WordSlut

Wally's Cock

Clearwater was somewhere outside Freelton─could have been north or the opposite, possibly east or tempestuous west, I’ve never been one for directions, but then I’ve discovered some amazing sites along the way. Anyhow it was off Highway 6, then there was that Freelton exit and a slim highway, and if you paid attention, on the right side, a wood sign with “Clearwater” scrawled in black paint. Take that path, drive along with branches scraping your car but don’t pay any mind like when your kid falls and scrapes a knee, and then you come to a log house and another make-shift sign saying welcome. Two Rottweiler’s will come running and barking up to your car and if you go further they’ll chase you down and they’ll win every time. And then Wally a tall skinny guy will amble up to your car, his cock and long hair swinging in the breeze.       
“Folks,” he’ll greet you every time you ease up, with the stones rolling under your wheels. “Here for the day or weekend?” And then he’ll wait, smiling and occasionally scratching.
“Just the day, this time,” we’d say every time. We never stayed for the weekend.

Wally was a tall guy so if you rolled down your car window and if he stood beside the car and if you leaned forward to hear him because of the racket his hounds were making, you’d get a real close-up of his prick. I was weird that summer─spent most of my time lying on the flat hot rocks beside the quarry with my eyes closed or checking out the clouds. “Looks like rain today,” I’d say or “This is the life,” when the sky opened blue and wide. The first summer I took my top off and kept my lime and blue bikini bottoms on. I also had a bikini with ties on the side so the material rode up the side of my hips and I liked that. The second summer when some of the women were weaving daisy garlands in their pubic hair, I slid of my clothes, did it really fast like jumping in cold water, which the quarry water was all summer. Sometimes I opened my eyes like when one of the members squatted beside me –
“Want a beer?” he said and I looked up to see his prick grinning away at me.
“I don’t drink beer,” I said.
“No beer?” he said.
“I like the smell, though,” I said and closed my eyes.
Abie stood up. “Her father used to drink beer.”
“Gotja,” the man said, tugging at the brim of his blue “Coors Lite” cap.
   
The first summer after I married Abie, we went on a science weekend with the other counsellors from Green Acres Day Camp. Most counsellors shared a bunkhouse, but Abie said “We’re newlyweds, you know what I mean,” and so we had the tiny cook’s room off the kitchen to ourselves, which didn’t really matter, because of the horses grazing orchardgrass and bromegrass in the pasture.
“What’s that?” I said to Abie, both of us in our Tyrolean hiking boots and flannel shirts.
“His cock,” Abie said.
“His cock,” he said, smirking at me.
“But I’ve been horseback riding since I was a kid and I never ─” I said.
“Well, maybe they gave you old nags,” he said and I burst into tears.
Which was really weird considering I’d started sucking on cocks at Manitou-wabing when I was twelve years old and Micheal Breier was still alive.

Jimmy Bob's Evil Twin

Jimmy Bob was depressed—a writer tangled in dead lines, crossed with a girlfriend living five hundred miles away with her two-hundred-pound daughter. He really didn't consider the daughter's weight, but the heaviness of her presence, her stream of chaotic phrases, her neediness suffocated him.

Still, the mother was his best fuck ever including the hooker he and his friend Dave used to play around with—one watching and learning and getting his rocks off while the other pumped away and just generally did whatever he pleased. Jimmy says he's not proud of that time, but he learned a lot from the experience and attributes his expertise to those hooker days. Once he said he wouldn't mind if his girlfriend had a hankering for another man, as long as he could watch. He told her this one week after he confided about his days with Dave and the hooker. His girlfriend Sam stared up at him all weird so he said, "Forget it. Strike it out." But the thing was he did put the words out in bright neon for her to return to when ever she needed verification for something he did or said.

There are certain things about Jimmy Bob that add up. He was born in Deep South. He was adopted. He still goes to church and says grace before he eats. He has a penchant for taking stacks of newspapers into the bathroom, a habit that goes back to his childhood when he needed to escape from his parents' fighting. "It's like I'm my own twin," he says. "There's good Jimmy and bad Jimmy." At first Sam looked for bad Jimmy but couldn't find him anywhere. Two months after their first meeting when he drove through a blizzard to meet her, he let his guard down.

Oh, he can be contrite alright. He knows how to apologize which is rare for a man, although men must say the same thing about women —"That dang woman thinks she's always right, damn it!" What Sam found out and of course she doesn't know the half of it is Jimmy Bob was hooked on coke for two years and if he feels the urge all he has to do is mosey down the street to score some. He loves to drink and prefers hard liquor. And he had a tumor removed from the side of his neck in 2001. What worried him was he might look ugly with part of his neck removed, but actually, the operation gave him a necessary indentation in his jaw line which is rather becoming.

(Blogger is tired and going to sleep. Will continue tomorrow.)