The Tribble With Troubles

I’ve been rooming with Tom now for a couple of months. Tom’s in pharmaceutical research; I used to be in behavioural research, until I pulled one of my practical jokes once too often and got punted from the program—permanently. Tom’s a good guy and was willing to let me move in for however long it takes for me to get a new research gig.

Who am I? I’m Jerry. Yeah, I know. Tom and Jerry. Well, life in our apartment isn’t exactly like the old cartoon. After all, we’re both adults, and both bachin’ it at the moment. Tom is even more of a classical nerd than I am. Videotapes and paperbacks of every conceivable type of science fiction ever created are stacked to overflowing on shelves, bookcases, tables, and even chairs. Most of the time, we have to move stuff around just to get enough room to plunk our asses down on the couch and watch a couple episodes of The Original Series Star Trek. There’s nothing like some of Captain Kirk’s womanizing to make a nerd feel superior in his unwilling celibacy.

I like the nerdy science fiction stuff, but I’m also pretty keen on bash-and-smash-em-up adventures like Speed and Die Hard. Never mind that the testosterone just reeks off these movies, they’re also practically a behaviour-lab in themselves! Since I’m just mooching around the apartment most of the time while Tom is at work, I’ve got plenty of time to watch my favourites. And it’s not like I eschew the old Star Trek stuff, either ... I mean, episodes like Gerrold’s "The Trouble with Tribbles" and Ellison’s "City at the Edge of Forever" are two of the great classics of modern telefilm science fiction. And there’s nothing I like better than getting my teeth into a big, juicy paperback. I can chew on that stuff for hours.

So all in all, I’ve been living in bliss. Unemployed, sure. But life is basically good. Then Tom brings HER home.

That bitch, spawn of evil, handmaiden of darkness. Her real name is Cindy, but don’t let that fool you. Just because her name rhymes with the word ‘sin’ doesn’t mean she’s the slightest bit interested in it. She does seem interested in flaunting herself in front of us, endlessly offering, and endlessly retracting the same. The classic virgin slut! Oh, how I hate her.

The funny thing is, Tom brought her home not for himself, but because he thought I might like her. Truth be told, I probably would like her—if she were lobotomized and her wicked, wanton perversion of chasteness and catty commentary were permanently curtailed.

Did I say catty? That’s probably a major understatement. The first night she was over, the three of us were watching an old Star Trek episode on tape—"The Trouble with Tribbles," in fact. After the first few minutes, Cindy turns to me and looks my body over. I’m a pretty hairy guy, not like Tom who’s smooth all over (well, all over as far as I can tell). Tom doesn’t even have any hair left on his head, poor guy! Anyhow, she looks me over in all my furry glory and actually has the nerve to say ... snidely ..., "Hmmm ... from what I hear, you’re the tribble with troubles."

I was so pissed I could hardly grunt out a response. In fact, that’s all I did: grunt at her and stalk off to the other side of the couch. I was fuming! How humiliating. I mean, Tom and I are pretty good buddies, but you just don’t go and tell your buddy’s private stuff to other folks. It’s just not done. But obviously, Tom had done exactly that.

Like I said earlier, I used to be in behavioural research. One of the reasons this type of research is an area of intense personal interest for me is that I’m frequently impotent ... most frequently at precisely the wrong time. I’m still fairly young; I eat a good diet and I’m healthy in all other respects, so I’ve been paying attention to work in the area of impotence for non-medical reasons. Frankly, I am astounded that someone like Tom would tell someone ELSE about my little problem.

Cindy got bored with the Star Trek and headed off towards the kitchen. Tom slouched in the middle of the couch, his eyes glued to the TV screen. Me? I was slumped in psychological defeat next to him. Humiliated. Shamed. Metaphorically emasculated. At the wrap of the episode, Tom blinked and became aware of me next to him. "Hey Jerry," he said. "Where’s Cindy gotten to?"

I stared at him, fuming. Tom looked at me for a long moment, then whispered conspiratorially. "So, the skanky little bitch took off already, eh? Well buddy, have I got just the thing for you. It’s a little something we’ve been cooking up at the lab and I think you’ll really appreciate it."

He dug in his pocket for a moment, then extended his hand towards me. On his palm was a little blue pill. It looked pretty innocent, just a little blue diamond, sitting in stark contrast to his pale white skin. But familiar with some of the stuff floating around in my behaviour labs, I was understandably concerned about consuming some experimental compound from Tom’s lab.

"Come on, buddy," coaxed Tom. "We’ve tested this thing every which way we can. It’s perfectly safe, and I’m absolutely certain you’ll like it."

I shrugged and thought for a moment. Tom has never been one to push drugs on anyone. As far as I know, he doesn’t even do any himself. I’ve experimented with a few things I’d rather not admit to, but for the last few months, I’ve been clean. Still, Tom’s a pretty good friend, and I just can’t believe that a friend like him would give me something dangerous.

I sighed, reached forward, and took the little blue pill. From long experience, I knew that nibbling at it was probably a bad idea, so I swallowed it down straight off, then took a swig from the beer on the coffee table. Tom smiled at me, popped a new tape into the VCR, and waggled his eyebrows meaningfully at me. "Let me know what you think of the pill, ok buddy?" he said.

I gave him a wry smile, nodded, and slouched back on the couch. We watched another hour of something, I can’t remember exactly what it was. Some cheesy sci-fi show from the 1980s, I think. Aliens invading the earth, a protagonist with impossibly tight bluejeans? Something like that.

Then ... BANG! Maybe an hour had elapsed since I’d scarfed down the little blue pill. With no fanfare, I found myself with a raging hard on. And not only a hard on, but a raging need to satisfy it. Without a word, I got up and went looking for that catty bitch, Cindy. She had been nosing around the kitchen for the better part of an hour. "Typical," I thought, "Probably thinks chocolate is better than sex anyhow."

I stormed into the kitchen and caught her red-handed chewing on a cookie. She looked at me guiltily, but then smiled at me in her superior way and went on with what she was doing. I came straight up to her and pushed my penis against her bottom.

"Feel that, bitch?" I asked. "Does that feel like a tribble in trouble to you?" I heard Cindy gasp. And that was all I gave her time to do. I grabbed her, threw her to the floor, and ripped into her with my slab of meat. I pounded hard into her, over and over. Her first squeaks of surprise turned into squeals of delight.

"I can’t believe it!" she squeaked. "Oh yeah, bitch. Feel me pumping you hard. You’d better believe it!" I growled.

We went at it hard for a few more minutes, and then I noticed Tom in the kitchen doorway. He was leaning against the frame, casually watching us go at it with frantic abandon. The perv was grinning from ear to ear at the sight of us.

"So you’ve finally gotten yourself a piece of tail, have you?" he asked, laughing. With that, he scooped us up off the floor and popped us back into our cage. We still had a few hours left before that magic blue pill wore off, and Tom wasn’t going to stay awake to babysit us. But I don’t think that the pill was entirely responsible for our night together. I think good old-fashioned creativity played a part in it, too. After all, fucking while we were both walking the exercise wheel hasn’t, to my knowledge, ever been done by a rat. And we did that particular trick a lot.