A Filthy & Ridiculous Story about Ed Koch

I wrote this for, and read it at, Competitive Erotic Fan Fiction at Union Hall in Brooklyn last Sat. Created and hosted by my twisted friend Bryan Cook, the show features sick and stupid sex tales about famous people or fictional characters. If that doesn't sound up your alley, STOP READING NOW! But if it does...

A Requiem for Ed Koch;
or,
Ed’s Cock: An Appreciation

I come to praise Ed Koch, not to bury him. New York’s quintessential mayor, who served three terms in the ‘70s and ‘80s, was larger than life. As Bill Clinton said at Koch’s memorial, “He had a big brain, but a bigger heart.” And, he should’ve mentioned, an even bigger cock. Tall and erect like the Empire State Building, thick and solid like the pylons of the Brooklyn Bridge, fast yet unpredictable like the F train, Ed Koch’s penis embodied the city itself. And at a time when New York was straddling a new era, the mayor was straddling practically everyone in it.

Ed’s cock was pretty much always inside the vagina or anus of everyday New Yorkers, like your local green grocer or bank teller. He’d stick it in and say his catchphrase, “How’m I doin’?” Not everyone was psyched to have the mayor’s member in their butthole or pussy, but, usually, they liked it. It was something you could count on, like New York Post headlines, or the lox at Russ & Daughters (by the way, Koch schtupped Russ and his daughters). In a time of fiscal austerity, race riots, and widespread corruption, fucking helped to ease the pain. And the bachelor mayor led the city balls-out. 

Sometimes he’d go down to Wall Street and bang a bunch of CEOs and analysts to try to jumpstart the economy. (“Anal-ists,” he called them -- he had a bawdy sense of humor.) You know the people who clap at the opening bell of the stock exchange? Koch would give them oral under the podium, to make them cheer harder. Then he’d fuck the bell, so it rang loud and clear. Or he’d swing by the Bowery and let the bums give him a hand job for a few bucks. It took like five or six homeless men to get him off, so it became a little project -- in this way, he not only stimulated commerce, but fostered a sense cooperation and self-esteem.

On weekends, Ed would show up unannounced at Studio 54 and dance through the coke and disco-fueled night. In the darkness, his prick would find its way into some unsuspecting but happy orifice. “Who’m I doin’?” he’d say. One night it was the much sought-after twat of Debbie Harry. They hit it off, and she taught Ed all about the CBGB scene, introducing him to bands like Television and the Talking Heads. Apparently, David Byrne recorded the vocals to “Psycho Killer” while in the throws of a mayoral shagging, which explains his unusual delivery.

Or, on a lazy afternoon, he’d take the subway to the Bronx Zoo and give an elephant a rusty trombone. Then he’d fuck the shit out of it. Some say this was self-indulgent, or abusive to animals, but I know why he did it. It showed that tough New York spirit that says, “We’ll get through anything!” Plus, kids enjoyed it, and tourists got to take home some pretty funny photos. The elephant wasn’t complaining either.

Everyone knows about the World Series game in 1977 when Reggie Jackson hit three homeruns off three pitches against the Dodgers. But what they don’t know is that he hit a fourth homerun in the clubhouse, after the game, by depositing a line drive into Mayor Koch’s bleacher seats -- his ass. After which Koch turned around and blasted a shot off his bat towards Reggie’s face, but it veered at the last second and splattered on the floor in front of Catfish Hunter’s locker. “How’d I do?” said the mayor. “Ground rule double!” said Mr. October. Everyone in the clubhouse laughed, including Manager Billy Martin, who hated Reggie and could be pretty uptight. Ed had this effect on people. 

Probably the most famous event of the Koch administration was Simon & Garfunkel’s 1981 concert in Central Park. Koch was there, backstage, where he helped Paul & Artie warm up by letting them deep-throat his massive knob. This loosens up the larynx, which helps to hit the high notes. Ed even joined them onstage and played bass for the “59th Street Bridge Song (Feelin’ Groovy)” -- with his schlong. The crowd of 500,000 went wild. Then a special guest was announced: it Paul’s wife at the time, Carrie Fisher, who happened to be wearing her Princes Leia metal bikini outfit from Return of the Jedi. I don’t know if she’d just come from a shoot or what, but everyone knows how hot that outfit was. Immediately Koch unhinged her bikini bottom and started going down on Princess Leia Organa’s coveted organ. (It must have been planned, but it seemed spontaneous.) As Garfunkel started quietly crooning “Bridge Over Troubled Water,” Simon just sat there and watched Ed, as if to say, “I do this all the time at home.” While Ed’s tongue flew into her trench like an X-wing fighter, he also maneuvered the Millennium Falcon of his dick up around her head and fired two diverging laser beams of sticky glaze onto her cinnamon buns. Then, just as the song kicked up a notch, with Art & Paul singing, “sail on silver girl,” Ed used the Force -- of his tongue -- to find the weak spot of her Death Star. She exploded in orgasm, her cries reverberating from the great lawn, to the steel canyons of the midtown, to a galaxy far, far away. It was beautiful. 

Now Ed Koch is dead. And while his political legacy will be debated, Ed’s cock lives on -- in the legions of offspring he sired, in some hilarious snapshots from the Bronx Zoo, and in Brooklyn basement shows, where the truth can still be told. How’d he do? Pretty fucking great.