The door swung open, creaking as it slowed down as its momentum died out. In came Joseph Pratt, a 48 year old man with a job as a gas station attendant. He flicked on the light switch, and looked at his studio apartment, like he did every time he came home. He stood in the doorway for a second, staring at the cheap furniture and the tiny kitchenette that he could barely fit into, let alone fix up a decent meal in. He walked into the room, sighing heavily, just like he did every other day when he came home.
Mr. Pratt was a lonely man, who had never been any good at relationships. He eventually just gave up trying to find love. He wasn't very attractive, being overweight, cross-eyed, and nearly bald except for a patch of hair about the size of a quarter right on the top of his head. He used to attempt to cover it up, but he could never find a toupee that would fit his head, which had a strange shape, like an upside-down butternut squash. His face was speckled with pimples, as he never quite got over his acne in high school, resulting in that ever pity-inducing look of a grown man with severe pimples.
He walked with heavy, cumbersome steps into the bedroom, with his old pair of New Balance cross-trainers that were falling apart where the sole met the rest of the shoe. The room was a bare-bones, no-frills, hold-the-relish type, with only a dresser, a closet, a trash can, and an alarm clock. He kept it simple, and not always tidy, since he had no concern about what anyone thought of it. He never had company over, since he rarely met anyone worth taking the time to get to know well enough to establish a bonafide friendship with. So, the decor, or lack thereof, was of no concern to Mr. Pratt.
He trudged over to the dresser, the way a circus bear may do when forced to traipse around upright for the audience's amusement, and took out a small piece of surgical tubing. He also took a small cup of milk. Ever so slowly, he slid the tube into his urethra, his palms and brow sweaty with anticipation. The perspiration caused him to fumble with it a bit, and not being a very dextrous man, Pratt had a difficult time getting it started, like an octogenarian attempting to thread a needle. The pain was not much of a bother, since he was so accustomed to the practice; he was no stranger to it. He bit his lip as he slid the hollow tube down to a certain point, and stopped. Then, with much precision and care, filled an old, dirty syringe that had gone a pale, sickly yellow with age use, with his milk, and squirted it into the tube.
A shudder spilled down his crooked spine as his eyes rolled up into his head with perverse pleasure as the chilling, liquid sensation trickled into his penis. He slowly removed the tube once the siphon had been completed, and began to masturbate vigorously with his greasy, wrinkled hands. His right hand worked his phallus like a sticky, lumby piston while the other crept a thumb in and out of his anus well past his yellowed, cranked thumbnails that were often topped off with jagged edges resulting from haphazard and infrequent nail trimmings.
Soon, he reached his climax, spewing milk and ejaculate in an glorious, streaming arc of liquid ivory nearly two feet long. He watched with a sense of fulfillment as he watch ed reach the peak of its projected parabola, and subsequently continue in a rapid descent to his un-vacuumed carpet. His knobby knees buckled, and the saliva that had accumulated in his mouth during his pleasure session dripped out of the corner of the great smile that appeared on his face. He slumped backwards onto his bed with a weak flow of lactose-saturated semen continuing to spill from his red, irritated penis, and went to sleep.
And with that engrossingly repulsive, and in many ways pitiful, display of human behavior, so ended an ordinary night in the apartment of mister Joshua Pratt.