Only The Names Have Been Changed

Only The Names Have Been Changed

 by Kyle Rader


Model SS-I-138-4NTXL was the lowest tier table in a new line of patio furniture designed by a celebrity (who did no real design of the furniture save for designing the logo to be laser-carved into the frames), who clung to relevance with the desperation of a suicidal person whom, at the last second, hesitated and now clung to a rooftop.

Seating up to six and made from beige steel formed into the shape of a hexagon along with a leaf-accented glass table-top with weather-resistant coating, (chairs and umbrella included), Model SS-I-138-4NTXL was unassuming to the standard consumer. The parts were crafted from materials in Indonesia; assembled and tested for quality in China; disassembled and shipped to a main hub in Georgia along with dozens upon dozens of its clones, all waiting to be shipped off and put on display.

Model SS-I-138-4NTXL sat in storage for exactly one month before being placed on an eighteen-wheeler and driven to the Bixby region superstore where it was unloaded and stacked neatly atop four other tables and put on sale for one-hundred and forty-nine dollars.

There it sat. Consumers gawked and moved on to other business. The store manager remarked that it was still early. “Spring is still young, after all. The big holiday sale is coming up and these babies will be flying off the shelves.”

The Ousley family, Geoffrey, Michelle and their three kids, Michael, Corey and Maria, loaded into the family CRV and drove on down to the big store as they did every other week for their grocery shopping. This weekend’s list was pretty much the standard thoroughfare: groceries for the rest of the month (Michelle and Corey liked to handle this part of the shopping) and sunscreen and new swimwear for the kids.

If you asked Geoffrey moments before he walked his family into the big store if he intended on even looking at patio furniture, he would have stared at you with his bulging, shit-brown eyes (due to an over-active thyroid) and said “No. No, I really don’t think I am in the market for a table”.

That was before Geoffrey saw Model SS-I-138-4NTXL. As he pushed his cart along the finely polished tile floors with little Maria clinging to the side for a free ride and Michael a few paces ahead because he was “too cool” to be seen with his family, Geoffrey swore he heard the voice of divinity as he steered past the table. It was calming, golden, and most of all, seductive.

“Michael, mind your sister and the cart for a second.” Geoffrey left the cart before the words came out of his mouth. The cart rolled along on waning momentum, carrying little Maria into a cardboard cut-out of Dwayne ‘The Rock’ Johnson proclaiming that ‘Handzi Handsoap’ was the only product for him.

Oblivious to the loud crash and to his daughter’s giggles, Geoffrey stared at the table, entranced. Model SS-I-138-4NTXL was not special; it possessed no magical properties. No explanation as to why Geoffrey would be so drawn to it, to this particular table out of the dozens just like it before him.

The cardboard felt smooth; the laminate sticker placed on at the factory protected Geoffrey’s tender skin from the corrugations. He tried to slide it off the shelf, but his sciatica acted up and sent indescribable pain down his legs. Still, the aura of Model SS-I-138-4NTXL sang to him, easing his mind from his chronic injury. He closed his eyes and allowed his aging hips to sway as the soft melody, one that sounded exactly like Endless Love, brought an oozing warmth to his cockles, and a sudden feeling that his pants were now too tight.

He ran his overly large forehead against the cardboard, whispering the lyrics made famous by Richie and Ross. His dry lips clung to the box; Geoffrey had to peel them from the label slowly, like peeling a scab from a wound. His shorts were stifling.

A tap on his shoulder, a rather insistent, painful one that defied the laws of physics and jabbed Geoffrey underneath his collarbone despite originating from above it, aborted his magic moment. Blinking, Geoffrey found himself standing in the store once more, Endless Love playing through the store’s P.A. system. He turned to find Michelle scowling at him with a crippling disdain. She didn’t scream; never did and never had the need to. Her hushed whispers cut to the bone of any who incurred her wrath, which Geoffrey incurred rather often. She demanded to know exactly why Geoffrey was drooling over a piece of furniture while two of their children were causing a scene a foot behind him.

A pathetic muttering passed through Geoffrey’s teeth. He said that he could see the kids the entire time and it was no big deal. Michelle gave no reply to this. Her only action was to step aside and point to their children.

Michael was laughing like Nero as Rome burned as he shoved soap bar after soap bar through the hole he’d kicked in Dwayne ‘The Rock’ Johnson’s groin, the giggles interrupted only by gasping cries of “He’s pooping soap from his wiener!” All of this was much to the delight of Maria, who also found a joy in the desecration of Mr. Johnson’s likeness, displayed by rubbing soap bars around ‘The Rock’s’ face until a clown-like make-up appeared.

Geoffrey shoved both Michael and Maria into the shopping cart. Michael, far too large to ride in one, caused the mesh cage to sag and scrape against the wheels. An assistant manager arrived on the scene as Geoffrey attempted to escape responsibility. He was but a teenager, one with an overbite and an oil spill for skin. He told Geoffrey that he would have to pay for the damages caused to the display, including the loss of all the soap. Turning to Michelle for moral support, Geoffrey discovered that she had taken off with the kids. A buzzing in his pocket revealed a text message from her that stated: Clean up your mess. You’re such an asshole sometimes.

The double whammy of humiliation and emasculation in front of the Ginger version of an oil slick churned the butter of Geoffrey’s pride into a smooth, creamy goo. His chin found his sunken chest as a sigh blew out through his mouth. The manager, clearly one of the before cases in a Pro-Active commercial, continued the lecture, stating Geoffrey was damn lucky that he didn’t call security and have him escorted off the property. Geoffrey heard bits and pieces, as his ears belonged to another. The table, Model SS-I-138-4NTXL and its siren’s song called to him with promises of joys and journeys to heights he couldn’t even begin to imagine. A sharp poke in his chest by the kid manager was the only thing that brought him back from the rocky coast.

“You understand what I said?” the Ginger said.

A wry smile on his face, Geoffrey said that he did understand, that he was sorry for all the trouble and that he would, of course, pay for the damages. Satisfied, the Walking Fryolator called two associates over with a pallet jack. Geoffrey watched them as they packed on The Rock’s man-soap onto the splintered mess, unconcerned with the quantity. He stopped the pair as they were piling the second layer on and asked if they would assist him with something; his final purchase of the day.

And that was how Model SS-I-138-4NTXL and Dwayne ‘The Rock’ Johnson found themselves strapped atop the Ousley’s CRV, heading to their new home.




Model SS-I-138-4NTXL was assembled the next day.

Geoffrey, due to his sciatica, was unable to perform the task. He had to wait for Michelle’s older brother, a muscular man named Chip with salt and pepper hair and a chin that could be used as a cow catcher, to come over and do the deed. Chip did not like Geoffrey. Never had. He felt that Geoffrey was a slacker, milking an injury that was most likely not even legitimate while making his sister work her fingers to the bone. Geoffrey was a terrible reader of people, and thus, was oblivious to Chip’s open hostility. He believed that this was Chip’s way, messing with people because he really liked them and enjoyed getting under their skin.

“All done, you fucking drain on society,” Chip put away his tools, not even bothering to look at Geoffrey. This was a fortuitous turn of events for both men. For if Chip had been able to tamp his hate-puke down for a few seconds to look his brother-in-law in the eye, he would have seen such a sight, one that he’d never be able to un-see. Carnality, raw and untapped, had Geoffrey’s mouth overflowing with drool. His nickel-sized nipples stood at full attention in the balmy mid-day heat. Age and far too many trips to the food court had relocated his thick nubs to the end of his ribcage. One hung lower than the other, giving him the appearance of having a face hidden underneath his shirt; one with a lazy eye.

“Isn’t it wonderful? Isn’t it the best table that you’ve ever seen?” Geoffrey said to Chip. He repeated himself when there was no response, and then again when his words went unanswered. Looking around, Geoffrey saw that Chip was long gone. Furthermore, that the sun was setting.

“Dad? Mom says that if you don’t come to dinner now, she is going to flush your lasagna down the toilet.” Michael said.

Dinner was an arduous affair, as it often was for the Ousleys. Getting the kids to stop fighting amongst themselves, to stop throwing food, picking their noses and wiping the hard-gained prizes on the underside of the table were all things that would rival the Trials of Hercules. Michelle did the brunt of the work, as Geoffrey was not one for confrontation.

As thoughts of divorce attorneys and homicide danced in Michelle’s head, Geoffrey was more distant than ever. Oblivious to Corey’s request for him to pass the grated parmesan, or to the subsequent half-chewed piece of garlic bread bouncing off his irregularly-shaped forehead in retaliation for failing to hand over said cheese, Geoffrey’s attention focused in on one thing, and one thing only: Model SS-I-138-4NTXL.

It started to rain shortly after dinner was served. The beads of rain pounded down upon the world, save for Model SS-I-138-4NTXL. The umbrella, an ugly beige color, protected its virgin surface from the elements. For Geoffrey, the sight was captivating. How the water swirled around, caught in the wind in such a way that it made Model SS-I-138-4NTXL appear to be caught in a tornado. It was the most beautiful thing Geoffrey had ever seen, and he’d seen all three of his children born, a momentous occasion that the overwhelming majority of humanity found breathtakingly gorgeous, but that Geoffrey found repulsive. It was like Michelle was vomiting a ham out of her vagina, he would confide to his friends later on.

Model SS-I-138-4NTXL had none of this grotesquery. It was perfect. In Geoffrey’s minds-eye, the rainclouds sank into a hole in space-time, taking the dull, crabgrass-filled backyard with it, replacing them with a vibrant beach. An ocean of the purest blue lapped the beach with calm, almost playful waves; the foam hissed as it pulled back. Model SS-I-138-4NTXL stood there on the beach, waiting for Geoffrey. Pastel ribbons hung from the underframe and twirled around the umbrella. The chairs pushed back as he walked towards it. The umbrella rose out of its slot, ascending to the heavens. He felt the breeze, warm, filled with sand and salt air, encourage him forward while lifting his clothes off his body. He was about to look into Model  SS-I-138-4NTXL’s glory when the fantasy shattered all around him, breaking away like stained glass to reveal that he was back in his stucco-sided home, at his dining table, with his wife looking at him with eyes made from bullets.

“What is wrong with you?” Michelle said.


“You’ve been sitting there for two hours!”

Michelle laid into him for another ten minutes, saying that he was a terrible father, that he was deliberately going out of his way to avoid being around the children, that he hid behind his injury (which she claimed to be “complete and utter bullshit”) so that he could get out of taking the slightest interest in the kids’ activities. “You’ve missed three soccer games, one school play—in which your daughter played the lead–and so many Cub Scout meetings that I’ve lost count. You’re supposed to be the goddamned Scoutmaster! It feels like I am in this marriage completely alone, Geoffrey. I can’t keep doing this by myself, do you understand? How am I supposed to balance three kids, my job, and keeping this house from looking like a barn alone? Tell me that!”

The words both truthful and baleful, went in one ear and out the other. Geoffrey had long since perfected the ability to pretend to listen to his wife. He’d been doing so ever since they began dating (the reasons for why, along with as to why they got married, had long since fled his mind). His full attention was on the way the moon and starlight enhanced Model SS-I-138-4NTXL’s natural beauty. The light from long since dead stars glinted off the glass, forming a diadem of glowing wonders around the hexagonal frame. Geoffrey bit his lip to keep the tears inside. Can’t let Michelle see me crying, he thought. That would be four times this week.

Michelle, for all her legitimate grievances, lost her luster for berating her husband. She stormed off towards their bedroom, only to return a moment later with a blanket and Geoffrey’s special memory foam pillows. She held them over the couch with wide, spiteful eyes before letting them drop where they bounced off and onto the floor. Their cat, an obese turkey with fur named Fireball, was roused from a days-long slumber and grew so startled that she submissively sprayed urine all over them.

“Have a good night, Geoffrey,” Michelle’s scowl was so intense, it inverted her face, making it appear as a crooked, insane smile. “Maybe you can snuggle up with your new friend the table and I’ll take The Rock. Even as a cardboard cutout, he’s still three times the man you are.”

The slam of their bedroom door did not possess the soul-crushing blow as it once did. After fifteen years of hearing it at least twice a week, Geoffrey had grown desensitized to it, as he did the soft whisperings of his three children. Michael, their eldest, was explaining to his siblings that sometimes Mommies and Daddies fight, and that they should just go to bed because it doesn’t mean that they don’t love each and every one of them. Even in his son’s muted voice, Geoffrey could hear the indifference.

Geoffrey sat for another hour before retiring to his couch. He wasn’t reflecting upon his life, taking a moral inventory nor trying to sort how to go about fixing his family. He was waiting for Fireball’s piss to dry up enough that he could sleep comfortably. Despite the odor, Geoffrey found sleep quite easily, even as his house remained filled with continued whispers and even sobs.


* * *


Despite Michelle’s taunts, Dwayne ‘The Rock’ Johnson remained in the corner where Geoffrey left him; his raised eyebrow, flexed biceps and crotch-hole greeted him with the morning sun. Fiery lava shot through Geoffrey’s back and hips. Despite the pillows specially designed by some nice Aryans in Sweden, the decades-old hand-me-down couch still defeated him. The burning coursed through his pale, atrophying legs as he rose. He didn’t make a sound, as he didn’t want to wake the children, but when he saw them sitting at the dining table, eating breakfast, he moaned loud enough to wake the dead.

No sympathy was forthcoming; The children had seen this movie more times than they cared to remember. Each kept their face down, shoveling sugared oat puffs into their mouths. Geoffrey limped over to them, somehow managing a strained ‘Good Morning’ as he opened a bottle of painkillers.

The coffeepot was empty; bone-dry. The faint smell of French roast lingered in the air. Michelle rushed into the room, dressed in her nursing scrubs with a coffee mug tipped back against her lips. Finishing the last of her java, she edged past her befuddled husband and placed the mug in the sink, letting out a satisfied “ahh” as she brushed past him. “Let’s go, kids. The bus will be here in ten minutes,” she waved her kids back to their rooms to collect their shoes and backpacks.

Michelle and the children were gone before Geoffrey had the chance to say goodbye. “None of them could even be bothered to look me in the eye, Dwayne” he said. The cardboard cutout’s expression (one of suave salesmanship) offered Geoffrey no reassurance whatsoever. The Rock’s face remained stoic, keeping its thoughts to itself.

Dry swallowing his pain pills, Geoffrey went on about his day. The TV came on, and would stay on for the next twelve hours. He didn’t really care what he watched. The chattering made him feel less alone in the world. Most days, the painkillers would kick in and he’d just drift away, letting his life pass him by in a fog of narcotics and daytime TV. The nod would end right around the time the mid-day news came on. He’d then get up and eat something, usually cold cuts or microwave pizzas or cold cuts on top of microwave pizzas. He’d take more medicine after that and drift away until his kids came home. Every now and then, he’d watch some pornography, but the pills generally removed his urges for such acts.

Today was different. He was different.

The twinge came at the tail-end of the Wendy Williams show, just as the credits began to roll. A tickle at first, then a full-on tingle reaching from the loose-hanging skin of his applebag to the edge of the foreskin hood his penis wore. Powerful, it caused the heavenly warmth of the medicine to disappear, leaving him squirming. Not in a bad way, nor in a gross kind of way like when a person really has to use the toilet. This squirm was more sensual, sexy.

As the theme song for the Jeremy Kyle show came through the TV’s speakers, Geoffrey was fully erect, a state he’d not been able to achieve for weeks. His pajama bottoms (long overdue for a wash) shrunk as his fleshy carrot grew until the pant cuffs raised past his ankles. Curious, Geoffrey thumbed the open pee-hole flap away from his member; it sprang out to greet him like an over-excited puppy. He was not a large man, nor was he a wide man. In fact, one could look upon his manhood as a mockery of the very concept of what being a man meant. On this particular morning, Geoffrey’s penis was as large and swollen as he’d ever seen it. “Look at that,” he said, flicking his foreskin. “It’s like I have your cock, Dwayne!”

Geoffrey shuffled around the living room, pushing down on his love stick and allowing it to spring back, giggling all the while as it flailed in random swirls.

And then he remembered the table.

Model SS-I-138-4NTXL stood resplendent in the backyard. The midday sun baked away the lingering water from last night’s squalls, turning them to wisps of steam. Such beauty! How could he have forgotten it? It was Michelle. She’s a goddamned harpy, she is, he thought.

His hard-on strangling him, Geoffrey slid the door to the backyard open with confident authority. The pajama pants, clinging for dear life to the bottom bulge of his gut, came loose with a gentle tug of the elastic waste-band. Geoffrey stepped out of the false skin, lifting his toes in such a way that he didn’t touch the fabric at all.

There he stood, nude from the waist down. A conquering general ready to reap the spoils of his conquest. Caesar striding into Egypt, and into Cleopatra. His hands moved over the glass surface, taking time to savor each and every imperfection, every raised indentation. The table wobbled from his advances. Geoffrey found this incredibly erotic, as if Model SS-I-138-4NTXL was quivering in anticipation of pleasures to come.

“You are a goddess,” Geoffrey whispered. He ran his tongue along the edge of its hexagonal frame, moving back and forth, increasing the frequency of his licks on the points.

Unable to bear the foreplay any longer, Geoffrey pushed back from the table; a grin lying somewhere between lust and madness affixed to his face. He wrapped his hands around the umbrella pole, squeezing until his knuckles turned bone-white. He rubbed his cock against the glass, teasing Model SS-I-138-4NTXL. The umbrella was wedged deep; his hands, sweaty. Thinking of the terrible thing Michelle said to him two weeks prior when, upon attempting to go down on her, she declared: “What the hell are you doing? It feels like I’m being raped by a belt sander!” , Geoffrey twisted the metal pole with all his might and lifted. It sprang loose, catching Geoffrey off-guard and sending him onto his ass. The umbrella flew from his hands and through the open door, where it plunged into Dwayne ‘The Rock’ Johnson’s tight-lipped grimace and became stuck; the appearance was one of a man giving the angriest blowjob in the history of oral sex.

Model SS-I-138-4NTXL found itself being flipped onto it’s frame. Top heavy even without the umbrella, the table could not bear it’s own weight, causing the legs to bend under the strain. Geoffrey didn’t notice the cheap craftsmanship for he was far too fixated open the open hole staring at him. “You’re a filthy, slutty table, aren’t you?” he said, spitting into his palm. “This is what you like isn’t it? You want it all the time, don’t you? Well, you’re going to get it; going to get it right now!”

Working his frothy mouth-jizz into his cock until it was slick, he probed Model SS-I-138-4NTXL’s umbrella hole, working around the rim first, then, shoving his entire finger into it, then a second until he felt the table against his knuckles. He moaned as he moved around inside of the table. The sensation was even better than his poor imagination could conjure. He wanted to know the table, every inch, every part. Model SS-I-138-4NTXL would love him and cherish him without question, unlike Michelle, whose resentment grew day after day into a festering mass deep in her stomach. I don’t need you anymore. I’ve got the table, now, he thought.

Geoffrey retracted his hand and inched his penis closer to the promise land. Spittle dripped from his foreskin, landing on his feet. “I’m not going to be gentle. A slut like you deserves to get it viciously fed up your crankhole.” Insertion imminent, a sight out of the corner of his eye halted the consummation. Geoffrey’s fingers had numerous scrapes, some bright pink and angry. “Well, seems like you aren’t ready to give it up. You’re not getting off until you get me off, you whore. Just wait there while Daddy gets his special medicine.”

Running with a hard-on (an act only performed under the most dire of sexual situations or by the mad), Geoffrey burst into the master bedroom, slamming the door against the wall hard enough to break through the sheet rock. The object of his quest lay  foot-level on Michelle’s side of the bed. His sciatica didn’t even give him a twinge of pain as he dropped to his knees and pulled it open.

Bottles lay atop bottles. The labels of each had worn off and were barely legible; lubricators of differing formulas and scents, all of which Geoffrey was well acquainted with. Michelle never failed to use one, or sometimes two or three, during their lovemaking. Her excuses ranged from the obvious ego booster “This is for your pleasure, dear. See, it says it right on the bottle!” to the blunt and coarse “I’m sorry, honey. I’m dry as a piece of your mother’s pot roast tonight”.  Geoffrey pushed the poison thoughts from his mind and grabbed a bottle at random. It was in the shape of Rodin’s The Thinker, but sculpted in jet black plastic and sticky with dried tears of scented petroleum.

“Now, where were we?” Geoffrey popped The Thinker’s head off and held the bottle upside down, pouring the lube onto his cock like syrup onto a stack of flapjacks. A solid layer built, he tossed the bottle backwards into the house, not bothering to close it, or look where it was headed. If he had, he would have seen globules spatter against family photos on the walls and all over Dwayne ‘The Rock’ Johnson’s cardboard abs. “Oh yes, I remember,” he rubbed the clear goo into himself, making sure a generous amount made it into his foreskin. “I was about to show you what all sluts get.”

And then, Geoffrey did.

Once he’d penetrated Model SS-I-138-4NTXL, Geoffrey gripped it’s top edge, using it for leverage as he thrust his cock in and out of the umbrella hole. Model SS-I-138-4NTXL squeaked as it moved in ways it’s designer never intended. Geoffrey took this to mean the table enjoyed the pounding he was doling out. Geoffrey hadn’t felt this virile in years. The sensation was incredible, as if he were making love to a goddess that had taken the earthly form of Model SS-I-138-4NTXL.

Geoffrey licked the beads of sweat from his lips, sneering as he pulled out and teased Model SS-I-138-4NTXL with the head of his greasy trouser trout. “You like that don’t you, you slut. I bet the other tables laugh at you. Taking it from every guy that glances your way. Well, Daddy is goin’ to show you who is best.”

With a groan that was a perfect mimic of the mating call of a walrus, Geoffrey inserted himself completely; the glass felt cool against his bare skin. He shut his eyes and railed against Model SS-I-138-4NTXL. His balls hammered a steady tattoo against the glass, sounding like sopping wet bologna hitting the kitchen floor over and over again. Geoffrey grunted and growled. Model SS-I-138-4NTXL and he were one organism and it was where he belonged, where he was meant to be.

Somehow, the umbrella hole felt wetter than when he’d entered, a delusion that encouraged him and caused him to quicken his pace. Model SS-I-138-4NTXL shook. Geoffrey quivered as the orgasm built within him. He felt it grow from his toes and up his spine, soothing his sciatic pain, until it enveloped his mind. It came in a sudden, angry spurt, catching him unawares. The force of his ejaculation shocked the very breath from his lungs, leaving him gasping. His legs turned to rubber; his knees broke apart. He’d of found himself on the ground if not for his white-knuckled grip on the frame.

“Oh, oh, oh..Christ,” he panted. His hips spasmed; the orgasm not quite finished with him. Geoffrey leaned over Model SS-I-138-4NTXL, cuddling in the shared afterglow. “Thank you…thank you,” he whispered.

Geoffrey stood there long enough for his penis to grow flaccid and slip free from the umbrella hole and resume its station dangling between his legs. If he had his way, Geoffrey would’ve stayed like this until the stars burnt out and all was cold emptiness.

“Excuse me, sir. Could you please step away from the table?”

Geoffrey saw the police officer through tear-ringed eyes. He was one of a dozen people standing around his backyard fence. All had smart phones in their hands, recording his shuffle of shame over to the cop, whom tactfully hid his grin behind his hand.

The ten feet felt like ten miles.

A towel appeared and was wrapped around Geoffrey as he was placed into the rear of the cruiser. Mug shots would happen. A story on the five o’clock news would go viral and be the source for a recurring gag on The Tonight Show. Michelle would take the kids and move them two states away to spare them from the torment of their friends, but not before taking an ax to the table and burning the pieces.

Throughout it all, Geoffrey would show indifference, even when the charges were dropped. His only thoughts were of Model SS-I-138-4NTXL, and the magical three minutes they’d spent together.





The End.


  1. […] out Kyle’s website, follow him on Twitter, and read “Only the Names Have Been Changed,” a bizarre freebie for new cult members! JOIN THE CULT OF […]


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