One Less Bottle Of Beer On The Wall
.....one less bottle of beer. Take one down, pass it around, fifty six bottles of beer on the wall.
Then cometh the next day when, from the floor, you try and focus to see if there are any bottles of beer on the wall, probably warm, but, just then, the opening salvo against a raging tornado of a hangover that, apparently, blew in from the Arctic as your nuts and cock have beat retreat (poor choice of words) into your body whether from over use, chill blains or common sense, who gives a shit. Also, there's the little matter of your clothes and where they might be. Plus, the guy who, apparently, went to sleep with your cock in his mouth but didn't quite close it or it came open which would explain the hardened white spots on the floor. Somewhere a Kookaburra bird blasted the hour. Who the fuck puts one of those in a cuckoo clock or, maybe, it only sounds like a Kookaburra. Knowing your friends, well, the other guys in the room, friendly or not, they wouldn't know a Kookaburra from the Statue of Liberty. Only stupid Yankee tourists who were lured into the Blue Mountains (they look more like hills but it would impolite to correct your Aussie mates) near Sydney and were made to listen to a Kookaburra would even know what the fuck they sound like.
Moving carefully, pulling what seemed like a dildo but proved to be a hand, from your ass and try to rise toward that enticing wall....
Twenty One bottles of beer on the wall, twenty one bottles of beer.....
Little by little you ease your way across the floor navigating other lumps, sometimes one, sometimes more than one that seem to be joined in ways that could be photographed and used to illustrate a kinky self-bondage magazine (Really, did some one hijack the mens'gymnastic team? Sure, I know lots of people who can suck themselves, but rim their own tail? ) The wall, with that mysterious hole, grows closer. No point in ever wondering might happen if you stuck something personal and attached to you through it, For one thing, it's already occupied with part of a broken bottle of .... something.Below it there are stains, some that seem dried, others that seem more coagulated. Besides, the last time, at a party like this, Bob, your partner, stuck something, okay, his cock, through a hole he screamed and it came back with a fine looking Prince Albert. And where was Bob?
Bob was hard to miss under any circumstances. At 6'7" and 280 pounds of muscle, cuts and veins that seemed on the virtue of bursting through his skin, most people recognized him and, in the future, remembered him. Particularly if they'd happen to catch him in action in the ring wearing only a Speedo with an ad for an energy drink on the butt and beating the shit out of someone dumb enough to think they had a chance. (I always got to sit in the first row but had to remember to wear something from which blood could be washed or just tossed out all together,) We met when I mistook him for part of a faux column holding up the library and he liked the bulge in my chest, ass and other assorted parts. As I said, he would be hard not to find assuming I might try....some what later in the whatever part of eternity this might be. Oh, Bob's favourite stunt was to hold me upside down by my ankles and we'd do a standing 69; He'd even do it when it was just the two of us. One supposes to be a body builder/Ultimate Fighter you have to be more than a modest part exhibitionist.
....Eighteen bottle of beer on the wall, eighteen bottle of beer....
The Wall!! Looking up I could see the underside of the shelf also where quite a lot of ex chewing gum had been stored, stains and spots I'd prefer not to have identified and, disturbingly, a bracket that seemed to be on the verge of loosing itself and causing whatever was on the shelf to fall.
Up. I had to stand, well, somehow get up enough to feel around enough to find a warm can-someone had the foresight to replace glass bottle with big cans. Sensible. While I pondered how to do this, a foot fetishist started nibbling on my toes and I let him. Nothing could have aroused me then and, besides, whatever I'd step in, been thrown in or had dumped on me might taste good. Or it might contain some sort of Virus that would scare the bowels out of the CDC. (I hate scat although they must love it, one always reads about their wanting stool samples; Have them drop by our place, we can give them names and addresses of persons and places who would be only too happy to shit in or on anything they could produce including themselves.)Thinking about that caused me to shudder just enough so that, like a worm-do worms have hangovers if they transit spirits or beer? I wonder. I know that leaving beer out in a shallow dish kills something. Maybe the neigbours. I crawled up the wall noting that a secondary purpose of them was not to conceal or differentiate between spaces, but to hold things up.
.....Three more bottles of beer on the wall, three more bottle of beer....
And they're, mine, all mine. I popped one open and chugged it as I slid down the wall to a sitting position. A hand reached out, looking for my cock or my balls or some other person. Disappointed, it withdrew, like the penis of a dog going back in it's sheathing after it takes a piss. That was increasingly another idea that held some virtue.Assuming I could get Peter Pisser out of his den, taking a leak was a definite maybe.
Some where I heard a long stream of regrettable language-was the fleet in?-then a window slammed shut. Almost immediate tendrils of heat from a floor vent began to spiral through the room. There was a migration towards it but now, after the second can, and a very refreshing series of farts, burps and the feeling I may vomit were behind me I could find covering for myself. I had some vague recollection-of course at that moment all my recollections were vague-of wearing something more than nothing, maybe pants, a shirt, sneakers.
Across the room a hand wavered up, grabbed the ring depending from what proved to be a window shade and gave it a yank. It was already about half ripped so this just proved the coup de grace that brought it down entirely proving it was daytime outside, a bright, sunny day that caused some of those to moan and put their hand, or the hand of another, over their eyes. I had the advantage of being, if not awake, at least semi conscious long enough for my brain to take over managing certain basic functions such as opening and closing the iris in my eyes. It was, I'll admit it, slightly painful but, hell, I'm a man, I can take it, I can take anything which, I think, was proved somewhere in the last millennium or at least last night. Was there a contest that involved making a popping noise when the neck of something unbreakable was pulled sideways from your ass? I think I won but....who took second place?
No more bottles of beer on the wall, no more bottles of beer.....
Except the one I had in my hand and was saving that for Bob, not for nothing are we partners. By rapidly expanding and contracting my eyes and lids I could begin to focus for more than one foot and saw what appeared to be the top of Mt. Everest- I'd know that nipple anywhere-Bob. I used the old radar trick of being a guided missile started to head in his direction when the fucking Kookaburra bird crowed or made it's laughing Jackass noise, this time closer, oh very much closer. Almost as it it were on top of my head. Gingerly reaching up I found a cuckoo clock which, with as few gestures as necessary, I ripped from the wall, disassembled with one hand and put on the bottle-less shelf. Somewhere I think I heard applause.
By closing one eye I could get a track on Bob so, carefully dislodging the mouth that was sucking on my big toe, I lurched in that direction. Okay, I may have stepped on a few people, it's nothing less than they would have done to me. Big Bob, not the drive in, was sort of laying on the floor. Due to his musculature, he really couldn't get flat, his ass cheeks, which he could bounce in time or syncopation, were sufficiently large that flat and Bob weren't a possibility. Finally arriving at his head I noticed that one eye was somewhat open, wandering around and, not surprizingly, found me.Recognition and he canceled the order to strike. "Bro, listen to me, now, I'm going to pull down part of your lip and pour some medicine in it to help you. Let's run that past you again, feel my finger? (I put it someplace he was sure to recognize it, his ass.)Now, remember that's my finger, I'm Denny, the man you love, the man you fuck, the man you live with, okay?"I thought I sensed...something so I took another finger and hooked it over his lip.
"Now, feel this? The metal thing? In a minute I'm going to open it and slowly pour it in your mouth. Imagine it's my cum and swallow all of it. I have a lot of cum, this time, so enjoy the new flavour, you know, you always say you are what you ate so I ate a lot of hops, barley and malt and that's what this will taste like."
I paused for a moment to see if that percolated through his head."Okay, now, slowly, I'm going to give you a sip from my metal cock, just...that's right, now swallow, here's some more, swallow.....damn, you're good....again..." Remembering I had the advantage of at least some period of time since I came to and he was just on the threshold, I gave him a few moments to let the good of the "medicine"dribble into him. Since he couldn't withdraw his cock, something about over training in his groin, I leaned over and sucked it, that always centred him, went all the way until he shot. God knows what he had eaten but if he was now what he'd ingested, I had to get it out of him and quickly. Suck, suck, suck. Some more sips of beer, a shiver of awareness ran down his frame which looked a lot like the front range of the Rockies experiencing an earthquake. We were getting there but I was almost at the bottom of the can. What to do?Set out on a search and seizure mission to find more spirits, amyl or....something helpful.
It took a while but I achieved the kitchen where someone I think I'd double fucked with...someone else, was trying to make a Bloody Mary.That he had substituted water for Vodka and Ketchup for tomato juice wasn't going to produce the result he had in mind and, frankly, I shuddered at what his innards might do when it all hit bottom. Oh, and feeling nourishment might be good, he ate quite a large wedge of bleu cheese. I thought about projectile vomiting. Somewhere in the back of my mind I recalled that our host, whomever that was, had told me he hid the "real stuff" in ordinary waxy cartons. One sniff and I found Scotch masquerading as OJ, Bourbon was mixed in with what appeared to be pickled beet juice and, finally, Vodka from the 2%milk container. Momentarily I thought about what to mix it with-the Ketchup was gone and even if I could find, if it was there to be found, the concept of Vodka and tomato paste was enough to gag a goat.
In these circumstances, beer really is the best of a horrid list of choices and all it will really do is cause your body to get slightly drunk again. The worst thing is....water, lots and lots of water which gets you really drunk again but without the alcohol, it just makes things worse, or so goes the theory. No, I remember, sort of, the worst thing the next morning is flat Champagne. While it won't put hair on your chest, it will make your mouth feel furry. Hard to believe there's a cocktail, not as popular as it once was, called "French 75" which is gin mixed with Champagne.
My problem was how to decant some Vodka leaving enough for my host.After a party such as we, apparently, attended, it's good to look in the trash for small containers and, Bingo, there were some beer cans that hadn't been squashed and into a pair of those I poured restorative for Bob. The guy who left with his tomato paste surprize did have part of a good idea and that was food. Good, simple food.This was not the time for a black salad made with squid ink or ragout of raccoon, just basic things. Pawing around in the papers, bags, receipts, spills etc I found a bagel that didn't seem to have been tampered with-I mention that as another game had been Bagel Bounce.You take one hard cock, stick the hole in a bagel around it and then the challenge is to eat the bagel before...something happens; Party games usually make no sense but if you're drunk enough, can seem hilarious. At the time.
With my cache of sustenance I found Bob who had rolled on one side making me think the tide must have turned, either that or he needed to take a piss. Resourcefulness is the name of the game. While I didn't care if he peed on the floor, it made him messier to deal with because he had a very strong stream, in riots he could slow down the rioters with a couple of blasts.....and that's before they saw the source of the weird water. Luckily I spotted a guy I vaguely knew-in a situation like this "vague" almost consists of being blood brothers. What I knew was that he was also referred to as "The Toilet" which did not make reference to his perfect, fake white porcelain teeth. Which were removable when he was about his favourite form of degradation, drinking piss. It was an effort but I got him dragged around Bob and hooked up to the hose. (When one has practiced this "art" for long enough, letting your jaw drop and having inserted is second nature.) It was interesting to watch for as Bob emptied himself, another "pack" appeared bringing him back to his natural eight pack. Ever the thoughtful guest I wiped him with the available tongue and closed the lid to the toilet. I thought I heard him grind his molars but who gave a shit.
Feeding time for my favourite animal. It was a little hard to do the beer in a can trick with Vodka but, dripped slowly, and discovering there still was some beer which flavoured the stronger stuff helped. I alternated drinks with solid food and, like all good animals, when something is put in his mouth, he automatically chewed.
As light suffused the room and passed across eyelids there began a cacophony of sounds that did not indicate a preference for sunlight and the healing Vitamin A it brought. Indeed looking about the room, you could see a sort of worm like migration for darker places, under tables, behind furniture, against walls in a corner. Others, more favoured, were too gone to notice and so, since they were nude, if they were in a place where the sun wasn't going to move as it rose, they could work on eliminating their tan lines if they still had one.If, as I was, you were modestly aware and awake, the sound was that of a poorly run zoo with underfed animals. Not good.
Bob was showing signs of life, was able to move, independent of each other, his arms and legs which meant to me, fun as this had been, it was time to leave not bothering to find our host and thank them for a lovely, lovely evening. There was also the issue of clothes, ours, and that we weren't wearing any. Having faced this situation in the past I anticipated it in two ways; I parked within streaking distance of the front door, left the driver's door open and a spare key hidden in the glove box. Beyond that, on the back seat, were a couple of T shirts, some bikinis, shorts, whatever you felt you could haul on with ease.
Bob responds nicely to suggestions so, to start him on the way to vertical, I told him that the large couch was really an opponent who'd called him a mutherfucker in front of ten thousand fans. Worked like a charm. He climbed that couch like it was a small hill, began to look around for the shit head who'd called him that (Bob was very sentimental about his mother, a nice lady currently doing a stretch at a prison in Oklahoma. I'd met her when Bob was top of the card at a ring in Oklahoma City and, naturally, we'd dropped by. Gotta say, she had some really bitchin' tattoos, a few of which she'd done herself. When she got out, she promised each of us at least a full sleeve. Or more. She'd done the amazing one that turned his cock into the middle finger somehow giving it the full emphasis of "giving somebody the finger" even if it wasn't that finger.) My job now was to get behind him and start forward motion towards what I believed to be a foyer that led to the front door. Again, dutiful as a child, once I had him up and in motion, I could take him by the hand and sort of lead him. Interesting foyer. There were a couple of people hanging from coat hooks who seemed to be in no pain. Some thoughtful person had put a heavy coat on them and then used the collar of that for the, uh, hanging.
I/we slipped out the front door and Bob, failing to notice the few steps up went down but, fortunately, into some bushes. It took a bit of effort to unsnarl him but I did and, remembering our state of nudity, didn't bother me but others, like officers of the law, might have questions, it was a quick step to the van, me leading Bob by his eleventh finger; He liked that.
In the car, scrambled around, found some sunglasses for each of us which was all I needed right then. When we were some distance from the "party"I could deal with other coverage. Besides, it was way early, we were in a high vehicle and anyone looking in to see what they could see would do that as well as hauled through the window and, a bit later, shoved out the other one. (On a few occasions, mainly after matches when his fans chased us, this peering in had happened. I would only say that if they were virgins when they arrived, they weren't when they left. A little souvenir by which to remember the evening.)
We were moving forward which in the words of the elegant Martha Stewart, was a good thing. Bob's head had stabilized and he was beginning to look about, do the more normal activities, jerk off while scratching his balls, occasionally freeing a hand to pinch my nipples which always, we are talking every fucking time, made my cock go Sproing, and be right at attention. Sucking on cock while in a moving vehicle was one way Bob avoided motion sickness, which, frankly, I never thought he had. However, as the recipient of Hoover equipped mouth, I had no complaints, always remembering to pull to the side when I was going to shoot. Like many guys, I have the sort of squirt that involves my whole Central Nervous System causing spasms, my tits to go up and down independent of each other and then my own private Niagara Falls. Bob liked it when I did that, we always went halfsies, he drank half and spat the other half back in my mouth; At eleven calories per spoonful, it would be hard to find a more nutritious drink and one you always had with you.
Bob was now completely with us. Finished draining me, sat straight up, stretched so thoroughly it cause the car to shudder and put one loving hand behind my neck. I'd look at him, he'd look at me I'd look back at the road and he'd scratch my short Mohawk. Life was good.
"Feeling....better?"I put it in the tentative just to be safe.
"Sort of but dude......"
" I could really use a beer............."