Hold Me While I’m Hairy:
The Sexual Awakening of Robin Williams
by Patrick Pryor
illustration by Erin Baird
Robin Williams slugged down a tumbler of Johnny Walker and struggled to get in the mood. His rumpled button down, soaked with putrescent whiskey sweat, clung to his bloated frame like wilted spinach. You’re a star, Robby. He reassured himself, spilling another stiff one. Babes would knife each other in the throat to hear your Popeye.
Turning to the mirror, Robin frowned at his less than spry frame. His swollen stomach, suffocated with fur, bulged like an overripe tangelo. His chin sagged, his hair dwindled, wrinkles edged his once-bankable mug. Even his hands shook when he reached for the bottle.
I’m no Mork anymore, that’s for sure.
But this was Robin’s time. His time. Time to relax and let it all hang out and leave the pressures of lapsed fame scratching and whining at his lux bedroom door. He sprawled across the king-size and stroked his bare chest.
I’m here. I’m me. No agents, no meet and greets, no wine and dines, talk show shenanigans, acceptance speeches, jocular hugs, paparazzi (I wish!), or voiceover grinds. Just me, myself, my ample pleasure trail, and my mellifluous songbird voice.
“Don’t say it’s a fine morning or I’ll shoot ya!” He drawled at the mirror in his best John Wayne.
He drew a finger gun from an imaginary holster behind his buttocks, aimed at his reflection, and fired.
I’ve still got it! He beamed, knocking back another Black Label. I can still do voices.
But who was the real Robin? Who was the man behind the mask? John Wayne? Alan Parrish? Batty? Patch Adams? All these roles, all turned to dust in the realm of public scrutiny.
His most recent gig, embodying Dwight D. Eisenhower in the box office smash, Lee Daniels’ The Butler, socked Robin where it really counted. It got him down like nothing else. The role had kneed his waning star power in the gut and kicked it to the curb to die. Though he rattled off Presidential lines to his Pekingese, toured the Oval Office, read a lurid tell-all biography, and even went method and shaved his head, he never received a single nomination for his hard work. Not one nod from the Academy, an honorable mention from the Screen Actors Guild, a high five from The Kids’ Choice Awards kids, not so much as a positive blog post from Randall McNatty at williamswatcher.angelfire.com.
Robin reached for a Kleenex and gazed at his squat reflection—head to toe man! He puffed out his chest like Ramon in Happy Feet and fingered a tangled tress beneath his navel.
I’d give anything to go back to the good old days, he thought. I’d kill for a role like The Genie!
Robin grabbed his chubby cock and gave it a tickle. He pictured the Genie spiraling out of a magic lamp. Shooting abra cadabra stardust from his fingertips. Pleasuring Jasmine with a few la-la-las from his ever-expanding tongue.
It knows no boundaries of time and space. Robin thought, breaking into a whiskey-infused sweat. That tongue could roll for miles.
He pictured the Genie’s tongue unraveling like a red carpet across Agrabah, snaking between vendors and guards, hopping up palace steps, then creeping between Jasmine’s bare toned thighs. Her hips gyrated against the Genie’s magickal mouth, spouting the chorus to “Friend Like Me.” She moaned, oozed, grinded, and oozed more. Pressed his blue chin deep into her buttocks.
Genie worked his ringed fingers upward. Past Jasmine’s slender waist, across her impossibly flat stomach, past her sagging breasts, and into her open mouth.
Looking up, Genie gazed into the twinkling, granny-glassed visage of Mrs. Doubtfire.
Classic Robin! Williams thought, squirting some Jergens into his rank paw. A real tour de force!
Mrs. Doubtfire caressed the Genie and suckled his glistening rings. Her prosthetic bosoms bounced. Her carefully tucked bulge glided down his tapered abdomen and settled onto his swollen mystical balls.
Genie felt naughty as his enchanted member crept toward Mrs. Doubtfire’s anus like a plant starved for sunlight.
“Oh, poppet!” She moaned as he parted her cheeks. “Make a princess out of me!”
Her dentures curled into a trembling “O.” Genie gyrated and pumped his loosened parachute pants like an unhinged djinn.
His ever-expanding plume of a cock brushed against fabric. Rubbed between the buttocks of the howling Mrs. Doubtfire. Genie came a little and felt his discharge grease the nanny’s quaking walls.
This is heaven, Williams thought, watching himself in the mirror. Tugging even harder. Pre-cum oozed between his fingers and mingled with the lotion that slicked his palm.
Genie pushed Mrs. Doubtfire onto the palace floor and lifted her flowing, yet modest, skirt. Mounted her from behind. Her natty grey wig tilted and jounced. Her hips bucked with every thrust.
“Come for me laddie!” Mrs. Doubfire cooed.
Her anus tightened around his thick blue cock. Genie felt her shiver with every poke.
“Your wish is my command.” The Genie whispered into her ear.
He slid deeper and deeper, pulsed with pleasure. A metal hand caressed his cheek.
His attention strayed from Mrs. Doubtfire’s bouncing buttocks. Glancing up, Genie came face to face with Andrew Martin, the Bicentennial Man.
“One is happy to be of service.”
Genie gazed into Andrew’s dead robot eyes. Mrs. Doubfire wrapped wrinkled lips around his metallic cock.
A man-machine, a horndog automaton, a manufactured dynamo, Andrew grasped Mrs. Doubtfire’s head in his powerful hands. Pulled her hair and thrust deeper down her throat as Genie pumped her from behind.
A very underrated role, Williams thought, clutching his sheets with ecstasy. A real transformation.
Mrs. Doubtfire’s latex enhancements had begun to tear as Genie and Andrew ravaged her. From behind, Genie glimpsed a masculine cheekbone peeking through layers of prosthetics and countless hours in the makeup chair. The real Robin exposed.
Mouth filled with robo-wang, Robin cast a sultry look at Genie and smiled.
Liquor-scented sweat stained the bed as Williams worked his jolly jungle—two round buttock-shaped streaks.
“You never had a friend like me!”
Mrs. Doubfire’s rectum pulsed and tensed. She bucked slower, gagged on Andrew’s uranium unit. Grinded against the Genie’s throbbing little master. His cock quivered on the cusp.
Sticky with hot perspiration, trembling with ecstasy, tense and beautiful and electrified with pleasure, Robin moaned and felt his member seize in a flurry of a thousand Oscars.
His semen splattered across the mirror and dribbled down his hairy reflection. The best performance of his career.◥
Patrick Pryor is a creative writing wizard residing in Austin, Texas. He currently slings pizza at people for a living, wrestles with a broken drum machine, and curates the South Austin Museum of Bad Art.
Erin Baird is a visual artist, designer, and professional hairstylist residing in Austin, Texas. Between cutting hair, freelance illustration, and staying fit, Erin keeps herself busy. Check out her blog!