Being Ashley Olsen

bizarre story in which a man discovers he's dead and eventually takes over ashley's body (don't worry, mary kate's in it too)

Normally, I woke up at seven when my alarm went off. This particular morning, though, I didn't wake up at seven, I got up at six. I

got up

at six, I didn't

wake

up. Because I was dead.

I didn't realize it at first. Like that guy in the movie

Ghost<./I>, I just sort of left my body without realizing that I'd done so. It didn't dawn on me until I went into the bathroom to take my morning piss and realized that I didn't have to go. And then I noticed that I didn't have my usual (and painful) hardon. I just stood there in front of the toilet with my dick hanging there limp and zestless, like it was....well, dead.

"Wow," I said as I stared down at my poor lifeless equipment, "I'm dead, man."

You'd think that this news would disappoint a guy, and I guess it did to a certain degree; after all, only people with serious mental or emotional problems (or both) actually

want

to be dead. But I wasn't as disappointed as I thought I would be. For one thing, my life had kind of sucked anyway, so there was that relief element going on. But in addition to that, I realized that I could now move on to an entirely new level of experience. Actually, I had no choice, but that's beside the point. The point is that I could choose to either enjoy it or become one of those sad sack ghosts that wander around and rattle chains and moan and bitch about how messed up it is to be a ghost.

I was going to make the best of being dead. Especially if I had the kinds of abilities I suspected I did.

I turned and went back into my living room, stopped and looked at myself, my body, laying still on the sofa where I'd left it. I'd turned sort of bluish. It was a shame; I'd probably just lay there like that for a few days until someone smelled me rotting. I didn't have a very strong support network.

I looked around the living room as if I needed to be sure I had my wallet and my keys, a habit I obviously hadn't lost, then started for the door. I had to remind myself that I was dead and didn't have to worry about unnecessary things like doors and walls anymore.

I went back through the living room and headed straight for the wall, passing through it effortlessly. Suddenly I was in the Fitts's apartment. Rickey and Janie Fitts, the young couple that had moved in about two months ago. And kept me up late at night with the passionate noises of their lovemaking. Woke me up in the morning sometimes, too, an occurrence that used to annoy the shit out of me. Now, though, I was hoping that it would work in my favor.

I went through the living room and into their bedroom. There they were, still asleep, Rickey flat on his back with Janie cuddled up to him. Good. Perfect arrangement, at least for now.

I checked the clock on Rickey's nightstand. Ten minutes to seven. Hmm. Should I wait until their alarm went off? What if they didn't get up until noon? Or if they were the type to go rushing around in a panic as they got ready for work? What if the alarm

never

went off? Clearly, I couldn't leave events up to fate. Fate had already fucked me pretty well lately.

I went over to the side of the bed and stared down at Rickey and Janie. I thought about what I was going to do, wondering if I could really do it. Not if I could

bring

myself to do it, but wondering if it was actually possible? Well, no way to know but to give it a try.

I crawled onto the bed (noting, incidentally, how I could pick and choose what I passed through and what I didn't; neat trick) and laid down, arranging my body in the same position and in the same place as Rickey's. And there I was, just like Deadman in the comics, being able to slip into another person's body. Inside Rickey Fitts's body. With Janie cuddled up to me.

She had soft tits. Huge, too. One was pressed up against my (Rickey's) chest like a warm pillow. Her head was nestled between my shoulder and my ear and her arm was draped over my stomach. I could smell her scent, a combination of skin, baby powder,and some kind of perfume. She smelled fantastic.

My left arm was under her neck and had gone numb. I moved it around a little bit, accomplishing the twofold task of getting some of the feeling back and waking Janie up. She mumbled something and snuggled closer to me. She slid one leg over mine and now I could feel her cunt pressing against my hip. Jesus, Rickey was a lucky asshole.

I wasn't going to let her go back to sleep, of course.

I put my other arm around her and embraced her, kissed the top of her head, then gently rolled her onto her back. Janie gave up a lazy moan and opened her eyes again. She looked up at me but saw her boyfriend looking back at her with hungry eyes. She smiled.

"Let me guess," she said in her soft sexy voice. "You wanna do it, right?"

"Yeah," I said. I didn't think I needed to say anything else, especially since my cock was hard as steel and pressing against her hip. And long as a fucking telephone pole. Rickey really

was

a lucky asshole.

"Tell me," Janie said.

"I wanna make love to you," I said.

"You wanna make love to me? Or you wanna

fuck

me?"

I could tell by the tone of her voice what my answer should be.

"I wanna fuck you," I said.

Janie moaned again, sounding pleased, and kissed me. I returned her kiss and started to feel her tits, thinking that I was in for a bout of foreplay before we got down to the really important business, but Janie had other ideas. As soon as we got started she reached down and gripped my cock in her warm soft hand and brought it right up to her cunt.

That was no problem for me, though. I was the kind of guy who could do foreplay all day long (or at least I

had

been, before I died), but if Janie Burnham wanted to get plugged without all the fanfare, I was more than willing to oblige her.

I pushed forward, slowly but inexorably, entering her. Janie gasped, took in a sharp breath, and I pushed further into her. I could feel the interior folds of her cunt seeming to embrace my cock. For a chick who regularly slept with a guy who was hung like a horse, she was surprisingly tight. Janie gasped again, as if in pain, but then she sighed and kissed my shoulder as I slid the rest of the way into her body. I held her tightly as I fucked her, slowly and gently, kissing her face as I moved my cock in and out of her cunt. I made love to her this way for long luxurious minutes, letting the time pass as it would. Her body quivered delicately as I fucked her, a soft moan pouring from her throat with each thrust. She tensed beneath me, her fingernails digging into my shoulders, and she murmured, "Yes, oh yes...." as her young body shuddered with orgasm. I continued to fuck her, increasing the speed and force of my thrusts now, driving myself into her. Janie hugged me tightly and moved with me, moaning and whispering, "Yes, Rickey, yes... yes....I love you...." until she came once more.

After her second orgasm I slowed down again, almost stopping, and within another moment I felt my own orgasm approaching. I kissed her again, held her face against my chest and pushed into her one last time, then felt the excruciating pleasure as I came inside of her.

I'd like to say that I just laid there afterward, reveling in the knowledge that I'd just gotten some ass off of Janie Burnham, but I let her boyfriend do that (along with wondering how the hell he'd managed to fuck his girlfriend and not even wake up).

I left Rickey's body and drifted back over to my own apartment, delighted with my new power. It sucked that I had to die to get it, but still. I could go around screwing whatever girl I wanted now! All I had to do was enter the body of a boyfriend or husband or brother and BAM!, the chick was mine.

I started out with the girls I knew that I'd always wanted to go to bed with and yet never had the chance to. There was Stephanie Grant, that cute little blonde that lived on the fifth floor; I had to be her dopey, tinydicked husband for almost an hour. Then there was Eliza Dawson, a tiny Eurasian girl that worked at the factory I worked at (or

did

work at, back when I was among the living); she was only four feet eleven and maybe weighed about ninety five pounds, and her husband was about six and a half feet tall and over two hundred and twenty, which meant that, for safety reasons, she was on top (she didn't want to end up like me). And there was Lorrie Canfield, another sweet young blonde that I discovered was a wildcat in bed but treated her boyfriend (and my best friend Dave) like crap afterward. And Shannon, the barista at the coffeeshop across the street from my former apartment building; she had a thing for playing rape games with her husband that was, in the end, just plain sad.

There were many other girls, too, girls that worked at the bank, girls that worked at the supermarket, girls just walking down the street minding their own business. It was amazing. I was getting more pussy in the afterlife than I ever possibly could have gotten when I was still breathing.

Which reminds me: they did finally find my body, about a week after I died. Turned out I'd had a brain tumor the size of a bowling ball and didn't even know it. I went to my own funeral, saw my mom and dad, my brother Allen, and my baby sister Bridget. Bridget cried so hard, the sweetie. I went home in her boyfriend Tom's body and comforted the hell out of her. I couldn't help it, my sister's a hottie.

My mom was kinda hot too, but I just couldn't go there.

I probably would have just gone on screwing girls indiscriminately forever if it hadn't been for Edwin. He was this totally nerdy dude who lived next door to a girl named Teresa or Tammy or something like that. Teresa or Tammy had a boyfriend named Jeff, whose body I was inhabiting at the time. Jeff and I had just gotten finished boffing the crud out of Teresa or Tammy, and I was actually getting ready to leave, to just float right the fuck through the bedroom window, when I heard Jeff say, "Jesus, that guy next door

still

has his tv too loud."

Which was true, Edwin had his television on pretty loud; you could hear the canned laughter coming through the wall as if Teresa, Tammy and Jeff had a live audience. It had been going on all through their lovemaking, and had even started to get on

my

nerves. Jeff pounded on the wall and shouted, "Turn that shit down!" but of course Edwin just ignored him. Jeff was practically shaking with frustration and barely contained rage, but you could tell he didn't think there was anything more that he could do, especially since Teresa or Tammy or Tanya or whatever was telling him, "Just calm down, Jeffy Weffy, it's not that big a deal."

But it

was

a big deal, and I decided to do something about it. Noisy neighbors had always annoyed the fuck out of me when I'd been alive, and besides, I figured I owed Jeffy Weffy a fairly huge favor even if he didn't know it. So I just made a U turn and floated right on into Edwin's apartment.

And there he was, Edwin The Fat Lazy Fuck, sitting on his sofa with a bag of potato chips and a bottle of Faygo, stuffing his face and watching the tv that he'd strategically placed right up against his neighbor's bedroom wall and turned up to full volume. The guy had to be deaf to be listening to it that loud. The inconsiderate lump of lard.

But that was okay, I had a solution for him. I went right over to him and jumped into his overstuffed and sagging frame, then got up and went over to the television. I turned it down to a decent level, thinking to myself that Edwin was only going to be enjoying this new development in his life for about ten seconds before he and I both took a dive out of his tenth floor window. But then I noticed what show he was watching.

So Little Time

, starring the Olsen Twins.

Mmmm, the Olsen Twins.

I decided to spare Edwin's life for a little while. At least until the show was over. So we sat down and ate potato chips and drank Faygo and watched the episode where Manuelo gets all bitchy and crybaby because the Carlsons left him out of the family photo that he didn't deserve to be in in the first place. A good show, very funny, and those twins, jeez, they were so damned cute. I always had a hardon by the time the credits started to roll.

Except this time I didn't. That is,

Edwin

didn't. He was just sitting there in his sloth, staring at the boob tube (staring at the Olsen Twins' boobs on the tube) while his own tube stayed as soft as a summer breeze. I couldn't believe it. What was

wrong

with this man? He wasn't blind, for crying out loud. Was he gay (not that there's anything wrong with that)? Did he despise our American way of life?

I made him get up and ransack his apartment for any signs that he might be linked to terrorist organizations, but all I found was a stack of porn videos and a blonde love doll dressed up to look like Buffy the Vampire Slayer. It was the love doll that convinced me not to send him out the window and hurtling toward a fat and lonely death. At least he had

some

taste.

I left Edwin's apartment mostly in disgust, but with an idea: I would go to Los Angeles and find out where the Olsen Twins lived, and inhabit the bodies of whoever was fucking them (I just

knew

they fucked, and with any luck they'd be into threesomes).

Okay, I've mentioned before that I float places. I don't fly, I float. Just like ghosts are supposed to do. Float through walls, float through the air. I can hover too. But flying is definitely not part of the state of being dead, nor is astral projection. So it takes a long time to go a long distance. Just like in the world of the living, only not as tiring. The problem, of course, is that if you're floating to your destination instead of simply catching a ride on some form of transportation, it can get pretty fucking boring. I don't recommend it when you've got a long way to go, so when you end up dead (and you will) and if you become a ghost (you might), don't bother floating when you can take the train.

Another limitation of being a ghost is you really can't tell that much more about people than you did before you died. You can't see into their souls or discern the color of their auras or anything like that. And you don't just automatically know where anybody lives. You gotta

find

them just like a breather would have to do. So when I floated off the train at the L.A. station, the first thing I did was head for a phone book. Unfortunately, the Olsen Twins weren't listed (stuck up little brats) so I had to figure out some other way of discovering their whereabouts.

I wracked my ethereal brain for several minutes without coming up with even one solution, then jumped into the body of a man in a business suit who was waiting for the 12:05. I turned to the nearest person, which turned out to be a very lovely young girl standing next to him, and said, "Excuse me, but how would I find out where the Olsen Twins live?"

The girl looked up at me (I was in a relatively tall man's body and the girl couldn't have been more than five two), squinted her eyes, and said, "The Olsen Twins? Why would you want to know where the Olsen Twins live?"

Of course, only a girl would say that.

"Just tell me, please," I said.

The girl clicked her tongue and rolled her eyes and said, "Well, I guess if you

had

to know, you could get one of those maps of the stars' homes."

A brilliant and surprisingly simple idea!

I smiled at the lovely young girl and said, "Thank you, dear, I'll try that." Then I reached out and grabbed one of her tits and gave it a grateful little squeeze. The girl reacted with an expected yelp and slap of the hand, but then cried out, "Dad!"

I floated out of there as quickly as I could and went to the nearest news stand. There was a whole stack of maps of the stars' homes and I picked one up and looked through it (ignoring the shocked expression of the news vendor). And there it was! The Olsen Twins' house! Marked with a litte star and the names

Mary Kate and Ashley Olsen

above it! I swallowed the resentment I'd always felt over Mary Kate getting top billing over the more attractive Ashley (come on, you can't tell them apart?), made a mental note of their location (they lived in Malibu, just like in their TV show), and started floating straight for their house.

Their house wasn't hard to find at all; not only did I have the map, but there was that Ghost Of A Serious Acting Career hanging around outside, wailing and weeping. The Ghost of A Porn Career Future was there too, but so far he was just looming.

I floated down through the roof and found myself in a large bedroom decorated in pink and white, with a large canopied double bed covered with a white comforter and populated with a crowd of stuffed animals. The walls were adorned with nature paintings and family photos, and the closet door had a poster of the Olsen Twins tacked to it. It was from their film

Our Lips Are Sealed

, and they were wearing their bikini tops and hawaiian skirts and beaming at the camera with their arms around each other's waists. Totally gorgeous. Except someone had taken a magic marker and drawn fangs hanging from Mary Kate's mouth.

This had to be Ashley's room.

As soon as I made that determination the bedroom door opened and Ashley came in. My heart would have stopped if it had still been beating. She was wearing snug bluejeans and a teeshirt that had the words

I'm With Stupid

emblazoned across her sweetly meager chest and a picture of a finger beneath it, pointing to her left. She also had her cellphone stuck to her ear and she was talking into it.

"It's depressing," she said as she made her way over to her bed. "No, it's more than depressing, it's downright

sad

." She plopped down onto her bed, bouncing once on her stomach before coming to rest. "I mean, the fact that I'm young and beautiful and nubile, don't you think that oughta count for something?"

"Are you kidding me?" I said. I was a ghost, though, so she couldn't hear me.

"But no," Ashley went on, "apparently that doesn't help at all. I'm totally stuck with no boyfriend, and no prospects for finding one. It's like I'm

ugly

or something, which is actually Mary Kate's problem, not mine."

"Are you

fucking

kidding me?" I said. This was not good; if Ashley wasn't getting nailed by anybody, then there was no body to inhabit. I would have to come up with some other way to get into her pants.

Ashley paused for a moment, apparently listening to whoever was on the other end of the phone, then said, "No, I haven't tried masturbation, and I'm not going to. That's sick."

"Oh, you poor little uninformed thing," I said.

"The only way I'm ever going to find sexual fulfillment without dating a producer is if some

guy

happens to magically appear out of nowhere."

"Wow," I said, "what a great idea."

I went through the house but there didn't appear to be anyone else home, so I floated outside. I checked the front yard first, then went around to the side of the house, and lo and behold, there was the gardener, standing on a ladder and peeking into Ashley's bedroom window. I should have known.

He was a fairly unattractive guy in his thirties, going bald and starting on a beer gut, but I figured he'd do for what I had planned. I inhabited his body and got him down off that stupid ladder (I'm afraid of heights), then went into the house through a carelessly unlocked kitchen door. I went through the kitchen and living room and up the stairs to Ashley's bedroom.

She was still on the phone, bitching and complaining about something, but when she saw me she stopped talking and her jaw dropped open in surprise. I was hoping that wasn't going to be the last time her jaw dropped open.