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“Mushnik’s Skid Row Florist, how can I help?” A nerdy voice rang out brightly from the receiver of Orin’s office phone. Shit. Orin hadn’t been trying to reach the dweeby little asshole Audrey worked with. He scoffed, dismissive.
“Relax.” The dentist snapped the gum in his mouth. “I’m lookin’ for Audrey, obviously.”
Silence from the other end, and then Seymour’s voice rang out again, far less confident than before. He had very clearly recognized Orin’s voice immediately. “Uh, she just— she just left. Could you stay on the line for a second, Dr. Scrivello?”
Orin scoffed, but didn’t say anything further. He appreciated, however, the usage of his title there. He was leaning over the front desk in the lobby of his office. His last appointment had just ended, and his practice was closed for the day. Most of the lights were off, save for the lamp on the desk. He glanced at the clock on the wall. 6:23 pm. Rustling sounded from the phone, and then that little freak’s voice burst out of it again. “Sorry about the— sorry about the wait, Dr. Scrivello. She’ll— she’s coming back soon. Mr. Mushnik sent her to pick up something. I’ll tell— I’ll ask her to ring you when she gets back, okay?”
Orin folded his gum over. “Yeah, you do that.”
“Is there anything else I can— Do you need anything else, Dr. Scrivello?”
On the third ‘Dr. Scrivello,’ the dentist decided something. “Actually, I think I’m gonna stay on th’ line.” Orin’s eyes darted to the clock again, and then he exhaled. “Keep you company.”
“What?” Seymour sounded surprised, and anxious. Orin enjoyed it terribly. “What— why? What?”
“Just feel like talkin’ t’ya. S’there a problem?”
“No— uh, no problem. No. I just wasn’t expecting that. That’s all.” A beat, and then, “You know, it’s just... you’re kind of—well, you’re kind of...” Seymour trailed off.
Orin furrowed his brow, prompting him. “I’m kind of what? Spit it out.”
“You’re kind of— a creep,” he burst out. A beat, and then Orin chuckled, predatory. Seymour had just fucked up. Panicked, the botanist tried to backtrack immediately. “I didn’t mean that. I mean, I didn’t mean it like that. I—” He broke off, hearing something from the other end. Orin had made this vulgar little sound in the back of his throat.
“Yeah?” Orin cleared his throat and glanced at the receiver. He could almost smell the fear emanating from the other side. His pupils dilated even further in the low light. “I’m a creep?” Seymour stuttered as he tried to form another sentence. Orin did it for him, tone as predatory as he felt. “You said I’m a creep, Seymour. Is there anythin’ else you’d like t’call me?” Seymour sounded petrified, nervous. Embarrassed. It sent heat straight to Orin’s gut.
More stunned silence. And then a small, incredulous voice. “I— did that... turn you on?”
Orin did not reply to that. Instead, he let out a breath, grinning in the partial light of the dental lobby. The phone crackled with life. “It— it did! You— oh, god, I always knew you were— I mean, you’re sort of a messed up guy, but this— I —” Seymour was fumbling, but then seemed to land on something. “That’s sick.”
Orin moaned audibly. It surprised even him. Seymour’s tone changed a little bit, as if he’d realized he held the upper hand.
“Wait—you—you like that, don’t you? Being called sick?” Hang on. “That’s— that’s pathetic, Orin. Really.” Orin’s hips stuttered involuntarily against the side of the counter. He should be mad Seymour used his first name. He was mad, really, but it never came to fruition. Actually, it kind of— oh, god. Dread sparked in Orin instead. This was bad for him. By frightening Seymour, he had held control over the conversation, but Seymour didn’t seem frightened anymore. Just disgusted. And it was... really, really getting to Orin. He exhaled.
“I bet— um, no offense, Doctor, but it really sounds like you need to get off.”
Orin was trying really hard to clear his thoughts, but it wasn’t doing him justice at all. He was already clouded with an embarrassing degree of lust, straining itself against the front of his tight leather jeans. God, his poor dignity. Down the fucking drain. This wasn’t the plan.
For a second, Orin’s usual sardonic demeanor flooded him, in a sorry defense against being embarrassed the way he was, and he attempted to switch gears. “You little creep. You’re a fuckin’ perv,” he snapped into the receiver. Seymour, however, seemed undeterred, and the truth of the matter being that Orin was really enjoying this kind of attention was getting harder to dissuade. His voice came out loud and clear and definitive: “I don’t think I’m the perv, here, Orin.”
“Christ.”
Seymour’s tone changed again. A little more confident this time. Orin could picture him now: his geeky, thick glasses balancing on his nose as he leaned against the flower shop desk with the phone precariously held in his sweaty hand. Orin groaned aloud.
Revulsion invaded the meek botanist’s voice. “Oh, that’s really gross! That’s so gross. Gosh. You can’t even have a— a regular conversation without getting horny. That’s—that’s embarrassing.”
“Yeah.” Orin’s voice was husky and low. “It is, isn’t it?” It was getting incredibly difficult to clear his head. In a haze, Orin jammed the phone between his shoulder and the side of his face, going for his belt.
“I bet you’re going to get off right now, aren’t you? You don’t— you don’t even care that I’m on the line.” Orin couldn’t think straight. “In fact you— you um, you probably like it. Don’t you?”
“Christ— christ. God. Shit.” Orin shoved his hand into the front of his jeans, using the other hand to free the phone from his shoulder and press the receiver up against his other ear. “No— no, I don’t. You geeky little fuck.” A beat. “Keep talking.”
“You’re not even trying to hide it or anything.” Seymour’s voice got noticeably lower. Orin’s braces grated at the inside of his lip when he bit it. Blood. Orin whined, imagining it was Seymour’s. “That’s sick, Orin. You’re sick.”
“Call— fuck, fuck— call me sick again,” he hissed in his Brooklyn accent through gritted teeth. The lack of control was making him spiral.
“I bet you leave the office door open when you get off. You want someone to see you. Hear you. You are sick.”
Orin let out a throaty groan. “Yeah. Yeah, yeah. God, you’re good.” Aware of the accidental praise he had just offered Seymour, Orin added breathily, “for a fuckin’ virgin.”
“I—I can stop,” Seymour stated, as though it were fact, and not a threat. “I don’t need to keep— um, doing this, Dr. Scrivello.”
Orin tensed. “Don’t you dare.” He eyed the phone like Seymour could feel his expression through it. “I’ll rip your goddamned molars out. I’ll rip ‘em out and put ‘em back in your fuckin’ jaw.”
This seemed to change the tension behind the phone call a little, and successfully gave Orin some of the power he had been attempting to retrieve back. For the first time since the beginning of the call, Seymour sounded nervous. Like he was supposed to. “Y—you will?”
“Yeah, I fuckin’ will. You won’t be able to speak for a week.”
“You’re that messed up? You need me to keep talking that bad?”
Oh, fuck. Fuck. Not his plan. Orin’s breathing shallowed. His hand quickened, involuntarily. “You— what? You—”
“Orin.” Seymour’s voice was making Orin’s head spin. Where did this kid get off, degrading Orin the way he was? And why was it working so well? Orin had thought that making Seymour uncomfortable was hot—which it was—but that geeky little prick was turning it back onto him! And— well, Orin did love being called sick. His hips jerked, and he gave in.
“Yeah?” His domineering voice came out in more of a whine.
“You’re a pathetic creep.”
“I am?”
Seymour said something else, something very far away. His head was reeling. Orin gasped out an “I’m close,” and came into his hand and the front of his tight leather jeans. “Shit.”
Seymour seemed to realize himself on the other end of the line, but it didn’t matter how meek Seymour became. He’d heard Orin at his most—what was the word? Pathetic?—and that was incentive enough for Orin to march himself down to that stupid goddamned flower shop and smack Seymour’s head against the linoleum floor until he forgot it ever happened. This was beyond embarrassing.
“Well— well, Audrey’s— she’s back.”
Orin’s eyes flickered as he gathered his thoughts. “Tell her I’ll be there in twenty. And— Krelborn?”
Seymour hesitantly responded with a small, “Yes, Dr. Scrivello?”
He decidedly ignored the strangely warm feeling blooming in his chest, and leaned close to the receiver of his phone. “You’re dead meat.”
Click.