Impertinences

PG-13? Rated R? Should any non-political thing be restricted these days? Persons younger than I know How the World Turns (not the TV soap-thing), so they can’t be harmed by exposure to the joys of good, clean fun (with characters and situations) in stories as pure as the driven snow. OK, there will be a few clichés here and there. Get a grip. Be fearless. Plunge ahead. 

1. An Eavesdrop

“A classy guy like me. Me! Can you imagine, he said I had the soul of a twit?”

“What’s a twit?” I didn’t know – something like a twat? Hmm…not far off.

“Forget it. I got paid. He wanted l-o-v-e or some poop like that. Anyway, he got what he wanted, my fanny.”

“So?”

“Listen, a backdoor love call’s nice once in a while – if it’s part of the negotiation and they pay enough. Only, hell, sucking’s what most want. That’s all he bargained for. I’m good at that. Did it, too, down to my gizzard.”

“Then what happened? I know you want to tell. You’re so fired up with indignation.” He was breathing hard.

“Asshole bandit – that’s what he is – he roto-rooted my poor drain pipe without so much as a how-do-you-do. Flipped me while I was swallowing. Damn near tore my throat out. ‘Your hole is my goal,’ he said, and crammed me hard.”

I wanted to appear sympathetic. “Did it hurt you much?”

“No, but I screamed like he had and put on a good show so he’d cum fast. And – bang! – he did. What he shot wouldn’t fill a thimble. He farts more than that. I swear, more than that. Had to open windows.”

What to say to such a rant? I came up with, “You poor baby. He must’ve been thrilled, I expect.”

“Look me in the eye. See how serious I am. When he finished rattling off in me, he – dipshit that he is – had the temerity to say, ‘I wasn’t expecting the goddam Grand Canyon.’”

“Well, just last night, you took on that squad from the whatever-it-was platoon of Company B from Fort Mack.”

“A favor for Brigadier General Slumberger. “Slummy” has access to what’s known as a discretionary fund. Used it to reward sharpshooter excellence for those boys. Wanted only the finest, so he engaged me.”

I couldn’t resist, “So, they used you for target practice – your hole being their goal?” My bitchy question misfired. The simpleton took it as a compliment. Went on to brag.

“I showed them a very good time – practically doing the hula during some of their pokes. Two told me what they really wanted was blow-jobs and asked how much I charged. They’ll be back on their own. Just had to show off how butch they were for ol’ Slummy, who was hiding behind that arras over there. That was a kicker.”

“Yes, but don’t you see why your customer this evening was disgruntled?”

“Certainly not. I told you he came here for me to slurp over. Raped me, that’s what he did. Me, a quality near-virgin! I should file a police report.”

“You should, being indignant and all – that is, should, if you weren’t a professional. You..did..take..his..money.”

He fairly shrieked, “Of course, I did!

“Calm down, dear. I’ll get you some of the classy Freixenet black label you love to swill.”

There were five bottles in his fridge. A bunch of not-yet-over-the-hill green grapes and some only slightly moldy cheddar were in the veggie drawer. Took the lot and two of his $1.98 glass stems with me to his bedroom – where he languished all over the place.

Does love to be dramatic, that one.

Gold tassels on everything. Upholstery in synthetic silky fabrics. Machine-made Orientals unraveling on the floor. Day-Glo pink towels of every size in the bathroom (with matching soaps). An open, half-eaten box of chocolate covered cherries “from an admirer” – yeah, sure.

Later settled, and slightly sloshed from the wine, he oozed self-pity.

“No one cares about me. I’m all alone – except of course for you, but you don’t count.”

That way with words and he wonders why he’s alone?

When he eschewed his stem to drink straight for the third bottle I’d opened, it was time to go.

He was weepily singing, “Nobody loves me, I wonder why-y-y-y,” as I closed the door behind me and caught some fresh air.

For similar verbal splashiness, read this. 

2. Neighbors

Friday night. The week had taxed me. Nothing would be better than another glass of wine and a good book. Had one, too – a novel about art and shenanigans at some big museum.

My simple dinner – a couple of lamb chops, mashed potatoes, green beans – would settle before sleep took me with its percale warmth. Sat back in my recliner, burped pleasantly, opened my book and was immediately struck by the relationship of Edwin and George. What was behind that?

Clatter at the front door interrupted my nascent reverie. Who the hell would be rapping at this hour? Feet to the floor, bathrobe cinched, I went to see.

“Mom and Dad are at it again with two other couples.”

As if that explained the presence on my doorstep of Benjamin and Henry.

I was annoyed. “So?”

“We don’t want to join in. It’s creepy.”

“May we come in?” Henry always was polite.

“Oh, all right.” Careful of my robe, I stepped aside.

They plunked on the sofa. My face must have called for more information.

“Our folks and two other women and two other guys,” Benjamin said. “Touchy-feely from the start.”

“And?” I felt safe in my armchair.

Henry spoke up, “That was okay back when we were small, but we don’t them messing with us now we’ve grown – you know where.”

Uh-oh. They could de-rail me. “Why? By the way, how old are you now? I haven’t been much of a neighbor. You know, keeping to myself these last two years.”

“Benjamin there’s already seventeen, I’ll be sixteen next month.”

“What kind of refuge are you looking for – just tonight?”

“If you’ll have us. We’d rather you have us than any of those creeps.”

“I never had you before.”

“No, but you told us how to do for each other, don’t you remember?”

“Come to think of it. How’d that work out for you?” My best behavior wasn’t hiding curiosity. Crossed my legs to hide something else.

Benjamin snickered, then grew serious. “When we started, we did like you told us to do. Just hands. Then, sucking really got us going. You called it sixty-nine – real funny. Math-like.”

Henry’s nod corroborated with his first smile since they barged in on me, “He was long enough to get in me the other way before I caught up with him in the dick department. Want to see?”

I froze. They weren’t going to – were they?

They were.

Oh no!

I’d been in denial since that trouble in Mexico, reading my books, socializing little.

Out came two six-inchers! Same as mine. They had grown. Four, before.

My time to groan. “Now boys, be careful. I’m human, you know.”

“We can tell.”

“Yes, your mouth’s open and you’re scratching yourself.”

“Boys, please don’t take your pants off… OMG, how big your balls are!”

“Juicy, too. C’mon, take a sip.”

“They’re just big soda straws. You suck on ’em and… OMG, that feels like it used to!”

“Is he better than me?”

“No, but this is different. Don’t push. You’ll get your turn. He’s thirsty, don’t you see?”

“Mmm…mmm…he sure is glugging.”

“Okay, that was good. Here, I’ll push his head your way.”

Benjamin gasped, “Oh lordy, he’s vacuuming me! There goes my load!

“Say, he looks weak. I guess we wore him out.”

“Let’s put him his chair with his book in his lap. Say, that one’s a biggie. Wonder if it’s interesting.”

“If we ask, we will loan it to us. Get his feet up. Okay, let’s kiss him good-night.

For the XXX story of Edwin and George, look here on Amazon.

3. The Biggie

Tall, sporting a great boner with cream-smooth skin (hardly a visible vein), he parcels out his favors like some sovereign doling alms to subjects.

Comes by his nine inch beauty the old-fashioned way, by inheritance, thanks to parental DNA.

Parties are his thing, those he is paid to attend. For one pay grade, he mixes with everyone and, if someone in particular catches his eye, he will take them on in front of everyone. For double that amount, he will take on whatever old, fat bloke the host wants to honor.

Does the jungle-animal thing really well.

Truth of the matter, known to us close friends, is that sex is his only métier. It dominates his milieu. (I’m showing off my French words.) Off duty, he deigns to coach us in his distracted way. Not from magnanimity; more to underscore his sense of superiority. Plus, he has a short temper.

Just last week, he blew a fuse in frustration.

“You guys have no pizazz, no aura. You just put it out there, thinking your pretty butts enough. Yeah, well, not for long. Won’t keep the clients’ juices flowing. Talk about basics, you, Beaver-face, the way your upper lip is always parted to show your teeth – God, that’s dorky.”

Putting people down is his idea of fun.

I do my best. Even volunteered to be his test subject to demonstrate to my colleagues here in the house. Little did I know how frequently he would want to put on a show.

Let me tell you, he’s awful. Uses me the way that clunk from the Addams Family used to lurch into me, wedging in every uncoordinated direction – with the skill of a bag of potatoes. Brick hard, too. Hard on my adrenal system. Not to mention the bruises he must be leaving inside.

Shhh…don’t tell: I love it.

I try to stay supple, so I can go limp in his arms the way he likes. My best tactic, you understand, to bilk some extra from him, is that I whine and say all my standard lines. He knocks the air out of me every time.

But, I’ve got lots of backbone.

“Yeah,” my friend Schlomo jokes, “you need it to support your backside, you know, through all the gymnastics he demands of it in his line of work.”

I was indignant. “My ass is not his ‘work.’ Nobody’s getting paid. He’s getting me for free.”

“You have a cute heinie. You’re getting his whopper for free, so doesn’t that sort of equalize things? Anyway, bet he always uses you because he fancies you – despite your buck teeth. Of course, he’s not looking at them – not with your mug buried in a pillow.”

Schlomo’s sassy mouth got a punch for that and a withering look.

I upped the ante. “Your scrawny bones will never get you anything from my hero. And…and… that ‘delicate aroma’ of yours – sweat, crotch rot, piss, and head cheese – sends more than one negative message. What you need is a bath.”

Just then, who should come in?

I cut my fairest smile.

“Schlomo,” he said, to my horror, “you look like you could use some attention. Roll over for me, would you, please?”

‘Please’! Where did that come from?

Before I knew what to do, they were boinging away like pigs in a sty.

Abandoning all hope, I declaimed as dramatically as possible, “Oh Death, where is thy sting?”

Not the slightest reaction.

Heartbroken, I looked toward the door. There stood the burly captain of the University’s football team wanting, no doubt, to score a touchdown on our premises.

I trilled, “Yoo-hoo!”

If any of this taxed your vocabulary, there’s help to be had right here.

Ante up, please, the level of your approval of the amusements above,