I Wore a Ski Mask to the Gang Bang: Excerpts from the Deposition of Mason Heely

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Humor  |  House: Booksie Classic
Mason Heely has a lot of explaining to do...

Submitted: February 27, 2019

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Submitted: February 27, 2019

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… Now, I’m not gonna make many demands here, but sweetie I need you to get one thing down right here and now. I demand the record reflect that I wore a ski mask to the gang bang. Trevor wore one too, but he called it a balaclava because he always gets technical about things when he’s nervous. I remember this one time in high school… Wait. You can’t turn this over to the law, can you? No? Good. Well, we were 16 or 17, restless and drunk on stolen wine, so we all hop in my Miata to go out and burn some energy. It starts off as light vandalism but then George gets the idea to set fires, and we all join in except Trevor who stays in my back seat hugging his knees to his chest and stuttering which the laws we’re breaking like, “G-g-great job guys on t-t-that 3–201 fellas. Can we go home now?”

We went home eventually, we always did, but we burned a lot of shit first. That’s what this nasty little incident was, a little tomfoolery with no real harm done. Once you hear my side of the story, you’ll agree that Trevor is being ridiculous and should drop this lawsuit.


Are we waiting on my lawyers? Hell no! I fired ’em. Waste of money if you ask me. You see an innocent man, he doesn’t need a lawyer. “Just tell it to ’em straight.” That’s what my old man used to say, so that’s what I’m gonna do. You type all that down honey? Good, then let’s begin.


Hand to God I went to that Wawa to stop them. That was where we’d agreed to meet after George twisted our arms into participating in his sick little plan in the first place. See, he and Candy are having problems, so at poker one week, no one was surprised when he slaps this flyer down in the center of the pot with a naked woman on it. He was always dragging us to strip clubs at lunch, or brothels in Vegas, I only tagged along because I was a good friend not because…


Did my wife know? You see I’m still wearing this wedding ring, don’t you? Well, there’s your answer. What women don’t know don’t hurt ’em. That’s something else my old man used to say. Anyway, we ask George what the hell is with the flyer, and he just grins and points at the woman. She’s different, grown old like the rest of us, but she’s fighting the years with all she’s got. I don’t think a single part of her face was untouched by a surgeon, but I still found her in there, Jilly Marie…


Don’t fuck with me man you know who she is! Jilly Marie was a porn star in the 90s who made men of a lot of boys, myself included. Well, according to this flyer Miss Marie is making a comeback. It advertises that she’s is in town making one of those gang bang pornos where the public can join in if they register first and get the proper medical tests and George asks wouldn’t it be great if we all went? Now we’re all married men so we say “No,” but he gets to hemming and hawing about how this chance will never come again, so eventually we all agree, half-heartedly mind you, like when you promise to get dinner with your mother and never do.

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…What did I tell my wife? I told Sharon I was golfing. You can’t both save your friends’ marriages and tell your wife about a gang bang, that’s an either-or proposition. So I made my choice, and when the day came, I got up early and drove down to the Wawa intending to stop my friends from making the biggest mistakes of their lives.


Well, consider my surprise when I pull up and see Trevor standing in front of the store, twisting this black ski mask in his fists like it’s a wet towel.

I park the Benz and walk up to him with a big smile and ask, “Where are George and Steve?”

“Haven’t seen them.” He says while staring at his shoes. Now Trevor and I were never close, but we’re civil, so I say,

“I’m gonna get a coffee and call Steve. You want anything?”

“Maybe some pineapple juice. I’ve heard…” he trails off, but I know what he means. You do too don’t ya buddy? Anyway, he asks if he can wait in the E-class while I’m in the store and I say,

“In the back,” because I’m generous, then I walked inside and got Steve on Bluetooth.

“Where are you?” I asked when he picked up.

“Sick,” He whispers like he’s in bed trying not to wake his wife. Then he sneezes like he’s faking a cold, but as a parent and an employer, I know a fake sneeze when I hear one.

I’m not sure exactly what I said next, but it was probably something like, “I respect your decision, and I am proud of you.” Now I’ve seen his letter and “Fuck you pussy” doesn’t sound like the kind of thing I’d scream in a crowded Wawa at 7am and I don’t care if he has a cashier backing him up.


I’m about to head home to my beautiful wife and our two children, but then I start thinking, maybe Steve is lying about lying. Maybe he and George knew I’d come and talk them out of it, so they skipped Wawa and went straight to the shoot because they were terrified of my powers of persuasion.

I’m thinking that sounds pretty smart so I decide I’m going to go check the shoot out just in case. I’m pulling out of the parking lot when I check my rearview and see this guy wearing a ski mask in my backseat. See, I’d forgotten about Trevor at this point because…you’ve met him, he’s forgettable. So I panicked and started swinging my bag at what I thought was an intruder, which was an entirely reasonable thing to do in that situation.

In the fog of war, I may have landed a few blows to Trevor’s head before he identified himself and I stopped swinging the bag. If he got a black eye, I’m sure that’s where it came from.


I wouldn’t use the word threaten, and I don’t remember him seriously asking to get out of the car. But I do remember reminding him of why he was waiting at the Wawa and how I might let that slip to Sandy if he didn’t come along. We were always watching out for Trevor like that, leading him where he needed to go. Now the DA wants to call that kidnapping, that’s what’s wrong with America.


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GPS leads us to this industrial park in South Jersey. We park and follow this line of schlubs wearing flip-flops and dirty sweatpants to an abandoned warehouse where this fat little Mexican gangbanger is patting everyone down. I didn’t see George or Steve in the parking lot or the line, but they were always punctual, so I knew if they were there, they’d already be inside.

Now I was dressed for golf and Trevor at least had the class to wear loafers, so we walked straight up the doorman hoping he would let us cut in line because we’re obviously a cut above the rest, but he just points his fat little finger at the back of the queue. So that day I learned there is no VIP entrance to the gang bang. There’s a free tip for all of you. Jot that down honey, we’ll wait.


When we get back to the fat Mexican, he demands we roll up our masks which, I’ll admit we were the only people in line wearing masks, but let me tell you something about business. It’s about relationships and trust. So as a businessman, people rely on my spotless reputation for getting things moving and as a local celebrity, my privacy is essential to me, be it at the grocery store or the gang bang. I tried explaining this to the Mexican, but I guess he didn’t speak English because he just keeps pointing at my mask which I eventually roll up, in what I view as an egregious invasion of privacy which I have not forgotten. After this civil suit is thrown out, I’m going to sue him next.

Once he sees our faces, he waves Trevor and me through the door, and I will admit I was holding onto Trevor’s wrist as we went in, but that was for his comfort. See he had started translating some of the gang graffiti on the building which was not good for his delicate constitution.


The first thing I see inside the warehouse is this hunchbacked old lady chewing nicotine gum. She screams “Papers!” and I hand her my medical exam, and before you ask, I can explain why I had it. See to attend the gang bang you had to get physical to make sure you were healthy enough for sex and an STD panel for obvious reasons. I happened to have already had a physical scheduled for the week before the shoot and still had my paperwork in the Benz. Trevor’s was folded up neatly in his pocket so you can tell he wanted to be there otherwise, why did he have it? I mean he tried to tell the lady he didn’t have his papers, but I found ’em so easily it was like they were pinned to his shirt. Now do those sound like the actions of someone who didn’t want to be involved in a gang bang? Not to me friend, not to me.


The hunchback reads our charts like a Tijuana plastic surgeon while we signed waivers. Now I didn’t mention this before, but I was forced to sign mine. See this place was crawling with gangbangers, Mexicans, Neo-Nazis, what’s that black gang called? The Bloods. Them too. They were all working security. So when it looked like I was going to object to the waiver, one of them stared at me and slashed a finger across his throat. I knew what that meant so I signed. Trevor didn’t see the threat of course but that’s why I couldn’t let him leave, it was for his own safety.


We were shoved into this yellow tent where we stood between two male crackheads with weedwacker voices, and thin blonde hair were sitting on stools. Mine lisped, “Let’s see Mr. Willie.” And poked my crotch with a long wooden skewer, the kind Sharon uses for her famous kebabs. I was slow to unzip, so the man did it for me, which is a sexual assault and he’s next in court, after Trevor, and the divorce, and the Mexican gangbanger. I wanted to punch him, but because of the gang presence, all I could do was glare as he examined me.

“Cute ‘lil guy,” he chuckled, then pointed to the back of the tent while I zipped up. “Party’s in there,” he winked and turned to his next examinee.

When I zipped up, I followed Trevor through the curtains. That’s right he went first.


My mask? It was green with yellow stitching around the mouth and eyes. It had been my father’s and I thought wearing it to a gang bang was a fitting tribute to the old man. Sure, he probably never banged a porn star in it, but he definitely used it in service of sleeping with a lot of loose women, so I thought he would approve. My dad was never around much, I basically raised myself. (Sniffles) Would you like me to go on about my childhood trauma? No? Really? It killed at my last deposition.


Trevor and I disrobed at the direction of 2 more gangbangers then waded through the empty warehouse. We never found our friends which gave us little comfort because it meant we were nude, caged, and surrounded by strange naked men.

The longer we waited, the more nervous I became. Anytime someone looked at me, which happened often because Trevor and I were among a few people with the good sense to wear masks, I began to fear that I had been recognized by a birthmark or a mole. See, I do a lot of charity work and appear in a lot of commercials, so it happens often. Then I started to worry about the implications of being recognized, not just for me mind you. I’ll weather all of this just fine, the cream always rises. No, I was worried about the town, the state, the country, about the whole goddamned world. You see if a man like me can be brought down, what’s next? The banks? Wall Street? America? I mean the very institution of marriage itself could be at stake. Who is to say how far this could go?


Eventually, the director, a thin man in his fifties with shoe polish blacked hair, strutted into the warehouse flanked by two cameramen who filmed all of us. When the director reached a bed at the back of the warehouse, he said something like, “Helllooooooo swinging dicks!” and the crowd all whooped. I may have whooped too, I haven’t seen the video myself, but if I did, it was a terrified whoop, a prisoner’s whoop. Oh, you’ve seen the video? Does the terror come though? No? Well, that could have been because of the mask. Did Trevor whoop? He cried? Well, those were crocodile tears I assure you.


I had suffered many disappointments in life, birthdays where relatives ignored my wishlist and free jazzed their presents, a puppy that bit me and had to be put down, my first wife. But seeing Jilly Marie, the siren of my youth, stumble behind the director wearing cheap heels and a black bikini, with fried bottle blonde hair, and skin that was tanned like a baked potato, was the worst of them.

The director presented to her to us the way a girl at an auto show shows off a sports car, except she was more Ford Taurus than Maserati. He said something like, “Fellas, meet the main course for the evening, the filet minion of porn, Jilly Marie!!!” The men were ravenous, cawing, and stomping their bare feet on concrete. Not me though, I was concerned, see Jilly lost her balance and fell back into the bed, and I worried that she was ill but the director, he just laughed and said, “She’s eager boys. Look!” And the men’s screams must have drowned out my pleas. Did it appear that I was cheering? I assure you I was begging for help.


I did try to escape once after Jilly was in bed. Trevor didn’t see because he was one of the ravenous ones fighting for his place in line.

I sprinted to the door, but one of the gangbangers blocked my path, and he aimed a silver pistol at my heart and said, “No turning back now esse,” and he turned his gun sideways like they do in the movies. So I backed away and joined the line. I’m no hero, and I had a family to think of. I’m sure that footage was edited out of the final film though, for obvious reasons.


Trevor and I ended up in the middle of the line. We did not speak, but Trevor seemed excited. I settled into a grim kind of resolve about the situation, like a death row inmate marching towards execution.

The director shouted, “Get after her boys!” and the line began to move. For a half hour, I watched men give Jilly their all for 30 to 45 seconds before the line moved forward again. Every few minutes someone’s masturbation shook my side, more than once it was Trevor, so you see I know those tears were fake. I know he made a good show of it when he got his turn, but you have to see his tantrum for what it was, the act of a devious person. See, he basically got to have his cake and fuck it too. He had his fun with Jilly and then he turned on the waterworks which fooled Sandy enough that she took him back. But he didn’t fool us, right? No, we see through him like he was made of glass.


When it came to my turn, I wanted to run but after Trevor made us look like a bunch of pussies and after suffering all the humiliations of the day I’ll admit I felt like I deserved some relief. So I sauntered up to the bed. Jilly was on her back, holding the back of her knees to keep her legs up. She didn’t even look at me, just kept staring up at the ceiling. She might as well have been doing her taxes. I think the director said, “Giddy up,” So I tried and I tried but it was like that Stones song, I couldn’t get any satisfaction. The more I pumped, the less I felt. It was like fucking a pillow if the pillow was on heroin. Even worse there was the audience of a hundred men jerking off behind me, and then I started thinking of the banking system failing, and I almost lost my erection.

The director noticed me struggling so he started feeding me lines which only made things worse.

What lines? I can barely remember because of all the post-traumatic stress, but I think he had Jilly ask, “Is this is a stick-up?” because of the mask and then he made me say, “I’m gonna rob that pussy.” Which made no sense to me then and makes no sense now. I think that it also impacted my performance. When I saw it on the DVD, I’m sure that was why I showed so poorly.


After I said the line the director’s face got stern, and he made that circular motion with his fingers that means “wrap it up” and I tried but couldn’t because I love my wife and my country.

So finally the director asks, “We gonna do anything robber?”

So I said, ”Rob that pussy?” But he didn’t laugh at my joke.

“Cum or fake it, Mr. Robber,” The director said so I attempted to fake it. “Oh..Oh OH!” I shouted, starting too soft and ending too loud but Jilly didn’t care.


The gangbangers watched me get dressed and told me if I went to the cops they would kill my family, then they shoved me out the door. I passed Trevor outside, but we didn’t speak. Then I texted Sharon and drove home.


What happened at home? I unloaded my golf clubs and took a nap. Why do you keep asking about me? I thought this was about Trevor.

Oh… This is the deposition for the divorce? Well then, I must have gotten some dates mixed up, and I’d like to change a few of my answers.

We can run this back right darlin’? Just tear up those pages and start fresh? I have something prepared for this on my phone. You’ll type it up won’t you sweetie? That’s a good girl.

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(Clears Throat)

I have never attended any gang bang. I was golfing on the day in question, and there are numerous pictures which I texted to my wife as evidence thereof. Besides, the man in that porno is wearing a mask! Christ! He doesn’t even look like me. And even if he was me, it doesn’t count as cheating if you don’t orgasm, my dad always said that.

Besides, I’m a local celebrity! Imagine the implications! You wouldn’t want to bring down the banking system… would you!?


© Copyright 2020 Ben Stearns. All rights reserved.

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