopping six pounds now that you actually walk to work with me.”

Roger blinks at me slowly, stares a little longer, then resumes trying to get his ass clean.

“Exercise is good for both of us,” I basically say to myself since my cat doesn’t talk back, and I’ve apparently lost my goddamn mind based on the amount I talk to him, anyway.

Definitely time to head to work. I need some more human interaction before I start talking to the furniture.

“Hey, Felix,” Mandy says with a smile as Roger and I walk into Hellcat Studio—the tiny little public access radio station where I work.

And where I record The Nerd Word.

“Hey.” I give her a nod as I set my messenger bag on the floor of the sound room, then unhook Roger’s leash. “How was it today?”

She shrugs. “Uneventful. Quieter than usual. Lawrence had a family emergency, so he didn’t come in.”

“So no, Law’s War tonight?”

“Nope.” Mandy chuckles as she grabs her jacket. “Normal lineup otherwise, but I didn’t realize how much of a mess Lawrence made while he rehashed the great battles through history.”

This is where I could say something witty like, war is pretty messy , maybe a little smarter than that, but I could try for a little bit of conversation. I don’t though, because I’m still kind of hungry and the longer Mandy stays, the more she’ll look like a snack.

“See you tomorrow, Felix.”

I nod my goodbye as she heads for the door, and as soon as Mandy leaves, I lock up and start my normal routine.

Technically, I’m just the janitor here at the studio, cleaning at night, doing light maintenance and upkeep to a building that's been around since the sixties, but when the owner found out I was semi-handy when it came to the electronic side of things, he asked me to do more.

At first, I just made sure the classical music that plays from 10 p.m. to 5 a.m. ran smoothly, but now I keep all the radio equipment in working order. Everything from the DJ mics and headphones to the soundboard and PA system.

I’m not incredibly knowledgeable or some tech guru, but I know enough to keep the station running at night, and it was exactly what I needed to bargain with in order to gain use of the studio for my own recording purposes.

My apartment had a lot of background noise and the wiring is shit, and since my computer and Wi-Fi is almost more than it can handle, there’s no way I could have a bunch of recording equipment hooked up in there.

So I come to Hellcat around ten, fire up the classical so it plays all night, get to cleaning the studio top to bottom, and make sure nothing needs fixing, then I use the extra equipment to record my podcast.

It’s not ideal, but it works. Plus I can bring Roger and earn a paycheck in the process.

And since I’m indefinitely stuck here in this boring, lonely, soul-crushing level of the universe with beings my kind typically eats for dinner, this is all I’ve got right now.

Not that I had much more back home. There are multiple reasons I was sent here to rot, but at least I don’t have to hide because of them anymore.

No, now I just have to hide because the sun is scary, humans are food, and freaky-looking vampires who are obsessed with words and the English language, comic books and anime, and old-timey true crime are just as weird up here as they are down there.

Regardless of where I am, alone is all I’ll ever be.