02) Remembrances

Boops Meets DB after DB Meets Del It was early in the Eisenhower presidency. Yeah, there was HUAC—the House Unamerican Activities Committee—and Joseph McCarthy and the Rooskies to worry about. Lots of people did. But not young DB, judging from his actions. He was the spoiled adult son of an industrialist multibillionaire, who had grown up lacking absolutely nothing. Private tutors, personal fitness trainers, travel abroad, whatever it was his father thought he needed, he got it. After having passed a good number of graduate school exit exams, at age twenty-two, daddy cut him loose to sow all the wild oats he had in him. Penthouse suite in the ritziest hotel in North America (which his father owned), kick-ass red sports car, along with several grand a week for an allowance. If some over-zealous cop cited DB for speeding, he would find his career in a shambles within hours. For DB, it was a good life. Then there was young Miss Boopadoop, a beauty whose name bespoke an indefinable ancestry. Hungarian? Swedish? Middle-Eastern? Never mind the hereditary speculations, the thing that mattered most to her was that she was one buxom babe with an absolutely unbelievable hour glass figure. And although her parents thought she should have forgotten about finishing high school and taken a full time job waitressing at age fifteen, she’d insisted on finishing her compulsory education. It all made for a series of nasty scenes in the vermin-infested apartment her family shared with whoever drifted in and out of their lives, to help with the living expenses. But she was savvy enough to enlist the aid of her high school counselor, and then the appropriate municipal and state officials, in an effort to make her point stick. Her folks never forgave her for that, and by

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way of a commencement present kicked her ass (by now one of the shapelier ones around, anywhere) out of the house graduation day. So she’d lived on the streets for a few days, then found the waitress job her folks thought she should have been aspiring to all along, and one or both of her parents would come in to the short order joint regularly to needle her. She was, as they say, battered but unbowed, and took a night class in typing, then within a few weeks had a job as a secretary. (She had yet to realize that it was her persistence that she could most capitalize on, rather than her looks. That was probably because she’d grown up in a part of town even trailer trash looked down on, where the only thing persistent was poverty.) The office work wasn’t nearly as stressful or unpredictable as waitressing. Besides, it gave her her evenings free, which waitressing wouldn’t always do. That freedom allowed her to take to bar hopping. She had no problem picking up beaus, looker that she was. DB did his share of bar hopping, too, as daddy was insisting he get the wildness out of his system before assuming the family businesses. DB was expected and encouraged to play the field as wantonly as he wished, so long as he not marry until he was thirty. Playing the field? No problem. Shit, with a few grand a week pocket money, he could stroll into a bar, noticeably throw some money around, and leave with whomever he wanted. Not that that didn’t occasionally piss off the immediately-former boyfriend of the girl who had just become DB’s squeeze. “Goddamit,” almost all of the boyfriends had said, “I brung her, I oughtta be the one dancin’ with her.” By way of reply DB would ask the girl “Who you want to dance with? Your call.” It was when the girls hung on DB and said “You” (most did) that a fair number of beaus would physically accost DB. No problem there, either. Martial arts having been

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part of DB’s education, he could easily sidestep any punches that the jilted fellow might throw, which made the poor chap look pretty silly, on top of the humiliation of just having been dumped. Then DB’d make off with the girl in his blazing red sports car, to the lobby of The Hotel Ritz, where the desk clerk would press a button which opened the doors to DB’s private elevator, leading to his penthouse. The elevator was invariably clean and carpeted, with mirrored walls and ceiling. If the fornicating hadn’t begun during the car ride, the elevator was where it commenced. It was a prime place to have sex, and the girls loved it. In order to keep DB’s activities from snpwbaling from idiocy to catastrophe, Old Man Bumstiff, his father, paid law enforcement to maintain a few special officers to keep tabs on and run interference for his son. These cracker-jack constables were informally known as “Bumstiff Patrol.” But young Bumstiff’s wildness was legendary, and the whole enterprise soon became unwieldy enough that law enforcement suggested to the Old Man that he establish a coterie of courtesans for his son, to keep him off the street, at least once in a while. So DB’s dad set up some whores in the floor of the hotel just below DB’s penthouse aoartment. Everybody involved—the women, DB, his father, law enforcement—affectionately referred to this coterie of courtesans as “The Whore Corp.” Each woman had a special key to DB’s penthouse elevator, so she could access it, were her services necessary. The desk clerk could stop the elevator at the courtesan’s floor, too. The courtesans’ only instructions were these: one of them had to be available at all times; and two, sometimes three of them had to be on call simultaneously four hours a day, in case DB felt like he needed a spike in the activity level.

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Old Man Bumstiff had been supplying his son with hookers since the day the kid had turned sixteen. He’d hired the longest-lasting, most memorable of them in the very last days of the Truman administration, and over the years his mind would return to his initial meeting with her: he sat alone at his table in a swank restaurant, sipping Wild Turkey 101, waiting for some Whore Corps wannabe named Moanique, and wondering if this offspring of his might be an inexhaustible sower of wild oats. From the reports he got, his son’s wildness seemed to be increasing exponentially, with no signs of abating. A few minutes before he was to meet this Moanique, the Old Man saw a rather nondescript looking woman enter the restaurant and talk with the maitre d’, who directed the woman to his table. She strolled to Bumstiff with considerable grace and elegance and stood there, announcing to him: “Moanique.” “Sit down,” he bade her. “What’re you drinking?” “Are we celebrating?” she asked, with a touch of attitude the Old Man wasn’t expecting. She was hardly the supplicant he’d expected, from his first look at her. “You and me? No.” he answered. He wanted to make it clear to her that he wasn’t the john. “Then I’ll hold off with the drinking,” she replied. “But if not you, who? And if not now, when?” The truth of the matter was, Moanique was a well-practiced meditator, and as a result she had access to all sorts of information she was able to pick up while she scoured The Ether. She already knew the whole procedure: an initial interview with The Old Man, an up-or-out audition with a well-endowed gigolo nicknamed The Deal’s Off Kid, which—if successful—led to the full time job of being an on-call member of the Whore Corp for Bumstiff Junior.

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“The real john?” he asked her. “Gotta jump through a hoop before you find that out . . .” he began. “The Deal’s Off Kid,” Moanique spat out, rather pointedly. She wanted to make sure he understood that she already knew the whole routine. Bumstiff Senior was rattled that she had somehow pierced his elaborate security, but he managed not to show it. “Looks like you got your sources,” he said, grinning at her. “Room 1453, Hotel Ritz, noon tomorrow,” he relayed to her. “I’ll show,” she answered, lazily standing to leave. “Don’t you want to know how much?” he asked. “Already do,” she answered over her shoulder, halfway across the floor to the restaurant’s exit. Old Man Bumstiff ordered another Wild Turkey 101 to calm his rattled nerves. A double. The next day at noon, Moanique managed a very successful audition with The Deal’s Off Kid, who provided Old Man Bumstiff with the most glowing report of any of the Whore Corp aspirants, ever. For Moanique, it was no trouble: years ago, in her rather checkered past, she had been able to accommodate an oriental named Won Hong Schlong. Next to him, The Kid was pretty much a nickeldick. The day after her very successful audition with The Deal’s Off Kid, Moanique and Bumstiff Senior greeted each other at the same table where they had originally met. Even though he suspected that she already knew what it was he would say, The Old Man laid out his employment opportunity for her: Free room and board. Generous salary. Benefits. Allowed her own boyfriends. The game plan was simple: let DB run wild until

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he was thirty years old; by then he would probably have developed some sense, and could marry sensibly. “And what if he never wises up?” asked Moanique? “Or what if he gets smart before he’s thirty?” “Ain’t nobody with a pecker wises up before thirty,” replied The Old Man. “And if he never wises up, at least he’ll have slowed down enough by then he can’t do the damage the before-you’re-thirty, shoot-from-the-hip style can do.” “And you’d know about that?” asked Moanique. She couldn’t help but rub it in. “Oh, yeah!” growled The Old Man, his eyes widening in remembrance of his own errant youth. “Sounds like a chip off the old block,” remarked Moanique. “A real handful.” Old Bumstiff could hardly believe this woman had the effrontery to talk to him like that, but he figured a few weeks with Junior’d wear her down. What he didn’t know was that Moanique was formidable, and she couldn’t be broken. She would be the longest lasting member of The Whore Corps, ever, the one who would take it upon herself to truly look after the best interests of her charge, DB.

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But all that was in the past. Right now DB and Miss Boopadop, who were minutes from their first meeting, each suffered from similar problems: after a few years of flagrant fucking, copulation was becoming outright onerous. Each of them had found it difficult to believe at first, but they were both separately coming to the conclusion that

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the matter of being up someone’s crack, or having someone up your crack, wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. This was easier for young Miss Boopadoop to conclude, as sex never really felt that good to her. In that she was doing something more or less forbidden, it was exciting. She felt mildly pleasant between her legs, and there was considerable wetness, but her eyes had never rolled back in her head, ever. As for DB, there was certainly pleasure enough, but he was beginning to suspect that that alone wasn’t enough. They were both desperately clueless when their lives intersected forever in a bar that both of them would be in for about ten seconds together, all told. Without his knowing it, DB had an additional problem beyond the existential ones he was coping with as best he could: the anger of the many, many jilted lovers he’d pissed off had ripened into serious vengeance. Most of the bars where DB had been stealing his dates were in a several-blocks-large area known in Big City as “The Zone.” People of religious bent in Big City referred to The Zone as Gomorrah, because of what went on there. You took a date to one of The Zone’s many bars, maybe after a show or a movie; you and your date would drink some; then the both of you’d head back to whoever’s was the nearest apartment to finish up the evening. Failing that, you went to The Zone by yourself to drink and hook up with another single. DB had broken the rules, when he stole other guys’ dates. One or two infractions might not have caused DB any problems, but there were infractions aplenty. And it didn’t help that when the jilted boyfriends resumed relations with their wandering playmates, the women were invariably disappointed with their old lovers. Whatever DB had done with the young women, he’d certainly spoiled things for the old boyfriends, which really irked them. And in all probability, vengeance would not

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have been plotted against him if people had just kept themselves to one or two bars in The Zone. Unfortunately for DB, The Zone didn’t work that way. There was quite a bit of mixing, a lot of movement from bar to bar throughout the entire Zone. People talked, and what they found out was this: DB had really pissed off a lot of people. Thepissedlist was literally as long as your arm; everybody on it wanted DB to pay, but nobody wanted to do the dirty work. Finally, somebody came up with a solution. *

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At The Zone’s center was a bar called The Death’s Head, which was avoided by almost everybody. Rumor had it that The Death’s Head was one tough place, and very few people who stumbled into it by mistake made a return visit. It was that scary. Even old farts who hobbled in there with canes would dash out, having dropped their walking aids in their haste to save their hides. To remind themselves how cruel they were, The Death’s Head’s regular patrons had filled an elephant foot umbrella stand with these canes, and left them by the front door, testament to the terror they’d instilled in many an enfeebled grandpa. The legion of dumped lovers decided to send a delegation to visit The Death’s Head, and ask that somebody there seek out DB and kick the everloving shit out of him. They even brought along a picture of DB, as well as some biographical information, to assist the thugs at The Death’s Head in locating him. The meeting began awkwardly, but in the end the clientele at The Death’s Head expressed limited sympathy with the dumped lovers. “Now ain’t that a shame!” their leader and spokesman, Big D, had said. “Old Ladies done dumped you losers for some rich guy! Ain’t life cruel?” But Big D initially refused to commit his friends to hunting for DB. “Ain’t our sorry-ass problem,” he

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explained. Nonetheless, a compromise was eventually reached: “Tell you pussies what,” Big D promised the delegation. “This DB steps into The Death’s Head, we’d all be more than happy to kick the shit out of him, ain’t that right, folks?” he asked, turning to address his fellow patrons. They replied affirmatively, saying things like “Betcher ass we’d kick a shit outta ‘im!” and “Slice ‘im up good!” and “Kick ‘is ass up ‘tween ‘is shoulder blades!” After having received positive assent from his bar mates, Big D turned back to the delegation. “More ‘n happy ta help you folks out. “Specially seein’ as how hurtin’ people’s what we like ta do! Now you pussies git outta here before we start kickin your own sorry asses,” Big D threatened the delegation, while his bar mates rose from their seats and began moving towards the gaggle of dumped lovers. The members of the delegation stumbled over each other in their haste to exit the premises. “Shit!” cursed Big D, watching the door of The Death’s Head close behind the last member of the delegation. “I thought we had us a rumble!” He was very disappointed. When the group of twenty-some strangers had walked into the bar, he was sure they had come there to wage a pitched battle, and his eyes had fired up. This progression of events had saddened him. He turned to address his bar mates. “Just me, or we been havin’ a drop off in rumbles last couple a years?” “Shit, Big D,” somebody said, “ain’t nobody gonna come here to fight us, ‘cept maybe a kamikaze!” “See your point,” conceded Big D, sullenly. He began walking back into the darkness of the bar’s recesses. “We ain’t never lost a rumble. Leastways not thet I kin

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recollect personal. Been outnumbered, out-equipped, outmaneuvered even. Always won them fuckers!” “That’s a whole problem, Big D,” another of his bar mates offered. “Ain’t no fun fightin’, unless you think you stand a good chance a losin’! No fun at tall!” “Hmm,” said Big D, growing pensive. He realized that the crowd at The Death’s Head needed a different challenge, something they might well fail at. As their leader, it would be up to him to provide it. As if that weren’t trouble enough, an increasinglyrecurrent dream he’d been having for some years was beginning to spill into his daytime consciousness. It was simply a vision of the most beautiful woman he could ever hope to see: a gorgeous blonde woman whom he knew just had to be his true soul-mate. Yeah. A few days later, on a Friday, Big D was still casting about in his mind for a suitable challenge when DB very foolishly stumbled into the bar. Notwithstanding all the time he’d spent prowling The Zone, he had not heard any of the stories about this particular establishment, and hadn’t a clue how big of a pile he was stepping in. The place was much darker than most, and he sensed the whole tone of the establishment might be a bit on the rough side. He thought of immediately walking out, but didn’t want to insult the patrons, whom he couldn’t yet make out for the darkness. So he parked himself on a stool at the bar, near the door, and ordered a drink. A stack of circular, wooden serving trays lay near him. “Yomee rint!” a voice called out of the dark that was beginning to recede as DB’s eyes accustomed themselves to the light. It was Big D, the leader. As always, his voice sounded as if it were caught inside his throat. “Yomee rint!” he called again to DB.

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It was then that DB understood the voice might be addressing him. “You’re talking to me?” he asked. “Betcher sorry ass ahm talking et you. Lahk ah sehd, yomee rint,” the voice insisted, to the chortles of the amused onlookers that DB was now beginning to make out. They looked considerably rougher than he’d expected when he’d sat down at the bar. Mostly overweight and bearded men in early middle age, wearing leather vests bearing insignia. Bodies tattooed. A few women sat with the men, in the booths, or at tables. They were either overweight or scrawny and haggard; either way they dressed so as to make no secret of the fact that they, like their men, were purveyors of unrepentant lust. Most of them wore lose fitting tank tops, no bras. Seamed, steel cans of cheap beer were either being drunk by both men and women or lay empty, strewn on the tabletops in front of them. As his eyes adjusted further to the light, DB could make out more of the ensemble, in the recesses of the bar. Three men were shooting beers at a table, laughing loudly. “He won that round, let’s see who wins this’n,” they guffawed. They were referring to a fourth man sitting on a chair which had been pulled away from the table, his pants now at his ankles, a nude woman astride him, her hips undulating. Similar scenes of unbridled desire riddled the establishment’s recesses. When coupled copulation wasn’t an option for them, partnerless women openly masturbated, hoping to attract some action. Most of this crowd paid little attention to any such activity, be it solo or ensemble, until a person was near climax; then people (of both sexes) would raucously cheer the person on with words of encouragement. Nothing wrong with those nearest and dearest wanting you to enjoy yourself, and backing you up in your efforts.

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Taking this all in, DB suspected he’d stepped in deep shit and knew the only way to extricate himself from it was to keep his cool, be good and observant and—above all— beat a hasty retreat, even if it meant losing some face. “Sorry. I didn’t realize you were addressing me,” he said, getting up from the stool to leave. Up until now, no one in the bar had recognized DB. The general etiquette, when somebody mistakenly came into The Death’s Head, was to scare the shit out of them and let them leave, and this was the plan of action for all involved, so far as DB was concerned. But then somebody recognized him from the picture the delegation had left and said “Hey! Ain’t this that playboy feller?” “Ain’t no guys in that Playboy magazine!” replied somebody, who had yet to catch the drift of the first bar patron. “What kind a magazines you read, anyhow?” A few chuckles ensued. The first guy ignored the good natured insult and stuck to his guns. “That’s that guy we swore Death’s Head Vengeance on, time them pussies came in whinin’. Few days ago, when we didn’t have ourselves no rumble.” An ominous murmur of assent passed through The Death’s Head, until a third person spoke up. “What choo talkin’ ‘bout ‘Death’s Head Vengence’? Ain’t no such thing.” “I know that!” protested the first patron. “Just tryin’ to convey some meaning inta the shit-kickin’ we be givin’ this guy. Toss in some dramatic flair, so’s our kickin a shit outta ‘im don’t seem to ‘im like just one more piece a inexplicable violence doled out by a impersonal universe. Now ya done gone ‘n fucked that all up!”

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The voice DB had first heard when he’d entered the bar now interrupted. “Jeeziz Christ! You assholes squabble worse ’n a bunch a old hens! Worse ‘n the god damn Harvard Fellows gone ta dinin’!” He turned to DB. “An’ you! Why the hell you’re still here, beats a shit outta me! Most folks would a got their sorry asses outta here by now, full a fear, or loathing! Or both!” DB wondered himself why he hadn’t simply left during the bickering. “I got caught up in the argument,” he said, more to himself than to Big D. “Yeah, a regular god damn syllogism, that was!” snarled Big D. “He pointed to a knife stuck in the wooden frame of the broken mirror behind the bar. “That your pitcher?” he asked. DB saw a crudely-executed facsimile of a post office Wanted Poster, his picture taped to it. The knife blade passed through the picture, right between the eyes, and held the poster to the mirror frame. “Somebody else,” he lied. “And I’m a striped-assed baboon,” retorted Big D, reaching into his boot. “Fellas, this here’s that Dagwood Bumstiff prick done been pissin’ off ever body in The Zone!” DB saw Big D open the switchblade he’d pulled from his boot and say “Dibs.” “Who are you?” asked DB. He wanted to know just why the hell he was in for a slicing up. “I am become time, eater of worlds,” hissed Big D. DB recognized the words from the eleventh canto of the Bhagavad Gita. Up till just now, that had been his favorite chapter of the sacred text, the very last line of which he now quoted. “May all be happy,” he replied, surprisingly cockily, while picking up a couple of the circular wooden serving trays from the bar, to use as shields. DB’s martial arts training was kicking in.

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“

, huh?” asked Big D, quoting in its Sanskrit original the line DB had just uttered in its English translation. “ ‘Happy’ is my kicking your sorry ass,” he continued, pointedly displaying his favorite switchblade to DB. *

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Outside the Death’s Head, Miss Boopadoop had been wandering The Zone. It had been a harrowing few days at work. Her boss had been fired because he had been caught having sex with his boss’ wife. In order to save face with his wife at home, the last thing Miss Boopadoop’s boss did on his way out was to fire her (Miss Boopadoop), because the two of them had been having sex regularly, and the wife knew about it. But Miss Boopadoop had been fucking her boss’ boss pretty regularly, as well as the bisexual executive secretary to the company president, whom she’d also begun humping. Bottom line was Miss Boopadoop had been rehired, with severance pay, a hiring bonus and a raise. Right now, though, she was searching for a good fuck, plain and simple, without all the transactional baggage the workplace brought along with it. She was approaching the Death’s Head, as she’d heard there was lots of open copulation carried out there. She was becoming quite aroused, contemplating the prospect of public sex. *

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Back in the bar, in order to facilitate as hasty a retreat as possible, DB had been keeping his eye on the door, the line of sight to which wasn’t in Big D’s view. DB saw a blonde woman—Miss Boopadoop, in her search of an evening of forgettable memories— pull the door open just as Big D responded to DB. “Happy is my kickin’ your ass,” growled Big D, who had no intention of hitting DB with the knife he was about to throw. That would have been cowardly. His intent was to scare DB, soften him up before beating him with bare hands in a fair fight. That was simply a code of conduct, understood by all the regulars at The Death’s Head. He aimed the knife to his left of DB’s head and let go just as Miss Boopadoop stepped from the front door alcove and into its path. “Shit!” said Big D, knowing the knife would catch this innocent woman right in her face. DB watched the knife sailing towards the shapely blonde stranger he saw in his peripheral vision behind him and to his right. He instinctively moved the wooden tray in his right hand to in front of the woman’s face, and held the tray tight, waiting for contact. The knife lodged in it, its point passing through the tray, coming to rest a few millimeters from the blonde’s face. The house froze for a few seconds. Big D had damn near caused serious damage to this woman, and all were horrified. Even though they were a rough crowd, they all had a strong sense of fair. When DB removed the tray from in front of Miss Boopadoops’ face, Big D’s heart sank: the face behind the switchblade-splintered tray was the one that had been haunting his dreams, the soul-mate who’d intruded upon his waking consciousness. In those virtual imaginings that seeded the actuality he aspired to, the ripened reality of this

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woman’s coming into the bar was his one last shot at happiness. And he’d fucked that up. Like everything else. DB was incensed at what had just happened, every bit as as much as Big D was sickeningly disheartened. He—DB—sprang into action, and the patrons of The Death’s Head watched his quick maneuvers in their stunned and puzzled silence. He set the tray onto the floor with the knife still in it, sticking straight up. He put both feet on the tray, one on either side of the knife, and pulled it out. He tossed it in his hands a second or two, feeling its weight and balance, while staring angrily at Big D. He aimed it at the space just before Big D’s feet and let it fly, intending it to land a few inches in front of Big D, in a Fuck You gesture. But he was so enraged his aim was off, and the knife went clean through Big D’s foot, nailing him to the floor. “God damn!” hollered Big D. “Fucker’s got me nailed ta the shitten floor!” “Shit, Del!” said one of his buddies. Big D’s real first name was Del. “He sure handles a knife awful good!” “Awful good!” echoed another Death’s Head patron. “Jeeziz!” cried Big D. “Don’t go on admirin’ his goddamn marksmanship!” “I think it’s swordsmanship we’re admiring, Del,” said one galoot. “Maybe knifemanship’s what we ought a be callin’ it,” mused another. “Oh for chrissake!” exclaimed Big D. “Go after the bastard!” A good number of The Death’s Head patrons began advancing upon DB, leaving Big D to say “And one a ya’s help me pull this knife outta my goddamn foot!” DB was way ahead of them there. Once he saw that Big D—whom he’d heard addressed only as “Del”—was beginning to regroup his resources, he’d grabbed a

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number of the circular trays and flung them hard, Frisbee-like, into the front of the line advancing towards him. This was early in the Eisenhower administration, and nobody in the bar had ever seen that before, so they were confused as hell, saying things like “Shit!” and “What the fuck?!” while they were being hit with the trays. DB took the opportunity to grab hold of the blonde’s hand, saying “Let’s go!” and got her the hell out of there. On the way out, he handed the few trays he still held to her, saying “Take these. We might need them.” Then he grabbed a few of the canes from the elephant’s foot, and once outside, he poked them through the door pulls. He ran to his red convertible, parked at the curb in front of the bar, dragging Miss Boopadoop behind him, opened the passenger door frantically, telling her “Get in!” She complied, shaking with fear. As he ran to the driver’s side, he noticed the canes straining against the press of The Death’s Head patrons upon the door, in futile pursuit. Quickly, he got in, started the engine, and burned rubber, making as much distance between him and The Death’s Head in as short a time as he could.

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Boops and DB Take a Ride About a minute into a rather maniacal drive, DB turned to the blonde, and chuckled. “I gotta ask this: What’s a girl like you doin’ in a place like that?” He’d begun to notice that she looked quite stunning, her full blonde hair blowing in the wind. “Of all the gin joints, I would hafta pick that one,” replied Miss Boopadoop. “I just—well, you know—was looking for a good time.” She shivered briefly, then said “Looks like I got more than I bargained for.” “Me too,” replied DB. He seemed to be growing pensive. It can be a cause of serious reflection, coming that close to death, or even a good ass kicking. He turned to Miss Boopadoop, asking “You ever get tired of it? Looking for a good time? You ever really even have a good time?” “Does tonight count?” she asked, not even skipping a beat. “Call that fun?!” asked DB, incredulously. “The night’s young. Maybe we’ll have a good time, you and me. Jeeziz! We damn near got killed together. That oughtta count for something,” asserted Miss Boopadoop. “Let’s go somewhere.” DB agreed that the near death experience they’d shared held some weight, but he really didn’t feel like chancing another one, at least not so soon. “Fuck goin’ to a bar!” he said. “See your point,” said Miss Boopadoop. “Let’s drive. I got some twelve-year old scotch in the glove compartment, and some more in the trunk. We can pass the bottle around,” suggested DB.

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“And if we get pulled over?” asked Miss Boopadoop, fishing in the glove box while looking around for police. She easily found the scotch and took it from the glove compartment. “I own this town!” alleged DB. He heard the cork being pulled from the bottle’s neck, in Alto Glug. “Should a mentioned that to The Death’s Head crowd,” declared Miss Boopadoop, somewhat disputatiously. She quickly pulled from the bottle before continuing with “would’ve paved your way.” “Jeeziz!” thought DB to himself, “this evening’s really gonna stink! Dump this bitch off somewhere, go home, ‘n send up the whores.” To Miss Boopadoop he said “Just give me the damn bottle!” “Touchy bastard” thought Miss Boopadoop. “Sorry,” she said, having quickly rethought the situation. DB drank from the bottle while she continued “Forgot your ass was on the line there, too.” Her apology was genuine. DB handed her back the bottle, saying “ ‘S Okay. We’re both more ‘n a little rattled.” “You noticed that, huh?” she said, bottle to her lips. She tilted her head back, took in more scotch before saying “Thought I was gonna shit!” She handed the bottle back to him, asking “Why they want a kick your ass?” He swallowed from the bottle before answering “I don’t know. At first, here” he handed her the bottle, “I thought they were just toying with me to humiliate me into leaving. I wasn’t going to argue the point with them.”

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She had drunk again from the bottle while he had spoken. She now passed the bottle back to him, asking “So you were leaving? Like they wanted?” DB pulled from the bottle as Miss Boopadoop asked “And they still were gonna kick your ass?” “Looks that way,” he replied passing the bottle back to her. “Tough place,” she said, just before swallowing again from the bottle. “They were waiting for me, though,” he said while she drank. A motorcycle patrol turned on his siren, signaling DB to pull over. “Shit!” said Miss Boopadoop to DB. “You’re a fuckin’ jinx!” “We’ll be okay,” he assured her. “Just cork up the scotch and hide it under your skirt. Don’t want to be giving this chump too much ammunition.” DB hoped the cop wasn’t some newbie who didn’t know the drill. Miss Boopadoop did as DB had suggested, while the policeman strode towards the car angrily. “You dumb sumbitch!” he hollered from about forty feet away, waving his arms and moving towards them. He was clearly agitated as hell. “We’ll be okay, huh?” Miss Boopadoop taunted. DB decided to take that one on the chin: he kept quiet. The policeman continued moving to the car, still waving his arms and yelling. “You got any idea how the fuck fast you were going and what the hell the speed limit . . .” He stopped in his tracks. “Oh. You,” he said, his rage now quelling. This cop knew the drill of “Bumstiff Patrol,” and he began apologizing. “Sorry, sir. Must be a new car you have there. I didn’t recognize it.” “Quite alright, officer,” replied DB, polite as hell. “You’re right as rain: a new car, and ain’t she a beaut? Just today got the tags.”

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“I, uh, just wanted to let you know, sir,” the officer—whose last name was Friendly—reminded DB, “at the speed you were going, you might throw up some debris and scratch that beautiful cherry red finish.” The poor fellow was backpedaling and trying to save whatever face he could. DB understood and was gentleman enough to help the policeman out. “And I do appreciate your concern, Officer Friendly,” he replied. “I’ll get on the horn, sir, and signal the other members of the local constabulary that you’re out and running tonight, in a new vehicle” offered the patrolman. “I’d appreciate that, officer,” remarked DB. “I appreciate that very much. Tell ‘em I’m in an ‘unmarred’ vehicle.” “That’s very good, sir,” laughed Officer Friendly, in a clumsily Nixonian manner, “if I do say so myself, ‘unmarred vehicle.’ I’ll be sure to pass that information along exactly as I received it, sir. If I can be of any further assistance . . .” “Now that you mention it, there is one thing,” began DB. “What might that be sir?” Officer Friendly asked. “What can you tell me about a bar called The Death’s Head?” asked DB. The policeman shuddered when he heard the name. “I would caution you strongly, should you be contemplating it, not to set foot in that establishment, sir. Most of us on the force would not go there ourselves, not unless we were mopping up after a military operation that had preceded us.” DB turned to Miss Boopadoop and said “Sounds about right.” She nodded her head in assent.

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“Jeeziz!” exclaimed the patrolman, quickly regaining his professional decorum, continuing “sir. You’ve been there?!” “Just escaped its clutches a few minutes ago. Both of us,” answered DB. Officer Friendly looked at Miss Boopadoop, who provided assent both silent and resigned enough to convince him of DB’s veracity. “You’re very lucky, to have got out of there,” said the policeman. “Didn’t feel lucky, being there,” retorted DB. “Trust me, you’re lucky,” insisted the patrolman. “Lots a people go in there, they don’t even get carried out! They just disappear.” “Jeeziz!” exclaimed DB. “Why don’t you close the place down?” “Too evil,” was Officer Friendly’s curt reply. “Huh?!” asked DB, alarmed. “I’ll level with you,” averred Friendly, his face growing grim. “I see a lot a shit. Most of it’s just that: shit. It’ll dry up and blow away. So I do the paperwork, and it passes. Tomorrow, there’ll be more shit, and I got job security. Once in a while, regular enough, I see evil. My definition of evil’s this: Mean Shit. With malice involved. It’s beyond dealing with just with paperwork. You gotta lock it up, do something to keep it from spreading. So we got a court system to pipe it through, where it lands kerplunk in jail, like shit fallin’ into the basement of an outhouse, where it belongs. But some evil’s so goddamn big, or of such an alien order, you can’t cope. Hell, the system can’t cope! You try, the system tries, but whatever you do is invariable ineffective. That type of evil, you keep a close eye on it and hope it burns itself out. That’s good when it does just that, burn itself out. Sometimes it burns itself out, but it grows first while depleting itself, like

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a dying star. Shit, sometimes it novas, takes untold numbers of good people with it, like we just had with that Hitler fucker.” “Shit, officer,” interjected DB. “Really think those jokers at The Death’s Head’ll be startin’ World War Three? Seem more to me like just a bunch a mean assholes. Some of ‘em real dumbfuckers. Dumb and mean.” “You’re right. They’re not Hitler evil. Still, the best way for enforcement to deal with them is to let ‘em burn out. That Death’s Head crowd’s getting’ old enough, they might lose their edge. Shit, they do that, in a couple a years, they might be runnin’ GM or somethin’.” “Mmm,” mused DB. He’d been in his share of boardrooms, and knew the action therein to be more polished than at The Death’s Head, but no less cutthroat. “Got a point,” he said. “Well, officer,” he continued, now addressing the patrolman with the style of banter he’d employed previously in their conversing, “would you be so kind as to inform the state patrol that I’ll be cruising that new section of the Eisenhower Interstate System that’s opening up tomorrow?” “Sir,” replied the policeman, “you realize that I have no clout with the state bureau. I am municipal. However, I will inform them. I believe they will be happy for you to be their guest.” Officer Friendly thought he owed it to DB to try to keep the state troopers off his back, for having faced down evil. “That’s all I can ask,” replied DB. “I appreciate your help,” he said as the patrolman turned to begin walking to his motorcycle. DB peeled away from the curb, with Miss Boopadoop seated next to him in his cherry red sports car.

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Officer Friendly did as he had promised DB, making calls on his radio. But first, he sat astride his vehicle, wondering what law of nature decreed that evil should sprout forth, and what entity enforced that law. While snaking through the city streets in search of the on ramp that was so new its signage had not yet been put up, Miss Boopadoop spoke. “Shit! You really do own this town!” While DB had been talking with the policeman, she’d begun to realize, gold digger that she was, that she’d stumbled onto the mother lode, and she’d taken a quick liking to DB. “Only as much of it that keeps my ass out a the drunk tank,” replied DB. “Or traffic court. Don’t want to be greedy. Rich in proportion to the number of things you can afford to be without.” “Spoken like some one who’s never been without,” thought Miss Boopadoop. Then she spoke, continuing the thread of their conversation before having pulled over by Officer Friendly. “What’d you mean ‘they were waiting for me,’ when you we’re talkin about those shits at that bar?” she asked DB. “That’s what I don’t understand,” DB answered. “They had my picture rather nastily tacked up behind the bar. Like a Wanted poster. Jeez! Where the hell’s that damn ramp? Gotta be around here somewhere.” “Sounds like serious shit,” averred Miss Boopadoop. “I wouldn’t go back there, I was you.” “There’s that ramp!” exclaimed DB, excitedly. The whole notion of an interstate highway system, with its possibilities for commerce, prosperity, stability and military security, stirred the inhabitants of the one nation that had emerged both victorious and

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relatively unscathed from World War Two. DB steered his car towards the ramp saying “Don’t intend goin’ back there!” asserted DB. As they neared the ramp, they saw that it was blocked off to traffic. “Shit!” exclaimed Miss Boopadoop. “I was looking forward to takin’ a spin!” She hoped DB understood she meant more than mere motoring. “We can,” promised DB. “Highway’s finished and ready for traffic. Dedication’s tomorrow.” He eased the car along the earth berm to the side of the ramp, past the Highway Closed sign blocking the ramp’s entry. Beyond the roadblock, DB steered the car onto the ramp, saying “Just everybody’s supposed to wait for the governor and other big-wig dignitaries ta bless this sumbitch. You and me, tonight, we got this whole highway to ourselves!” They’d come out of The Death’s Head with their lives and were now about to tool down virgin interstate. The road before them held promise, they being young, and full of scotch and hormones. “God bless Ike!” exclaimed DB accelerating his way onto the new highway. One by one, laughing, Boops drunkenly tossed the serving trays DB’d handed her during their hasty retreat from the bar. They sailed every-so-often, discus-like, bearing The Death’s Head name and logo, from her side of the vehicle, and they would be found the next day by the highway crew, testament to the uncivil, vicious vandalism of the Death’s Head Gang—or so the highway people would conclude. DB had opted for the open road, as it made for much more sustained petting than did cruising city streets. Stick shifts were fun to drive, but really hampered humping. DB hoped the scotch had worked on—Jeez! What was her name, anyhow? He really didn’t

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know her name, nor she his. This could be fun, fucking somebody without knowing their name, even a fake one! DB resumed hoping the scotch was having the same effect on her as it did on him. DB also hoped she understood what the switch to open road meant. “Hey, let’s have at that scotch between your legs!” he proposed. Like DB, Miss Boopadoop was becoming quite drunk, to the end that she resolved to provide him with an example of her sexual prowess. “Just let me uncork this fucker,” she said, holding the bottle with both her hands around its bottom, which protruded from out her dress. She pulled slowly, and DB heard the cork pop. “Jeeziz Christ!” he said. “You uncorked that with your, uh, thing?!” “Watch this,” she said, lifting her dress a few inches off her thighs. The cork spewed out her dress, with some velocity, and rolled back and forth on the floor in front of Miss Boopadoop and finally came to a stop. Clearly, it had not just dropped out. “Give me that thing!” laughed DB, pointing to the cork. Miss Boopadoop picked up the cork from the floor and handed it to DB. He passed it under his nose and sniffed it, like you would a wine cork. “Oh, this is good!” he exclaimed through serious sniffs. “I fancy myself a sort of connoisseur, and I can tell!” DB put the cork in his shirt pocket while Miss Boopadoop said, nodding slightly to the bottle at her lap “Bet you’d like a sip of this.” She waited a second before handing the scotch to DB. DB did not immediately take the bottle when she held to him. He said “Safe bet. Hey! I’d really like to see that cork trick again sometime.” “You mean actually see it,” Miss Boopadoop half-asked DB, whose hand traveled past the bottle she offered him. “Sure.” She figured this likeable galoot’s quick thinking

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had saved her from serious disfigurement at best; him watching her unique mode of uncorking a bottle probably didn’t even begin to cover whatever she owed him. DB’s hand felt under her dress while she put the bottle to her own lips and drank. “Jeeziz!” he exclaimed, discovering her vulva to be unclothed. “You lose your panties at the bar?!” “I never wear panties when I prowl,” she said, feeling his fingers deftly part hair, then skin, then slowly introduce themselves into her, as she accommodatingly slumped her hips forward, making easier his fingers’ entry. She drank while he drove and massaged her several minutes between her legs, until he could feel her becoming quite wet. He then slowly pulled his fingers from her and held high his glistening digits for both of them to inspect. “The sweet nectar of life,” he intoned, sounding remarkably like W.C. Fields. Her left hand had wandered to his thigh, sought and found his organ growing inside his trousers, the considerable length of it pressing along his pants leg, seeking escape. She traced him through fabric, touching his stiffness lightly with fingernails and fingertips. Miss Boopadoop offered DB the bottle. He willingly took it, drove, drank, and was fondled through cloth. “Looks like you’re packin’ a real pole,” Miss Boopadoop remarked to DB, softly squeezing the bulb at his pecker’s end. DB removed the bottle from his lips and said “So I’m told.” Miss Boopadop shifted her shapely ass in the bucket seat, so that both her hands could reach their way to DB’s parts and begin a more proper manipulation of them. “Seeing is believing,” she said, unzipping his pants.

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“Oh ye of little faith!” DB teased while she unfastened his belt and pants button. “You’re not going to get religious on me now, are you?” she asked. From what she’d felt and seen through his pants, she rightly figured that he poked out of his undewear’s leg opening. That being the case, she’d decided not to bring him out through the underpants’ fly, but through the opening his pecker had already successfully sought “Only insofar as I expect us to share a religious experience!” he replied, very much enjoying the way the evening was progressing. DB felt the fingers of Miss Boopadoop’s left hand hooking the leg opening of his briefs. Her right hand reached inside his trousers, sought his scrotum, found it, gently tugged it out the leg opening. “Then let us pray!” said Miss Boopadoop, drunkenly giggling. The fingers of her left hand quit their station where they had been retracting his briefs, traveled the considerable length of his shaft, and settled in playful flitter upon his glans. “Yes, indeed!” replied DB. “Let us spray. I most fervently hope to be spraying with you,” he continued, to her folding down his front right trouser-quarter with her right hand, while her left cupped his glans in her palm, protecting the sensitive bulb while bringing the fullness of him straight up. Her eyes widened when she saw his engorged expanse, standing at stiff attention. “Nice erection!” marveled Miss Boopadoop. “Betcha say that to all the guys!” laughed DB. He passed the bottle of scotch to the hand on the steering wheel and used his newly emptied hand to display himself in mock pride and slow stroking, saying “Ain’t it a beaut?” DB turned his face to MissBoopadoop and smiled. “Grown fond of it myself!” he said, still stroking.

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“It’s a beaut, all right” agreed Miss Boopadoop, who had become so aroused that she wanted to gaze upon all of his parts, upright and hanging. She reached her right hand, scrotum-groping, into his trousers. Carefully, so that she wouldn’t hurt her mate’s delicate stones, she pulled his sac up and over the open bottom of his pants’ fly. Miss Boopadoop finished the effect by lightly tugging the skin, to get as much of it out of his pants as she could. It was a warm, moist evening, allowing the him to hang loose and low. “Nice nuts, too!” giggled Miss Boopadoop, her right hand gently stroking what she had just extracted from his pants. She noticed that he was outright pleasuring himself now, his hand rapidly pumping. “What a pig!” she thought to herself. “Hey!” she called to him. “Let me do that!” “How about suckin’ on it?” DB suggested, his hand letting go of himself. “Jeez! Do that yourself!” Miss Boopadoop replied, the fingers of her right hand loosely encircling his turgidity, just below the bulb, which her left hand still lay upon. “It’s big enough.” “I’m serious!” insisted DB, whose right hand now held the scotch bottle. He took a swig. “Not a good idea” explained Miss Boopadoop, moving her right wrist so that her palm and fingers traveled back and forth across the circumference of DB’s erection, just below the head. It was a good warming-up move, and DB was beginning to appreciate her artistry. “I had a bad experience once, blowin’ somebody. It makes me sick. Literally.” “That’s too bad,” DB replied. He meant it. But this hand job would do, until they got to the elevator back at the penthouse. DB realized he was getting pretty drunk, and

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he would need to concentrate on the driving. That probably would not be at all easy, he reckoned. So he reached into his shirt pocket, grabbed the cork and set it into the neck of the almost empty scotch bottle. He tossed the bottle to the floor of the passenger side of the convertible. DB felt Miss Boopadoop’s left hand join her right, in stimulating him. She had begun her efforts to coax the clear fluid from the eye, the fluid she knew would precede his gushing. The thumb and middle finger of her left hand held his glans, while the tip of her index finger lightly stroked the opening at its tip. So far nothing had been summoned up. “Jeeziz!” exclaimed DB. He was intending to convey to her how good the sure maneuvers of Miss Boopadoop’s hands felt upon him. She thought he was about to begin again, trying to persuade her to go oral. “Trust me!” she again explained. She noticed that the clear pre-ejaculate had begun to leak out of DB onto her fingertip. She spread it onto his glans, keeping near the hole, as there wasn’t much of it yet. “Blow job equals blow lunch!” “Wouldn’t want that now, would we?” answered DB, a bit of strain in his voice. More of the clear fluid had escaped, and Miss Boopadoop was painting more and more of him with it. Miss Boopadoop noticed the strain in DB’s voice. “That feel good?” she teased him. “Oh shit yes!” answered DB, whose driving was becoming somewhat erratic. “How about this?” asked Miss Boopadoop, her right hand taking on a moderatelypaced up and down pumping motion.

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“Oh! Fuck!” “Not in a moving motor vehicle!” Miss Boopadoop again teased. “But . . .” she said, her right hand picking up the pace. “Jeeziz! You have no idea how good that feels! In my pecker!” DB declared, swerving from lane to lane on the empty highway. By now all the fingers of Miss Boopadoop’s left hand were effortlessly gliding over DB’s glans, well lubricated with the fluid she had so skillfully summoned from him. “Bet you can hardly stand it!” Miss Boopadoop taunted him, good-naturedly. Her right hand now pumped him rapidly now, her fist a furious blur. DB had been making it a point to hold back his ejaculate for a good while, but doing so was beyond his controlling. Enough backpressure had built up in his sexual plumbing that when he popped, his semen shot up a good foot beyond the height of the windshield, and the headwind blew much of it back onto Miss Boopadoop’s face and neck, and some of it onto DB’s shirt. The evening had been proceeding swimmingly, but Miss Boopadoop immediately grew worried beyond all reason. She knew things were going to be fucked up from here on out an instant before the queasiness began in her stomach. She suddenly retracted both her hands from DB. “Stop!” she begged DB. She wanted him to stop the car. He misunderstood. He thought she was asking him to quit ejaculating in mid squirt, and gestured to his pecker. DB could feel one last dab of cream escaping it in slow spurt, while he amiably declared “Ain’t no stoppin’, this thing starts poppin’!” While he said this, Miss Boopadoop had asked him again, “Stop!” this time through clenched teeth. Nausea had overtaken her, and she was sure she was going to

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throw up. DB really couldn’t make out what she was saying, her teeth being clenched and all, but he was beginning to suspect that something serious was about to transpire. Miss Boopadoop realized she could no longer control the upward motion of her stomach’s contents, and was moving her head towards the passenger door, to direct her vomit outside the car, but she was too late. She blew serious chunks, and the headwind drove some of it back into her face, and most of it into DB’s. It took DB a second to figure out what had just happened. “Jee-sus Christ!” he hollered. He was too taken aback to have the presence of mind to stop the car, although he slowed down some. “Why ‘ncha ask me to stop, for chrissakes?!” “Tried to,” responded Miss Boopadoop as best she could through her gagging. “It happened too fast!” DB was too angry and dazed to notice that the smell of Miss Boopadoop’s puke had started his own stomach churning. “The fuck it did!” he said, just before the contents of his stomach escaped him, with pretty much the same results as Miss Boopadoop’s vomit had had: their faces, parts of their upper garments, and a good part of the car— interior and exterior—had taken another hit. “See what I mean?” Miss Boopadoop insisted, as the car slowed to a crawl. DB was silent a few seconds, and Miss Boopadoop thought he might be angry. She sought the scotch bottle on the floor in front of her and found it, a precautionary measure. “Maybe I shouldn’t have rubbed it in,” she thought. The car had stopped well off the road and was still idling. Miss Boopadoop feared she might be in for a beating. She held tight the nearly empty scotch bottle, by its neck, should she need it as a weapon, and turned to face her presumed attacker, rehearsing in her mind the motion her arm

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would have to take. She was not going to let him catch her unawares, nor was she not going to return in kind, if it came to that. But she’d misjudged DB’s silence, which was not anger. While he remained quiet he was realizing that, yep, Miss Boopadoop was right about that, your puke getting the upper hand sometimes: it had just happened to him. And although he could have done without her having rubbed it in, she was merely trying to get him to understand her point. And yep, given the way the evening could have turned out—him getting sliced up and maybe roasting over a spit, for all he knew—being alive and vomited upon after one bitchin’ hand job . . . well, that’s not all that shitty of a stick’s end now, come to think of it. There’s lots to be said for drunken reason, sometimes. “You know,” he declared grinning widely and drunkenly, “I’m having a good time! You?” The question took Miss Boopadoop off guard. It was not at all what she’d been expecting. “Well.” She thought for a second, wondering if she was having a good time. “Yes!” she answered, surprise in her voice. “Go figure,” mused DB, after a second of silence. “Go figure,” echoed Miss Boopadoop, every bit as baffled as DB when it came to understanding why they were enjoying themselves. Even factoring the petting into the equation, it still didn’t add up. “Scotch?” asked DB. He was wondering if her having drunk too much had caused Miss Boopadoop to vomit. He doubted it, though. She seemed pretty accustomed to imbibing.

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Miss Boopadoop took DB to be asking her to resume drinking. “Don’t mind if I do,” she replied. “But let’s clean ourselves off first.” “Good idea,” said DB. He’d immediately comprehended the “cleaning off” part of her reply. It would take him a bit more cogitation to realize she’d not understood his question, though. “Got any towels or rags in the trunk?” asked Miss Boopadoop, rummaging through the glove compartment. “These paper napkins from Johnson Howard’s won’t last for shit.” “I’ll look, but I doubt it” offered DB, turning off the engine and opening his door. It was difficult for him, swinging his legs out the door, what with his pants being undone, but he managed. He fastened his belt, neglecting to zip up or even button up, which left his parts hanging out, his pecker semi-erect. “What the hell,” he thought, like the drunk and horny young man he was. “Highway’s empty. Night’s still young.” While DB fumbled about fastening his belt, Miss Boopadoop divided the few napkins she’d found in the glove box into two separate piles, his and hers, which was pretty decent of her. As DB made his way to the trunk, she turned around in her seat and knelt on it, planting her left hand, which held the “hers” bundle on the car’s trunk. She extended her right hand, holding the “his” napkins to DB standing behind the trunk. “Here,” she said. “For our faces. We ought a clean our faces off first. But use ‘em sparingly. ‘Tsall we got.” “Thanks. OK,” said DB. He took the napkins and began wiping off his face. “Missed a spot,” Miss Boopadoop told him. “Right here,” she said, pointing to her right cheek. For his own part, DB had never been able to figure out the pointing aspect of

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the Missed A Spot routine: was it reflexive? meaning right cheek equals left cheek; or was it identical? meaning right cheek equals right cheek. His guess this evening, with this person, was identical. “Other cheek,” proclaimed Miss Boopadoop. It was an immutable law of nature: nobody ever guessed right, when they played the Missed A Spot game. “This’ll take too long,” said DB. “If you don’t mind, let’s just wipe off each other’s faces.” Miss Boopadop initially thought herself “Yuck! Cleanin’ up somebody else’s vomit, from off their face?!” But her misgivings yielded, once she realized that it was difficult to tell whose puke’s was who’s in all this mess, and the quickest and surest way to remedy the situation was to help each other clean themselves off. “Yeah, that’ll work,” she replied. “Step around here and we can wipe each other off.” DB moved to her side of the car and she took note that he was still respectably swollen. When he stepped up to her, she grabbed his swelling with her right hand and shook it playfully saying “Jeeziz! You some kind of a workaholic?” She let it go to grab a napkin from her other hand. “Keeps on ticking,” DB replied, quoting the second half of the Timex slogan, as he began wiping her face, and she his. They talked while cleaning each other off, which they soon found out entailed using the napkins to extract chunks from each other’s hair. “I’m sorry,” she said. “About throwing up” ‘Timing could’ve been better,” he remarked. “Sure know how to handle a snake, though,” he complimented her. “Thought that thing was gonna molt!”

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“Thanks. That’s sweet of you,” replied Miss Boopadoop. She’d learned long ago that it was good form to gracefully acknowledge an accolade. “Listen,” he continued, himself apologizing. “I shouldn’t’ve hollered at you, when you were puking. That was mean.” “ ‘Ts okay,” she answered. “Nobody likes being barfed on.” “You’d be surprised,” he retorted. “Shit! Don’t tell me you liked that!” she exclaimed. “Oh hell no! Not me!” he chuckled. “I’ve got some friends who’ve regaled me with tales drawn from their own true life experiences.” DB was talking about the prostitutes who lived below him. They’d been around enough to have contended with some truly strange shit, and he’d become good enough friends with them that they’d told him some of it. “Glad to hear that,” Miss Boopadoop said. She thought he might take her to mean she was glad to hear his friends were real sickos, or had to contend with such, so she clarified her intent, saying “That you don’t like being puked on. Don’t think I’d want to spend much time with a guy like that.” “Can’t blame you there!” replied DB. “What brought it on? Too much a the scotch?” “That’s what you meant when you asked about scotch!” exclaimed Miss Boopadoop. “I thought you were asking me if I wanted to drink some more!” “So was that it?” DB pressed her. “Naah!” she answered. “Well what then?” he asked continuing pressing her.

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“It’s kind a personal,” she cautiously protested. “Well shit,” DB asserted, “you just now wet my hand and jerked me off. I’d say that’s kind a personal.” “This’s different,” averred Miss Boopadoop. DB began to understand. “Embarrassing, huh?” he more said than asked. “Yeah,” she quietly replied. “I don’t need to know, then,” DB told her. He meant it. Boil him all down, DB was essentially a kind chump. “Thanks,” she said, realizing that somebody who could keep himself from wanting to know your secrets was someone you could trust. Miss Boopadoop found herself warming up to DB far beyond her earlier expectations of simply finding some Convenient Fuck for the Evening. “I think I’ve got you as good as I can, without a shower,” she announced, looking him square in the eyes and smiling. “Same here,” replied DB. “Hey, I’d like that!” he teased her, matching her gaze. “What!?” she asked him. “Take a shower with you!” he told her, smiling. She noticed his growing contemplation of the shared shower. “Jeeziz, you’re fresh!” she joshed him right back. She changed tone, saying “We better clean up the car, best we can.” DB turned to go to the back of the car, to open the trunk. He stopped moving when he felt Miss Boopadoop’s fingers encircle his turgidity. “Clean up the car, then we can take that shower,” she told him, before letting go. DB near creamed when she’d done that, but he summoned up enough will power to turn from her and stagger back to the trunk, fishing around in his pants pockets for the

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key. He found it, then unlocked and opened the trunk. Only thing inside was most of a case of scotch, shy a few bottles, and the spare tire and its jack. “We’re fucked!” he said into the trunk, but loud enough that Miss Boopadoop could hear. “No rags or towels.” He thought for a second. “My shirt’s pretty foul!” he noted. “It’s plenty warm out, so I really don’t need it. I can clean up with that.” While DB had been opening and inspecting the trunk, Miss Boopadoop had picked up the near empty bottle of scotch from inside the car. She uncorked it and was about to polish it off when her drunken manners intervened. She opened her door, got out and made her somewhat shaky way with the bottle to the back fender of the car without DB noticing. When she replied “Okay!” to DB, she was near enough to him that he was startled. “Want a help me kill this off?” she asked, holding the bottle to him. “Good idea,” he replied. Then he realized the taste in his mouth was really annoying him and he reconsidered. “Tell ya what. Worst thing about pukin’s the taste in your mouth afterward. I hate that!” he declared. “No shit!” agreed Miss Boopadoop. “Don’tcha just hate the taste of vomit?!” “Sure do!” DB confirmed his conviction. “Sure’s hell do!” Miss Boopadoop reaffirmed. They were on a syllogistic roll, these two drunken philosophers were. “Aw shit!” declared DB, surveying the stash of scotch which lay before him. “Let’s fuggin’ gargle that taste away! Got enough scotch here. Tell you what” he said, grabbing one of the new bottles and breaking its paper seal. He pulled out its cork, then stopped still. “Aw shit!” he cursed. “Double shit!” “Wha’s wrong?!” cried Miss Boopadoop, alarmed.

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“Should a asked you to uncork the damn bottle! Like to see that with my own eyes!” DB explained. Miss Boopadoop was simultaneously offended (albeit mildly) and flattered. “Smother time,” she promised. “Awright, awright,” grumbled DB. “Holdja to it!” Missed Boopadoop ogled the prominence preceding DB and said, “Deal!” “Here!” said DB holding the new bottle of scotch to Miss Boopadoop. “You ought a take the new one.” It was the polite thing to do, and she appreciated the gesture. They exchanged bottles, but not without some confusion and difficulty. “Amember,” DB told her, beginning to raise the old bottle of scotch to where he thought his mouth might be, “let’s be careful and not go spittin’ on each other.” He began to laugh, remembering something he’d read in that new book The Catcher in the Rye, and he lowered the bottle. “Least not yet,” he managed to get out between his laughing, which was contagious enough that it now spread to Miss Boopadoop, without her understanding what was so funny. “Don’t know each other that well!” he declared, just before they both exploded in laughter. Their hilarity subsided after about a minute. Somehow, their laughing had sobered them up a little. “Sure we should be doin’ this?” Miss Boopadoop asked DB. “Gargling with twelve-year-old scotch?!” “Can’t be any worse than Listerine!” contended DB. The argument made sense to the both of them, so they tossed back the scotch, and held it atop their throats while they made noises that would have been asinine under most other circumstances, and probably

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were in this situation, as well. The sight was near surreal: a vomit-spattered couple, standing by the side of the road, next to an expensive sports car (also vomit spattered), gargling costly scotch, the male’s aroused parts in full view. Whether DB exhibited his goods in pride or don’t-give-a-shit carelessness was difficult to ascertain. When they had spit, DB tossed the empty bottle into the trunk. He was no litterer, even when drunk. Miss Boopadoop said to DB, of the bottle he’d just pitched into the trunk “Can I have that?” “Sure,” he answered, reaching for it and handing it to her. “What for?” he asked. “Souvenir of an unforgettable evening!” replied Miss Boopadoop, who lobbed the bottle onto the passenger seat. “Still mem’ries a be made!” declared DB, taking off his shirt, so he could start wiping up vomit with it. “If the past is prologue” she replied, unbuttoning her blouse with the hand not holding the new bottle of scotch. When she was this drunk and horny, if the guy she was with started stripping, she followed suit. DB didn’t object. Even drunk, he could be eminently sensible. When Miss Boopadoop had undone enough buttons to expose her brassier fully to DB, he dimly wondered how a bra—especially a shelf bra that damn skimpy—could possibly have been designed to hold such massive mams. “Pat some prologue,” Miss Boopadoop mumbled, fumbling with the last button, again ogling DB’s aroused member, which bobbled as he strode past her from the trunk to the passenger door. He was courteous enough that he intended to clean out the passenger section of the car first. She clumsily followed him, in the throes of cogitation, saying “Pat his prologue!”

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DB folded his shirt so the vomit that had spattered on it was to the inside, and began wiping the car seat and inside door panel, making sure the shirt presented a clean surface to what he was trying to wash. Even when quite drunk, DB managed to maintain his methodical approach to accomplishing a task. Miss Boopadoop watched and was impressed. By her reckoning, most men would have just wadded up the shirt and started in smearing the mess around, and when they’d judged it to have been sufficiently diluted through smearing, they would proclaim it “clean.” She knew. She’d got stuck toilet training a couple of younger siblings. Her little sister understood the notion of folding; little brother never got it. When she asked her mother for pointers, she’d been informed that any and all efforts in getting a male to understand the concept of folding toilet paper were wasted. Miss Boopadoop’s subsequent dealings with the male of the species had confirmed what she’d been told. Slobs, most of them. So it was out of respect for this anomalous stranger, methodically wiping her and his puke off of her side of the car, that she stagger-stepped over to the driver side of the vehicle, placed the new bottle of scotch on the floor near the pedals, and cleaned as he did. Soon, each of them had folded and wiped his or her shirt or blouse to the point that each garment was soaked through. “Here,” DB said, holding an empty hand palm up to her across the car from him. “Gimme your blouse. It’s soaked. So’s my shirt. I’ll take ‘em back to the trunk. Maybe they can be cleaned up. Buy you a new one if they can’t.” Miss Boopadoop handed her blouse over to him, saying “Ya don’t haf ta buy me ‘nother.”

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“ ‘T’s fair,” he reasoned aloud, as he turned to walk the few feet to the trunk. He placed the folded garments beside the case of scotch, while Miss Boopadoop surveyed the mess still needing cleaning. She surmised they’d taken care of little more than half of it. DB had reckoned similarly, and when he returned to the passenger side of the car he opened the glove box and placed into it the contents he withdrew from his pants pockets. Then he dropped trou. “Desperate times,” he said. His briefs remained on, although his pecker and balls still poked through the leg hole, a situation that DB made no effort to remedy. Miss Boopadoop noticed that he was still swollen, but no longer stiff enough to defy gravity. Time spent wiping up vomit will do that, to an erection. Miss Boopadoop began removing her skirt, and DB remembered she wore no panties. “You don’t have to,” he told her. “I know you got no panties.” “I know you know. I was there,” she reminded him, while smiling at the recent memory of having wet his hand. “Like you said: t’s fair,” she replied, her skirt sliding down shapely legs. “Besides: you think we’ll need the skirt to finish up?” she asked stepping out of the garment. DB had already taken the belt from off his pants, so he could fold them better. He looped it over the steering wheel. “We’ll need the skirt,” stated DB. He knew she was right about that part. He started clowning. “Hey! You want to wear my underpants?!” “That’s fuckin’ weird!” protested Miss Boopadoop, picking her skirt from off the ground. “Had ta ask,” he retorted. “Maybe some other time!” “Fuckin’ weird!” she teased him back. Miss Boopadoop brought the scotch up from off the floor, saying “Before we commit our final garments to vomitory oblivion, I

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believe a dedicatory ceremony might be in order.” She immediately and histrionically uncorked the scotch. With her hands, dear reader, with her hands. “Jeeziz!” remarked DB as he watched Miss Boopadoop draw from the bottle. “Drunk as you are, how’dja get all that out, without screwin’ some of it up?” He took the bottle offered him and drank from it himself. “Wa’n’t easy!” DB heard Miss Boopadoop reply, while he took a swig. “Hey!” she exclaimed. “Shoon’t we ought a be drinkin’ ta somethin’?” “Like what?” asked DB. He handed the bottle to Miss Boopadoop. “Good question,” she answered, before taking a quick swig. “How ‘bout vomit?!” She passed the bottle to DB. “It’s sure as hell topical!” remarked DB, who took a swift pull from the bottle. “To vomit!” he exclaimed, raising high the bottle, reaching it over to Miss Boopadoop. “To vomit!” echoed Miss Boopadoop, enthusiastically, taking the high-held bottle from DB, then drinking from it. While she drank, DB began a song that was making the rounds. It went to the musical theme of The Bridge Over the River Kwai, a movie which had just been released. “Comet is made from Listerine,” he began, in a fine voice, believe it or not. Miss Boopadoop left off drinking to join him for the rest of the short song: Comet will turn your mouth all green. Comet will make you vomit, So buy some comet and vomit today.

While they were singing, DB was giving Miss Boopadoop a good looking over, and he again become fully aroused. And Miss Boopadoop, making no effort to hide the

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fact that she was eyeing DB’s eminence, felt herself becoming aroused, between her own legs. Whatever works. DB’s plan was to clean the car as best they could, then high-tail it to his apartment for a weekend of fornication with this woman. Getting into the lobby would be tricky, but shit! he owned the place! Besides, it would be the wee hours by the time they got there, with just the doorman and lobby security present. He was drunk enough he figured that there was no harm in his walking across the lobby hard and nude. “We better get to it,” DB said. Miss Boopadoop hoped he meant screwing, but knew he was talking about cleaning up they car. They finished the job creditably, given their limited resources. When they both agreed there was no more that could be done, each of them placed their folded and soaked garment into the trunk, which DB closed, after ascertaining that he knew where the key was. Miss Boopadoop wearing just her bra, and DB just his briefs (from which he still protruded), they got into the car, with one depleted bottle of scotch and another they were working on. DB turned the engine on and reversed the direction the car was headed. Then he drove down the road, the wrong damn way. Miss Boopadoop wondered whether DB might be bringing the wrath of the FBI down upon himself. Maybe even HUAC. After all, she reasoned, the Interstate was a federal project, governed by federal authorities. DB sensed her misgivings. “Ought to be a crossing over the median pretty near where we stopped,” he explained. “I remember seeing it right when I blew.” “You mean when you threw up?” asked Miss Boopadoop. DB understood the question to be relevant. If, when he had said “blew,” DB had meant “vomit,” they would come upon the crossing earlier than they would if he had

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meant “ejaculate.” He’d thrown up after ejaculating. “Yeah,” he said, a mused smile on his face. “Ambiguity of language. Here it is!” They had found their passage to the proper lanes of the Interstate. A sign warned them away. Official Vehicles Only, it read. “I don’t know,” Miss Boopadop declared, irony in her voice. “We’re not official. Could be a violation of The Federal Code.” “Rules aren’t valid until the dedication tomorrow,” DB wise-assedly asserted as the car made its way across the short strip of forbidden road. “Oh,” she replied, clearly unconvinced. They were turned around now, properly oriented for their trip back towards the city. After the car had accelerated to highway speed Miss Boopadoop spoke up. “I ought a tell ya somethin’.” “Sure,” replied DB. Miss Boopadoop felt bad about the vomit, and wanted to explain her having thrown up to DB. She had never told anyone of the event in her life she believed to be the cause of it. She fortified her resolve with a swig of scotch. “Want some?” she asked DB. “Naah,” he answered. “I’m pretty damn sloshed already. Don’t want to hurt us in an accident. But don’t let me stop you,” he offered. He rightly sensed that whatever she wanted to tell him, it might take a fair amount of scotch to draw it out of her. “Thanks,” she replied, drawing again from the bottle. “ ‘Member when I told you a blow job wasn’t a good idea?”

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“Yeah.” DB answered. Miss Boopadoop pulled again at the bottle while DB continued talking. “ ‘Blow job equals blow lunch,’ you said. You sure blew lunch! What I don’t understand is why!” “I was fourteen,” Miss Boopadoop. “This nineteen year old was livin’ with us. We sort a took in borders ta meet expenses. We all pitched in, best as we could.” “Jeeziz! Sounds like a bunch a communists!” said DB, trying to interject some levity into the moment. When he realized that that wasn’t going to happen, he changed tack. “He rape you?” “No, nothing like that,” replied Miss Boopadoop. She drank some more. “He was really pretty sweet. Like you.” DB became uncomfortable in the short silence during which Miss Boopadoop again drank. He almost said “Bet you say that to all the guys you vomit on,” but thought better of it. Something was bothering her, and his interjecting levity into the situation might well add to her annoyance. “We were both just young and clumsy. Jeeziz! They ought to have schools for this shit, rather than let your inexperience fuck you up!” she exclaimed. “All sorts of things can fuck you up,” replied DB, wishing he knew her name so he could have added it to the end of what he had just said, to make it kinder. “Inexperience is just one of ‘em.” “Mmm,” thought Miss Boopadoop. She put the bottle to her lips, but brought it back down without having drunk from it. “Anyway, he convinced me to give him a blow job. What’d I know? Not enough. I’d jerked a few guys off by then, but still hadn’t learned to recognize the signs a guy makes before coming. The uncontrolled motions of

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the hips, the succession of spasms the head of a guy’s penis makes a second or two before ejaculation. Maybe if I’d been told about all that shit beforehand, I wouldn’t be such a puker.” She took a drink. DB was beginning to suspect this woman suffered from a psychosexual disorder he really didn’t want to know about. Miss Boopadoop continued. “And the guy! Nice kid, but with ramrod technique. Shit, he’s just nineteen and all excited to get a blow job. So excited he really can hardly keep from coming, just knowing it’s about to happen. So when I’m about to put my mouth around him, I see his pecker already spasming. He’s gonna blow, but I got no idea and take him into my mouth. Shit! I’m not ready to swallow, so when he pops, my throat’s closed, and his cum, it’s gotta go somewhere! So it goes up into my nose and shoots out my nostrils. He’s so excited, coming and all, he starts pumpin’, into my throat. I start gaggin’ and him, he figures this must just be a normal blow job, as it’s his first one, too. So he keeps pumpin’ and I puke. It was pretty nasty.” “Sorry,” said DB. “You really want sex to be fun for all parties involved. Looks like you had an awful experience. Too bad that happens. Wish it didn’t.” “Yeah,” replied Miss Boopadoop, pulling the bottle from her lips. “Upshot is I get semen on my face, or near enough to it I can smell it real good, I puke. I can’t help but do that. Hell, I can barely stand it when a fellow shoots where he’s supposed to, between my legs. You realize how that complicates your sex life?” “Hey, I don’t mean to be rubbing it in, but yeah, I’ve experienced some of that, just now” replied DB. “We’d just have to be careful, you and me, that’s all.”

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“Jeeziz! You still want me hangin’ around?!” Miss Boopadoop asked incredulously. “Knowin’ all that shit about me?!” “What’d you tell me for then?” asked DB. “Big kiss off?!” “ ‘Ts what I expected!” answered Miss Boopadoop. “Listen, I’ve never told anyone this, but you’ve been so decent, I figured I owed you.” “What do you tell most the guys you puke on?” asked DB. “I don’t puke. Never!” avowed Miss Boopadoop. “What?! Never?!” DB couldn’t believe that. “Hardly ever!” replied Miss Boopadoop. “If I do, I manage to make it to the bathroom. Here, I hadn’t counted on the wind. Also, you really popped! Jeeziz!” DB thought he heard admiration in her voice and didn’t know whether to thank her for the compliment or apologize to her. “But all the guys I boink,” Miss Boopadoop continued, “they know I’m holdin’ back. They can tell. Doesn’t take a brain surgeon ta figure out something’s wrong. Shit! I won’t give head! That’s just uncivilized! And when they pop, I get all weird and close up emotionally. Seems to be better when I drink, so I do more ‘n my share a that!” DB really needed some time to think this new development through. For now his inclination was to help her get through the moment with massive doses of scotch. There was plenty in the trunk. He’d really taken a liking to her, beyond the sex, and didn’t want to just toss her off, like he usually did once he’d ejaculated a time or two with a babe. “I can see this is a situation with no easy solution,” DB said to Miss Boopadoop. “Let’s just slow down some. Hell, we can still do our screwin’, we’ll just have to be careful’s all

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“Uh-huh,” replied Miss Boopadoop, thinking that to too great an extent, screwing was the problem. “Let me help.” “You want to help? You don’t want to cut and run?” “Naah. Tell you what. For the time being, keep drinking that scotch. You said things’re better that way.” “Sure as hell are,” she replied. “Then you go ahead and imbibe,” DB told Miss Boopadoop, who readily took up his suggestion. “By the time we get to my place, you probably won’t be all that offended with my jism, which I guarantee, when we get there, to put it where it so rightfully belongs I’ll keep from shooting anywhere near your face! Promise!” Miss Boopadoop pulled the bottle from her lips and said “Sounds good!” “In the meantime,” suggested DB, “why don’t we work on you wettin’ my hand again? Not a drop of jism involved.” Miss Boopadoop had to admit to herself that DB’s plan had considerable merit. “At least there’s no chance a me pukin’, that way!” she declared. “And that counts for one hell of a lot, in my book!” said DB his fingertips running through her sparse, blond body hair, moving on their way to trace the sparser hair surrounding the flesh between her legs. “You know,” she said, enjoying the sensation of his fingers moving their way into the cleft separating her outer and inner lips, “we ain’t even been introduced! My name’s Blondee! Blondee Boopadoop! Call me ‘Boops’! You sure know your way around a girl’s parts!”

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“Why thank you, Boops!” DB said, wondering to himself what the hell kind of name that was: Boopadoop. “I—all of me here,” he said shaking his hips some, so that his arousal wiggled a bit for her, “name’s Dagwood Bumstiff. People cal me DB.” Miss Boopadoop leaned her torso forward some, and to her left, so that she addressed DB’s protuberant prominence, saying “Pleased ta meetcha!” This excited DB an awful lot, her talking directly at his eminence like it was some kind of microphone, and he had to expend considerable effort to keep the spunk he felt wanting to work its way up from leaking out. He really didn’t care to ruin the moment with another episode of vomiting. Miss Boopadoop leaned back in her seat and felt her considerably large inner flesh-folds rolling between DB’s fingers. “Sure know your way around a girl’s parts,” she repeated. The sensation between DB’s legs subsided enough that he realized he wasn’t going to pop, at least not right now, and he was relieved. Sometimes, ejaculating’s just not the right thing to do, even though the occasion may very well be conducive to it. DB’s fingers traveled slowly up the length of Miss Boopadoop’s vulva, on their way gently squeezing and rolling her flesh between his thumb and opposable fingers. Boops lay back and sipped scotch, allowing her mind to fill with the pleasure this stranger’s hands so deftly summoned from between her legs. In their slow ascent to the area near her clitoris, his hand tugged and pulled lightly upon her, sometimes holding her flesh away from her body, deliberately moving her mound of softly stretched skin in a slow circle. His hand having arrived upon and fondled the full skin at her front, DB

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worked back down, his fingers encountering in their travels less and less flesh until finally his fingertips deliberated entry of her. “Please!” implored Boops, her voice a breathless rasp. She had to restrain herself from fondling his stiffness. “Wouldja stick some a your fingers in me?!” DB smiled. The notion was not without its appeal. But when it came to purposeful and deliberate manipulation of the goods between the legs of the opposite sex, he considered himself every bit the artist that Miss Boopadoop had shown herself to be, and he wanted to share his talents. DB had already decided that she would be the grateful recipient of his handiwork, and there were miles to go and promises to keep in that department, so far as he was concerned. “Lots a time for that.” he said. They both gazed upon the hair that lay sparse upon the skin which surrounded the entry to her secret recesses, some of it bundled into tufts whose wetness glistened in the moonlight. DB smiled at the sight, before fixing his eyes again upon the highway. Boops hoped that DB had been teasing, that she’d misunderstood, that his fingers would soon seek their entry of her, and she kept vigil at what transpired between her legs, searching the actions of DB’s fingers for an indication of his intent. Her heart sank when she saw his wrist raise in preparation for his fingers’ retreat. Quickly, she worked the her muscles upon his fingertips in fervent oscillation, desperately supplicating them to stay. DB’s fingertips felt the activity, but he mistook it for involuntary spasms and didn’t recognize what transpired as deliberate entreaty. His fingers again began traveling upwards along the length of Boops’ skin, in slight but purposeful separation of her fleshy folds. Her hopes dashed, Miss Boopadoop took matters into her own hands. Hand,

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rather; the right one, with which she held herself open. She eased in a couple of fingertips and muttered “Want sump’n done right!” “Sorry,” said DB, only now putting together what she’d been trying to tell him, through her intentional oscillations. “I misunderstood.” He figured she had a pretty good grasp of the situation and continued slightly separating the outer ridges of her flesh-folds from each other. “This’ll do!” stated Miss Boopadoop, wiggling the two fingers that were now fully encased. “Bet it will!” affirmed DB, whose fingers had now finished their journey of purposeful, slight separation, having reached the place where her skin again joined. He rubbed her there, lightly. DB had no idea that women had clitorises. Most people didn’t know that, during the Eisenhower Administration. But he did know that if he rubbed a woman right there on her vulva, not too hard, she’d be grateful to him for having done so. “The Gratitude Spot” he called it. Boops expressed her thanks by slowly moving her hips and inserting a third finger into herself. She was seriously reaming herself. That’s gratitude for you! DB had the good sense not to feel overly offended, and continued with the next phase of his plan to pleasure this woman, who had just this evening stumbled so propitiously into his life. Where her flesh was thickest, his fingers began a slow and full separation of her skin into left and right labium. As his fingers divided her, they pressed slightly upon the flesh they had gained, until they held her wide. Boops knew her own fingers were inadequate to the task at hand, and was resourceful enough to improvise a remedy. She kicked off her shoes and sought the

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empty scotch bottle with her feet. Once she had found it, she pressed the soles of her feet against it on either side, so that her feet held it firmly. She brought it up to where she could reach it, bending her knees, her fingers continuing their reaming. DB understood what was about to transpire, and he moved his fingers, caterpillarlike, to the mouth of her womanhood, holding her open as they journeyed. “Thanks,” Boops said, removing her fingers from herself. Their fingers touched, hers sliding out, gliding against his holding her wide. Her hand took the bottle by its neck from between her feet. “Glad to help,” replied DB, as Boops slid the bottle past his fingers into the deep recesses her fingers had been unable to reach. “Now there’s something you don’t see every day!” thought DB to himself. Boops began slowly screwing the neck of the bottle up and down inside her. When DB rightly reasoned he needn’t hold her wide any longer, he moved his fingers to The Gratitude Spot and began slowly rubbing. The both of them accelerated their motions, and DB soon noticed the neck of the bottle being smeared with a splotchy white substance, when Boops pulled it partially out of her. Boops’ internal muscles clutched at the bottle. She was about to come for the first time in her life. Quite by accident, she had discovered her G-spot with the bottle, while DB’s fingers were rubbing her clitoris. The combination was about to send her over the edge. That’s when the both of them were scared shitless by the siren and flashing red lights approaching them from behind. It was the state highway patrol. “Aw, fuck!” DB exclaimed. “Jeeziz Christ!” was Boops’ comment.

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“Better get that thing outta ya!” DB advised Boops, who was trying to do just that. He began slowing the car, but decided to take his time about it, to avoid her any unnecessary embarrassment. Clearly, they were in for some necessary embarrassment. “I can’t!” she cried, alarm in her voice. “Whadda ya mean ‘You can’t!’?!” He looked over at her. Clearly, she was trying to yank that damn thing out of herself, without any success. “That shittin’ siren and those goddamn lights scared a shit outta me,” she explained, tugging at the bottle, earnestly, but to no avail. “I was havin’ a great time, but got stuck in mad-spasm, being scared so sudden and all! I’m clamped onto this bottle and can’t let loose!” “Oh Jeeziz!” said DB as he brought the car to a stop. The trooper was parking his car far enough away they might still have time to get the bottle out of her. DB turned to Boops and said “Let me try!” “Worth a shot!” she said, figuring that perhaps she couldn’t summon up the requisite leverage to extract it from herself. She swiveled on her ass towards DB and leaned her back against the inside panel of the car door. The bottle protruded from her, wedged between the bucket seats. The way Boops and the bottle were situated, there was no place for the bottle to go. “Gonna hafta raise your hips!” he said. She complied, resting her shoulders against the top of her door. Her left foot was on her seat, her right on the transmission hump, near the stick shift. DB pulled, to no effect. “This thing’s really stuck!” he declared. “Maybe if you spread yourself wider!” he suggested. Drunk as they were, they

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had become so engrossed in the task at hand that they were forgetting about the policeman advancing upon them. The suggestion to spread herself wider made sense to Boops, who vaguely remembered that there was some pressing emergency necessitating that she remove the bottle. So she transferred her left foot to a place atop her seat back. She repositioned her right foot so that its arch pressed against the steering column, between the dash and the wheel. Her hips were raised high, at the level of DB’s face. He began pulling on the bottle, which remained stuck. “Holy shit!” he exclaimed, “you’re really clammed up!” “Tell me about it!” retorted Boops. “Whadda ya think? Wider?” “Let’s give it a try!” agreed DB, still tugging. “Shit!” he thought to himself, while Boops moved her right leg to the dashboard, “this bitch eat cha alive! Might never get my pecker back, go pokin’ her!” Again pulling at the bottle, DB noticed her thighs and stomach straining to maintain her awkward position. “Jeeziz! She’s beautiful!” he thought to himself, while a drop of clear fluid escaped from the tip of his erection, where it remained. “This isn’t working,” announced Boops. “No shit,” concurred DB. “Maybe if we both pulled.” “Good idea,” answered Boops, whose hands joined DB’s in their efforts. An idea popped into DB’s head. “Shit!” he reasoned, “she shut down the middle of it! Just needs a jump start!” DB touched the fingers of his right hand to Boops’ Gratitude Spot and commenced his expert rubbing. His left hand kept yanking on the bottle.

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“What the?” asked Boops, surprised. “Oh,” she continued, having quickly figured out that DB meant no harm by rubbing her. She smiled. This felt good, real good! “Oh!” moaned Miss Boopadoop. She was breathing quite heavily. “Oh, GAWD!” she rasped. To the surprise of them both, the bottle very suddenly and readily came out of her, expelled with great force and unexpected speed. Its bottom caught DB square in the left eye. The laughter that erupted at the rear of the car reminded Boops and DB just why the hell they’d been so frantically pulling the bottle from her. The trooper had watched most of this comedy with amused disbelief, but the bottle knocking DB in the eye, that was slapstick that the cop could not help but laugh at. It wasn’t until he was able to control his sense of amusement that the trooper addressed them. “Bumstiff!” barked the trooper, suppressing laughs, but just barely. “I’ve seen some real asshole things! Lots of ‘em done by you!” That part was true. The trooper knew DB from any number of official encounters in his capacity as a member of Bumstiff Patrol. “But this takes the cake!” He now turned and addressed Miss Boopadoop, quietly and with respect that he figured she didn’t deserve. “You all right, Ma’am?” “Quite!” Boops rasped between heavy breaths. After she had finished her interrupted excitation, she had slumped her ass onto the seat, but her feet remained raised, one on the dash, the other atop the seat back, so that her wide-open snatch stared right into the policeman’s face. “Thought so,” muttered the trooper, admiring the view. He turned back to DB. “You’ve outdone yourself this time! I can’t imagine how the hell you’ll top this stunt!”

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Bumstiff knew this particular patrolman by the sound of his voice, and he now addressed him by name. “You tell me that every time, Trooper Hooper. And I keep amazing you.” “Don’t crack wise with me, Bumstiff!” Trooper Hooper snapped back. “You’re the one’s wearing no clothes!” He noticed DB’s arousal poking out the leg hole of his underwear. “Jeeziz! Put that thing back in there!” “Tried that, officer,” replied DB. “Keeps popping out.” “Sure does!” offered Miss Boopadoop. She figured corroboration might help. “Oh for Christ sake!” exclaimed the trooper. The only reason Hooper had decided to go looking for DB tonight was he wanted to see the new car the city cop had radioed him about. Hooper appreciated a fine machine. Now he was faced with this idiocy. Hooper was annoyed, but didn’t know exactly what with. He considered DB essentially harmless, useless, and rich. DB was also pretty good looking, even naked (most people aren’t, especially naked), had one hellacious whanger on ‘im, by god, and clearly got the pick of the chicks. And if Hooper were to run him in, Old Man Bumstiff would see to it that he was out of a job, no pension, no nothing. It had happened to better cops than him. Trooper Hooper resented all that in the back of his mind. The front of his mind had just noticed that there were only two articles of clothing in the car: underwear, which were useless, and a bra, which didn’t do much concealing, either. Pants, shirt, skirt—whatever: they were all conspicuously absent. “Where the hell’s your clothes?!” asked the trooper, to no one in particular. It had started out a rhetorical question, but he finished delivering it wanting an answer. “Put ‘em in the trunk,” replied DB.

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“Ah, the trunk,” echoed the officer. “Now that takes forethought! Don’t see a lot of that! Never knew ya had it in ya! ‘Specially you!” “Trust me, Trooper Hooper,” DB addressed the officer, “forethought had very little to do with our having put our clothes in the trunk.” Miss Boopadoop spoke up. “It just sort of happened,” she said, still propped up in the seat like a Naughty Nellie. “What sort a dumbshit you two lovebirds take me for?!” Trooper Hooper hollered. “I been catchin’ people in the act most a my so-called law enforcement career! I know the drill! Most folks get started, things heat up, they peel off one thing, then another. I stumble across ‘em, I find clothes! And you’re tellin’ me your goddamn clothes made their own goddamn way into your goddamn trunk?!” What got his ire up was how transparently lame the explanation they’d offered had been. This situation demanded better. “Open the trunk! I find clothes, you two are puttin’ them on” demanded Trooper Hooper. “But we don’t want to wear them!” protested Miss Boopadoop. “Yeah, I can see that!” retorted Hooper. “Bumstiff! Open the goddamn trunk!” Usually, when Trooper Hooper had him open the trunk, DB would willingly do so, and Hooper would help himself to a couple of bottles of the scotch DB always toted around. Hooper’s collecting this “evidence,” which never made it to the station, was considered a friendly transaction by both parties. This time, though, DB really didn’t want the officer looking in the trunk. DB twisted his mouth and widened his eyes while he resigned himself to having to comply with Hooper’s demand. Desi Arnaz’s voice

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flashed through mind, saying “Lucy! You got some ‘splainin’ to do!” DB grabbed the keys, stepped out of the car, and walked to the trunk. “And put that thing away!” Hooper said, when he noticed DB’s protuberance. DB simply shrugged and kept walking. “And you!” Trooper Hooper barked to Miss Boopadoop, “for Christ sake sit in that goddamn seat normal! Jeeziz!” Trooper Hooper was gratified to see that this woman, whoever she was, shakily comply with his request, her face having first displaying confusion, then dim comprehension. DB had opened the trunk, and a strange odor was filling Trooper Hooper’s nostrils. “What’s this smell?” he wondered to himself, “a body? Nasty as hell, whatever it is.” Using his flashlight, Hooper discovered the clothes, neatly folded. He clutched the pile in righteous triumph, thinking that he’d make these two clowns put own their clothes and be done with them. Then his brain assembled the wetness registering in his hands with the smell, and he realized what he held. “Oh, shit!” Trooper Hooper howled, dropping most of the clothes to the ground. He still held the top garment between thumb and forefinger and shone the flashlight on it, just to make sure he’d surmised aright. When he realized that his hand did in fact hold a vomit-soaked set of pants, he flung them to the ground, saying “God damn!” But he threw a bit too energetically, causing the legs to flap him in the face. “Aw, fuck!” the officer bawled, just before DB and Miss Boopadoop watched him step into the grass and vomit. After a short time Trooper Hooper returned to the car and shone his flashlight on Miss Boopadoop’s hair. “Yep,” he muttered, finding vomit that neither she nor DB had

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been able to clean up. “Go figure.” He walked to the trunk, where DB still stood, saying “Okay, Bumstiff. Gonna look you over now. And I already told ya, put that damn thing away!” “But we already told you,” asserted Miss Boopadoop, “it keeps popping back out!” Hooper discovered vomit upon DB’s shoes, and in his hair. He was beginning to believe that the couple before him was actually aroused by vomiting on each other, and the thought of that absolutely disgusted him. “Aw fer Christ sake!” muttered the officer to himself in response to Miss Boopadoop’s remark. He then hollered to DB “Put it where it belongs!” “We were getting around to that, sir, when you intervened,” replied DB, believing that to be an explanation. Trooper Hooper was truly stunned by DB’s obtuseness, whether genuine or feigned. “I give up,” Hooper again muttered. He raised his voice addressing Universal Stupidity itself, declaring “I give up!” He again addressed DB, who had made no effort to conceal his aroused enormity. “I honest ta god thought that stunt with a bottle was unbeatable! You’re gonna have yourself one helluva shiner from that. I figured ‘No way would this asshole surpass himself.’ But now this!” He stopped talking for dramatic effect. DB took advantage of the cadence to unwisely interject his own reminisces. “If you will recall, I reminded you that you always. . .” “Shaddup goddamn it!” Trooper Hooper interrupted him. “I got the floor here! I come across you tonight, I figure ‘Give ‘im a break. Kid’s had a tough night at The Death’s Head.’ I wasn’t even gonna collect any evidence! Shit! I always figured you

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were just one serious asshole. I never figured you for some sicko! Jeeziz Christ! You two getting your jollies pukin’ on each other?! That’s sick! That’s demented! That’s beyond demented! That’s so far beyond demented there’s no word for it! Bumstiff, you’ve surpassed yourself twice in one evening! Jeeziz! That sounds sick: ‘surpassing yourself’!” The officer angrily grabbed the entire case of scotch from out of the trunk, saying “I don’t even want to know that people like you two exist!” He walked to his patrol car in disgust, put the scotch into its trunk, and drove off. “That went well,” declared Miss Boopadoop, after the patrol car had left. “Like hell it did!” retorted DB, closing the trunk lid. “Fucker took all my scotch!” he complained while walking to the driver’s door. “Got a near-full bottle up here,” Miss Boopadoop proclaimed. “Guess it went better than I thought,” responded DB, as he pulled out onto the highway. “Now where were we?” he asked, his hand again settling between Miss Boopadoop’s legs. Boy, they sure were getting along swell! Elsewhere, driving down the road in his state highway patrol car, Trooper Hooper was on the radio, talking to Officer Friendly of the municipal police. The two of them had been on what they called “Bumstiff Patrol” for a few years now. Their jobs amounted to cleaning up after DB’s bouts of idiocy. In a few days, documentation of tonight’s lunacy would make its way to DB’s father, who kept closer tabs on his son than DB knew. When DB was in good form—like tonight—Hooper or Friendly would radio in to headquarters and ask the dispatcher to phone the desk clerk at DB’s building, alerting him to the fact that DB was in need of special handling. Earlier that evening, Officer

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Friendly had alerted Trooper Hooper that DB would be running the stretch of closed Interstate in one bitching car, with one knockout babe in tow, the both of them having been inside The Death’s Head. It was now Hooper’s turn to warn Friendly that Bumstiff was headed back into municipal turf. “Friendly,” said Hooper into the microphone he held in the palm of his hand, “you wouldn’t believe the idiocy a this asshole!” “Try me,” replied Officer Friendly. While Trooper Hooper relayed the tale of his encounter with DB, Friendly laughed his ass off. Hooper neglected to mention that he himself had been slapped in the face with vomit-soaked clothes, and had puked from the experience. When Friendly finally had a hold on himself, he said this of young Bumstiff: “Certainly is one self-surpassing sumbitch.” He paused. “I’ll keep a sharp eye for DB” he promised Hooper, “make sure the way’s paved for him. Have my dispatcher give Albert a call.” “Albert’s the day clerk,” Hooper reminded Friendly. “Zis twin brother Alfred pulls the night shift.” “Yeah, have trouble tellin’ them Brits apart,” joked Officer Friendly. “All look alike ta me. Who’s on deck tonight?” By “on deck,” Friendly meant which one of The Whore Corps was on call. “Moanique,” replied Trooper Hooper. “ ‘Ts good,” asserted Friendly. “She can calm him down.” “That Moanique,” averred Hooper, “she could handle the Third Army!” “No shit!” exclaimed Friendly. “Tell ya one thing about her: she’s damn decent. Tough as nails, but hell of a sense of fair.”

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“Know what cha mean,” replied Hooper. “I always get the sense that she’s just toyin’ with DB—all of us, really, ‘cause it amuses her. Gotta wonder what’s really goin’ on inside her head.” “Yeah” said Friendly, who paused a second. “Well, I’ll get on the horn,” resumed Officer Friendly, taking his leave of Trooper Hooper.

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Boops and DB Quit Their Ride, To Perform Lewd Acts in the Lobby Before Moving into the Ladies’ Room Back in the cherry red sports car, DB’s right hand was gainfully employed in coaxing what lay between Miss Boopadoop’s legs to wet upon it. Miss Boopadoop turned out to be quite compliant, so far as that went, wantonly wetting what worked upon it. Boops’ left hand fondled DB’s parts, her activity upon him never crossing the line between petting and outright masturbation. Neither of them wanted to repeat this evening’s earlier puking, and both of them tacitly understood Miss Boopadoop’ s restraint. Their hands thus employed, they drove down the virgin interstate drinking and laughing, returning to the city. The car pulled onto the ramp and into the three a.m. city streets, still a few stragglers traveling upon them. Two city police cars began to follow them as soon as they had left the ramp. Officer Friendly had made sure that DB and This Evening’s Squeeze would be escorted to their love nest without incident. DB and Miss Boopadoop were too sloshed to give much of a shit about petting in public, so they kept at it. A good number of their fellow travelers noticed that Miss Boopadoop rode near-topless in the car. Some of them said “Shit!” or “Jeeziz!” or ‘That’s one fuckin’ pair a tits!” to themselves. Some honked. The few carsful of drunken people foolish enough to pull next to and accost the petting pair would be intercepted by one of the police cars. In a couple of minutes, it would be replaced with another. “Bumstiff Patrol” could take up a lot of manpower.

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For what it’s worth, every week Old Man Bumstiff would receive a detailed report from both the municipal and state police, itemizing how much “Bumstiff Patrol” was costing them. The Old Man reimbursed them double, to the effect that he was considered a great friend of law enforcement in the region. The small parade, comprised of police escorting and running interference for our two vomitiforous fornicators, finally arrived at the driveway in front of the hotel lobby. DB stopped the car and left it running, opened his door, and got out. He didn’t much care that people could see he was naked and aroused. “Hey, Lorne!” he called to the doorman while he walked around to Miss Boopadoop’s door to open it for her. Her right hand had taken up where DB’s had left off. “Have somebody from maintenance clean this car up, okay? Even the trunk! Especially the trunk!” “You all right, Mr. Bumstiff?” asked the doorman. DB held the door open for Miss Boopadoop, who was standing, but just barely, holding the bottle of scotch. “Hell of a shiner you got there.” DB led Boops to the front fender of the car, saying to Lorne the Doorman “She gave it to me!” DB had Miss Boopadoop sit on the car’s front fender, her feet to the curb. “You know, we ain’t even screwed yet!” he drunkenly proclaimed to her. Boops remembered the evening’s activities as best the alcohol would allow her and realized DB was right about that. “Shit!” she replied, wrapping her legs around him and grabbing his stiff solicitation with her left hand. She guided him into her, saying “Let’s fix that situation!” The small escort of police cars departed, passing behind Miss Boopadoop as she and DB began their fucking. Laughing and fucking. Nice work if you can get it.

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Lorne the Doorman had phoned Vince the Valet to come get DB’s car. Lorne waited for Vince to arrive, before suggesting to DB and Whoever She Was that they do their fornicating elsewhere. Lorne settled back to watch. He’d found that you could usually learn something useful about screwing from DB, if you watched. Vince arrived to pick up the car, a little sooner than any of them would have liked. “DB,” said Lorne the Doorman, “y’oughta take it elsewhere.” “Like where?” asked DB, not missing a stroke, his head turned to converse with the Doorman. The question had taken Lorne by surprise, and he really didn’t have the proper answer, which would have been “That penthouse fuck palace of yours, that’s where!” Instead, Lorne offered this suggestion: “Maybe you’re too drunk to notice it, but you’re fucking outside. At least move it into the lobby.” DB turned his head to Miss Boopadoop and asked her “Can you ride this thing a mine to the lobby?” DB grabbed her ass, as Boops used her legs to help him hoist her off the car. They remained joined. DB again turned his head to Lorne the Doorman and said “Then to the lobby it is!” “To the lobby!” echoed Boops, holding high the corked bottle of scotch. DB’s legs carried the both of them into the lobby and up to its front desk, while Boops gleefully slid up and down his pole. “Just look at those two lovebirds,” remarked Vince the Valet, gawking at the sight while absent-mindedly grabbing the handle of the car door. ‘That’s whatcha call being seriously smitten, Vince,” replied Lorne. He was watching the show, too. “This one’s a keeper. She’s a one give ‘im that shiner.”

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“Long you think she’ll last?” asked Vince, opening the door while peering into the lobby at DB and Boops making their merry way across its floor. “No one-night stand, this one,” mused Lorne. “Couple weeks. Might be The Old Man’ll hafta break ‘em up. Might last that long.” Vince the Valet got into the car, which smelled quite vomitous to him. “Car’s been puked in,” he reported to Lorne the Doorman. “Jeez!” he continued, pushing in the clutch and moving the gearshift to first. “Puke, black eye, and look at ‘em goin’ at it in there!” “I am!” replied Lorne. “None a that matters!” Vince continued his ruminations on tonight’s quirky combination of puke, punched eye, and pumping pecker. “That’s insane!” he mused aloud to Lorne. “That’s seriously smitten!” the Doorman declared. (Years later, when selectively relaying to their children the events of their first date, Boops would tell them “I puked on your Daddy, then I gave him a black eye.” DB would take the opportunity to chime in, saying “That’s when I knew your mom was the girl for me!” By the time their offspring were themselves in their early twenties, they had formulated—from their own experiences—a pretty good inkling of the general nature of their parents’ first encounter.) Vince the Valet popped the clutch and peeled out of there, wondering whether or not the world would be a more sensible place to inhabit if less of the people in it thought with their crotches.

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DB and Miss Boopadoop had made it to the desk. Their whole journey across the lobby had taken place under the disapproving gaze of Alfred, the night clerk. Very few people had ever taken any liking to Alfred, and DB was no exception. Alfred had stood behind the desk in plain view, the whole time the two of them had approached it in their mirthful mating. One of the reasons DB had decided to put on such a show was that he enjoyed irritating Alfred, and he knew this would do it. That he was damn horny and this woman turned him on like no other, were his prime motivators, but annoying this Brit prick Alfred was icing on the cake. DB usually did his level best not to piss off the next poor slob, but Alfred—whom DB called “the jerk”—displayed such contempt for everyone with whom he had dealings, that DB made it a point to “irk the jerk.” DB sat Miss Boopadoop’s ass down on the counter in front of Alfred. She kept her legs around him, and they continued mating, their eyes upon where they joined. DB began ringing the bell which sat atop the desk, hollering “Albert! Hey! Albert!” “The name is Alfred,” stated the desk clerk, flatly, his voice dripping disdain. DB stopped ringing the bell when Alfred spoke, pretending that he had not noticed him. “Albert is the day clerk,” Alfred reminded DB. Albert was also Alfred’s twin brother. Everybody liked Albert, a fact that only fueled Alfred’s bad temper. “Boops, meet Alfred,” said DB. Miss Boopadoop turned her head slightly behind her. “Pleased ta meetcha!” she greeted Alfred, smiling at him without altering her hips’ rhythm. “Charmed,” replied Alfred, maintaining the frowning mask he always showed the world.

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“I’m not the only stiff prick around here!” thought DB to himself, as Boops turned her eyes back to where she and DB met. Alfred turned his gaze to DB and said “The authorities phoned, and I have made some preparations.” He reached for some towels and robes, and some soap. DB chose to ignore him. Actually, DB chose to irritate Alfred further. “Let’s have some fun, Boops!” DB announced. He moved the bell near to Boops’ butt. “Try ringin’ this bell with your ass!” They were both drunk enough that it sounded like smashing good entertainment. Their first attempt resulted in a “thunk.” Boops’ cheek had come down too far upon the bell, muting it. DB lifted her up some, and she wrapped her legs around his body a bit more tightly, to raise her ass off the desk a bit more, and the bell rang clear, each tone a testament to one more stroke of their conjoining. Alfred tried to give them instructions. He knew better than to interfere. “You both need . . .” began Alfred. “Ring,” went the bell. “. . . a good washing. I’ve . . .” Ring. “got some towels” Ring. “here, and some washcloths, and” Ring. “soap. I have also taken” Ring. “the liberty of providing”

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Ring. “you both with a robe. I” Ring. “suggest you each don a” Ring. “robe, and take the elevator” Ring. “to your apartment.” “Aw, shit!” exclaimed DB. Somehow, the two of them had miscalculated their last stroke, and his pecker had popped out of Miss Bopadoop. DB sat Miss Boopadoop on the desk and looked at his protuberance with mock surprise. “My ding-a-ling!” he exclaimed. Miss Boopadoop passed the tip of her left index finger back and forth across the front of his stiffness, saying “Ding-dong! Ding dong!” while she rang the desk bell behind her. Jeeziz, they were drunk! Without trying to conceal himself at all, DB turned to Alfred, and just to annoy him asked “What’d you just say?” “Oh, for God’s sake!” cried Alfred, handing DB a towel that he’d just unfolded. “Cover that thing up!” So far as Alfred was concerned, public coitus was an unspeakably bad thing, and publicly displaying one’s naked arousal even worse. DB turned again to Miss Boopadop. “You heard the man!” “Ding-dong!” continued Boops, playing with DB’s eminence. “Off the desk!” DB told her. “Grab us a couple a towels ‘n some washcloths,” he reminded himself, picking up the items Alfred had just enumerated

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“What for?” she asked, sliding her ass off. “Gotta cover this thing up, what’s for!” explained DB, grabbing his swollen organ at its base and shaking it around. Boops stood facing him. She’d grabbed a towel and washcloth, and clutched them both in one hand. She held the corked bottle of scotch in her other hand, by its neck. “Lemme get bahind ya!” DB said to her, moving to her back side. “Cover this thing up,” he muttered, bending his knees while holding his hardness and pressing it between Miss Boopadoop’s legs. “Bend over some, wouldja?” he asked her. She uncomplainingly complied, laughing actually, and his enormity disappeared sliding inside her. DB turned to Alfred and asked “Covered up enough for ya?!” Alfred shuddered in disgust. “Let’s dance!” suggested DB. “Putcher feet on mine! Yeah like that!” They started a conga, slowly. “Left,” called DB, and they both picked up their left legs, and moved them forward, her foot upon his. “Right,” said DB, and their right legs and feet did likewise. “Left! Good, now thrust!” said DB, first pulling his hips slightly away from hers, then pushing himself into her. Miss Boopadoop made a short, surprised “ooh” at his thrust, and giggled a little afterwards. They continued, this time leading with their right legs, and danced thus across the lobby’s floor, making their way in conga coitus and rumba fuck to the ladies’ room, which was to the right of the penthouse elevator. Left, right, left, thrust; right, left, right, thrust! They began singing to their motions. “Ta ta, ta ta, ta, TAH! Ta ta, ta ta, ta, TAH!” DB’s free hand moved in frantic fondle afront Miss Boopadoop, groping breasts a-bobble, body hair, her swollen and low-hanging skin. Miss Boopadoop quickly caught on to the notion of fondling, and draped the towel and washcloth over the arm of the hand

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with which she held the scotch bottle. She reached between her legs, behind her, and coddled what hung below DB’s stiffness as the two of them danced their way over the lobby floor. Miss Boopadoop and DB crossed through the doorway with some difficult, and entered the vestibule to the ladies’ room. When the door closed behind them, they stopped dancing and ground their hips against each other there, in the vestibule, for the better part of a minute, before Miss Boopadoop said “We really ought to get cleaned up.”

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Moanique Gets a Call from Alfred on “The Whore Phone” When DB and Miss Boopadoop disappeared behind the door leading into the ladies’ bathroom in the hotel lobby, Alfred had picked up the receiver of what he referred to with dry acidity as “The Whore Phone.” The only three possible connections that The Whore Phone could make were to the courtesans who lived in their suites on the floor below DB. Whore Number One was on duty tonight, which was a good thing. Her name was Moanique, and she was able to control DB. And from what Alfred could see, there was lots of controlling that needed to be done. Alfred placed his index finger in the hole which sat atop the number 1 and moved it a short distance clockwise, to the curved metal tab that stopped his finger’s motion. He removed his finger from the hole, and watched it the short amount of time it took to return counterclockwise to its resting place atop the number 1. Moanique was lounging in her suite, wearing a silk kimono, from which her breasts protruded, spring-loaded clothespins upon her nipples. Thus attired, she had just set aside a book whose title was The Secret History of Yodeling, and she was reading a book called The Brains of Rats and Men when the phone rang. It didn’t actually ring, though. Its “incoming message” alert was a very early digital recording of a parrot that had been trained to say: “Bwaak! DB needs a fuck! Bwaak!” DB, irresponsible jerk that he could be, had appropriated the hardware that allowed for the recording from the R & D folks at one of his father’s many factories. They had been designing it for some secret military applications. He’d toured the facility that he was expected to inherit, and how the device worked was explained to him. He heard talk he hadn’t truly comprehended, of

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linking transistors together, and very small printed circuits, lots of them, so that you could record complex waveforms. They’d demonstrated this to DB and his father by inviting them to say “Hello” into a microphone which they’d hooked up to the device’s input. Only DB had taken them up on it, as his father had considered saying “Hello” into a machine to be too undignified for a man of his stature. Then the scientists pushed a button to output the signal they’d just recorded through a speaker. And it worked the reverse way, too: it could be made to analyze complex waveforms by breaking them down into their constituent components. It seemed to the boys in the lab that there were lots of uses for it, and they were quite excited about the possibilities. When it had come up missing, there was a big investigation. Its loss put the Soviets ahead in the Space Race, allowing them to get Sputnik into orbit before anyone else, deeply embarrassing the United States Government. Whoever was responsible for its loss would be in deep shit, were he caught with it. Stealing it was considered a treasonous offense. And here it was, signaling to Moanique “Bwaak! DB needs a fuck! Bwaak!” DB had given it to her a few years back, when he got tired of playing with it. Here’s how Moanique had chosen a parrot’s voice for the phone signal. Whore Number Two (as Alfred called her) was once a woman named Felacia, who’d inherited a parrot from the courtesan who had preceded her, along with the apartment and its furnishings. Felacia’s predecessor, who had bought the parrot on a whim, eventually became inordinately put out that her life amounted to little more than waiting around for the Whore Phone to ring, announcing that it was time to have sex with DB. At first, she’d say “Great! DB needs a fuck!” only when the phone rang. Later, as she was increasingly overtaken by her ire, she’d compulsively walk about her apartment repeating

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“DB needs a fuck! DB needs a fuck!” to herself. Of course, the parrot began repeating this sentence. One day this woman simply disappeared. She would turn up several months later, wandering the streets, and she was then put in a mental institution, which was where she needed to be. In the meantime, Felacia had taken her place. At first the parrot amused her, but it became annoying soon enough. When that happened, she asked Moanique if she might like a parrot. Moanique knew parrots generally lived longer than humans and could be quite demanding, so she passed. She’d heard the bird squawking its off-color announcement when she passed Felacia’s apartment in the hall, and she figured that the bird was most likely annoying the hell out of Felacia. But instead of offering to take the bird off Felacia’s hands, Moanique had told her this: “Give me the bird, and I’ll dispose of it.” Felacia assumed Moanique meant she’d kill the damn thing. “You are one cold bitch,” she told Moanique. Moanique allowed Felacia to believe that she would destroy the parrot, even though that was not her intent. She didn’t much like getting close to co-workers, especially ones who were only screwing for the money, who hadn’t heart enough to look out for DB. “Just doing what you can’t,” she told Felacia while smiling and making a friendly shrug. Felacia turned and huffed off. Things proceeded pretty much like Moanique expected: several days later Felacia showed up at Moanique’s door with the parrot on its perch. “Do what you have to,” she told Moanique, holding the bird out to her.

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Moanique took the bird. “C’mon, Polly,” she said to the bird as she took it. She closed the door without talking to Felacia. One cold bitch. Felacia shuddered. Moanique had used the time since Felacia had first offered her the squawking nuisance to locate a bird trainer who might want a parrot. With the bird now in her possession, Moanique picked up her regular, Ma Bell phone and dialed the trainer. “Rufus?” asked Moanique. She was calling a man named Rufus Hornbill, who actually presented shows of birds doing tricks and performing skits, complete with dialogue. “Yep,” said Rufus. “I called a few days earlier. About donating a parrot to the cause,” declared Moanique. “Got the goods?” asked Rufus. “Yep,” replied Moanique. “Just don’t wear anything identifying you as a bird trainer,” she requested. “And make sure you sneak it out of here without anybody seeing you’ve got a bird.” “Got it,” stated Rufus. “I’ll pick ‘er up,” Moanique recorded the parrot saying “DB needs a fuck!” onto the hardware that DB had stolen and hooked the recording up to The Whore Phone while she waited for Rufus. She also began to prepare two Cornish hens for dinner. By the time Rufus had left with the bird, Moanique’s dinner was cooked. She put one of the Cornish hens on a paper plate, took it to Felacia’s apartment, and knocked on the door. Felacia opened up. “I thought you might be hungry,” announced Moanique, holding the bird out to Felacia.

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Felacia’s eyes widened. She thought the bird was the parrot, and she slapped the plate from Moanique’s hands, saying “You fuckin’ bitch!” Felacia turned away and slammed the door. Moanique left the bird lying on the floor so Felacia would have to contend with it. She walked to her own apartment and ate a very tasty meal. She finished it just as the new ring tone sounded in earnest for the first time: “Bwaak! DB needs a fuck! Bwaak.” All this flashed through Moanique’s mind as she stepped to the receiver and picked it up, brushing her chin length, dark brown hair from her ear while putting the handset to it. “Moanique?” she heard Alfred say. “No. Mamie Eisenhower,” she replied, not bothering to conceal her dislike of Alfred from him. He thought very little of her, she being a prostitute. “Like who isn’t a whore?” was the way she looked at it. She just got paid for it, and didn’t appreciate his attitude towards her, so she returned it in kind. “Amusing as always,” replied Alfred. “There’s a situation.” “There’s always a situation,” she retorted. “He need me?” “That’s the problem,” Alfred began explaining. “He’s very well taken care of by the girl he’s now with, as near as I can ascertain. Too well, if you asked me. . .” “I don’t,” replied Moanique, beginning to lower the phone receiver to its cradle. She didn’t consider somebody else’s screwing DB a situation needing remedy, unless DB himself asked for company. As the receiver sank down, she thought she heard Alfred say “like a goat in rut.” She grew alarmed and brought the handset back up to her face. “What’d you just say?!” she asked Alfred.

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“I said the boy looks to me to be acting as if he were in a rut. Rutting. Like a sheep,” answered Alfred, glad he had finally got her to understand the gravity of the situation. “That’s serious. And the girl? She’s the cause of it?” asked Moanique. “Without question,” answered Alfred. “Then we’ve got ourselves a situation,” Moanique declared. “My words exactly!” said Alfred. “Fucker always has ta rub it in!” Moanique thought to herself, before asking Alfred “He up there yet?” By “up there,” she meant the penthouse on the floor above her, where DB lived. “No!” reported Alfred. “He and the girl are fornicating in the ladies’ room off the lobby.” “Scandalous, isn’t it?” remarked Moanique. She knew that the possibility of someone’s discovering the activity going on in the loo off the lobby truly worried Alfred, proper prick that he was. Her turn to rub his nose in it. “Yes it is,” replied Alfred, annoyed that she did not believe public fornication to be particularly offensive. “I’ll get ready,”” she suggested. “When he gets onto the elevator, ring me. I won’t take the time to pick up. But make sure you stop the elevator on my floor. And just let him think he’s going to the penthouse. Don’t tell him about stopping on my floor, okay? I want the element of surprise working in our favor.” “Consider it done,” replied Alfred. She knew he’d come through. There were lots of things Monique didn’t like about him, but being a fuck-up wasn’t one of them.

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And there were a good number of things Alfred didn’t like at all about Moanique, but her being able to masterfully and imaginatively improvise her way through very delicate situations was not one of them. Moanique put the handset back into its cradle. “Poor fucker,” she said, meaning DB. She actually liked the chump, and not just because he had a good prick on him, which got stuck to her fairly regularly. Yeah, he could be a real idiot, sometimes with disturbing frequency. But from what Alfred had been telling her, it sounded like DB’d fallen in love, and from personal experience she knew that to be insanity. She’d learned that idiocy (DB’s usual mode of operation) compounded with insanity (what he’d lapsed into just now) generally made for catastrophe. She’d also learned that you can’t stop a person from falling in love; sexual love would flourish and wither in its own good time. The best she could do was to help the dumb bastard through it and hope he didn’t destroy himself. Monique considered her plan: surprise, attack, get them both on her side, then drive a wedge between them. Simple and vicious. She slipped out of the kimono and kept the clothespins on her nipples, while she dressed for effect. First the black leather panties, which were cut to expose her buttocks. They were crotchless, too, so that when she wore them snug, they pressed out the flesh between her legs. The black fishnet stockings came next, then over them, the riding boots. She had had a lot of enjoyable experiences while wearing this outfit and noticed that she was beginning to get aroused. “Watch yourself,” she thought, “don’t forget you’re a pro here.” The black leather corset was next. It covered all the front of Moanique’s torso, save for her breasts, which protruded from it. Shoulder- and back-straps that were made

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from chains held it to her body. Since it had a zipper running the length of its front, putting it on wasn’t much of a problem, so long as you could keep track of the strap situation. A black captain’s cap and velvet tipped riding crop finished the ensemble. Moanique sat down and waited. Moanique really hated doing nothing while she waited, so she began masturbating, figuring she’d get a head start on the festivities that awaited her. She wasted no time and went directly for her clitoris. She was one of the few Americans during the Eisenhower administration who knew that women had clitorises. Here’s how she’d found out. As an adolescent she’d become sexually active: masturbating, being petted, petting, having quick and surreptitious intercourse. Pretty normal stuff. During the war, she juggled helping out with the war effort, work, a budding sex life, and junior college. She had a lot on her plate. It was in junior college, in Philosophy 101, that she discovered her love button. Like most entry-level philosophy courses, she was made to read Descartes’ Discourse on Method, in which Descartes pretty much resolved to find things out for himself, by god. Moanique quite sensibly decided to apply Descartes’ methodology to her sexual activities. And everybody thinks philosophy is useless! So Moanique borrowed a hand mirror from one of her roommates she shared an apartment with, went into her bedroom and quietly locked the door. She took off all her clothes, save her bra, and sat upon her bed, her back resting against the bedstead. Her knees were bent and her legs wide, and she propped the mirror at an angle upon the

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pillow she’d placed in front of her, so she could see what she was doing. Descartes would have been proud! Moanique’s eyes watched her fingers stroke and poke and separate and rub what was revealed, while her brain registered the sensations. She began noticing that much of the pleasure emanated from what her Biology 101 book had labeled the “anterior” of her vulva. She’d been watching in the mirror as her fingers rubbed all the skin there and her eyes told her it could be opened up for further inspection. So she separated herself there, using both hands, and a little knob of skin popped into view. She touched it with the tip of her middle finger, and realized that it felt pretty good, just touching that little thing, whatever it was. She tentatively began to stroke the nubbin, quite lightly and slowly, at first tracing around it in a circle. That felt even better, she noticed, so she sped up her motions some. Better still, but the circular motions were slowing her down. She increased the rapidity by switching to a back and forth motion, across the knob, which appeared to have enlarged some. Soon she realized she could do herself better still, if she did not use both hands to hold that area of her vulva open. Better to leave one hand free, dedicated to rubbin’ the nubbin. Moanique repositioned her hands so that the knob, whatever it was called, protruded from the skin held taut between the index and middle fingers of her left hand. She rubbed the middle finger of her right hand against that knob as fast as she could. She kept rubbing, and waves of pleasant sensations reverberated throughout her entire body, emanating from that button, so secretly cloistered within her fleshy folds. An unbearably

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pleasant wave engulfed her, and she watched in the mirror as milky fluid slowly flowed from between her legs. She thought she was dying, and decided to stop. For a while Moanique lay on her bed, waiting for death to set upon her. After a few minutes of still being alive and feeling quite well, she began to suspect that she would be okay. She reflected upon her experience, and decided that what she had just done was probably not life threatening. Moanique tested her hypothesis by repeating her manipulations upon herself, to the same effect. She reasoned she could do this as often as she wanted, to no ill effect, outside of messing up the sheets, which could be washed, anyway. Moanique immediately realized that discovering this nubbin of flesh—whatever it was called—was a life-altering event. She also rightly suspected that very few people knew about the existence of that little knob. Her mother had never told her. Neither had her older sisters, and when Mom had hauled Moanique to the YWCA for the sex education slide show and lecture, there was plenty of talk about penises and vaginas and menstruation and ejaculation, but no mention of clitorises. Moanique didn’t know her roommates well enough to tell them what she had discovered. For a couple of years, the only person she would let in on her secret was a sailor she’d met at a dance hall. His name was Seaman Squirtsinner. The two of them had hit it off splendidly the few short weeks he was on shore leave before shipping out, and they were frantically getting in all the fucking they could. You really couldn’t blame them for that. Hell, there was a war going on! When they’d first started having sex, the both of them would be in her room, keeping as quiet as possible, even though Moanique’s roommates had a pretty good idea what was going on in there. But after she’d discovered her love button and showed him how to play with it so that she felt real good, she would

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make so much noise that her roommates would good-naturedly tease the two of them through her locked door. “Sounds like you might be ailing, with all the moaning going on! You need any help in there, Moanique?” they’d ask her, giggling. “You got a guy in there that good, maybe you ought to share him with us!” they’d tease. Squirtsinner wouldn’t have minded that, but Moaniquie was keeping him to herself. Besides, she knew that it wasn’t so much Squirtsinner’s pecker that was all that damn good—it was that he was rubbing her, where and how she’d shown him, while they copulated, that was driving her wild. In time, Moanique stumbled across a medical encyclopedia and found out that the source of her pleasure was called a “clitoris.” She thought about it and came to believe that the world would be changed forever, were the existence of the clitoris to become common knowledge. Whether the world would be changed for better or worse, she wasn’t sure. Risky business, this clitoris. By the time she’d concluded that such knowledge might very well be a dangerous thing, she’d seen enough truly bad shit that she decided she didn’t want to take the chance of being the one to let this particular cat out of the bag. So for a long time she made it a point never to let anyone know about clitorises, either by word or deed. Even when she masturbated in front of someone, which for someone in her current line of work wasn’t all that uncommon, Moanique made it a point never to expose her nubbin and rub on it, if she could help it. But all by herself, as she was now, sitting and waiting for the phone to summon her, she didn’t do what most women did, which was just to rub their skin and hope for the best. Moanique derisively called that “flippin’ the lips,” and she didn’t do that when alone.

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Now, Moanique sat looking at the fleshy, pink, crinkled skin between her legs, pushed out by the leather panties she wore. A little of her dark pubic hair peeked from under the leather and lay atop her labia, the anterior portion of which she separated with index and middle fingers of her left hand. She pressed upon her skin as she held it open, exposing her clitoris. Moanique’s right hand moved to her mouth, and her tongue deposited a generous amount of saliva onto the pad of her middle finger, for lubrication. She moved her finger to her nubbin and began moving it rapidly back and forth over her enlarging knob. She masturbated efficiently, and could bring herself off in a couple of minutes. That was a good skill to have, because she had no idea when the phone would summon her to the elevator. She managed to come several times before Alfred rang her.

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Back in the Ladies’ Room When Boops had mentioned to DB in the ladies’ room vestibule that they ought to clean up, he was at first disinclined to cut short with the humping. But he realized they had the rest of the night ahead of them, so he slowed and withdrew himself from her. He reached in front of her and opened the door to the ladies’ room proper. “After you,” he said, grabbing his stiffness with his free hand and slapping it upon her ass. They entered the toilet proper, which shone like unto the glory of god. “Damn!” said Boops, bedazzled by the two rows of eight sinks each, one on either side of the room. The sinks were made of stainless steel, and each row of sinks sat within its own pale-grey, polished granite counter, complete with backsplash. Shiny, nickelplated fixtures had been set upon the granite, behind the sinks. The fixtures were the ultra-modern type, which used but a single lever to control both the flow and mix of hot and cold water. Each sink sported additional pieces of the spankingly-shiny hardware. One worked the stops, and another actually dispensed liquid soap. Atop the backsplashes sat mirrors, which reached near to the ceiling and ran the entire length of the counters. DB stepped to a sink and raised one of the water levers, turning it to the left, so that the water would warm up. “So that’s how you work one a those things!” marveled Boops. “I think I might of seen that done once, in a movie!” She’d moved to the sink next to his and did likewise. “That’s us,” replied DB, with amused irony, “livin’ the life a movie stars!” He tested the water and found it already scalding. “Ow!” he said, his hand involuntarily

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jerking back. He moved the lever to the right and stopped the sink by pulling up on a rod behind it. While the sink filled, DB wet his washcloth with the faucet stream filling the sink. He wrung some excess water from the washcloth, then pumped some soap onto it from a dispenser that was built into the counter. Miss Boopadoop, to whom almost all of the hardware was foreign, mimicked his actions, except for the scalding part. She was drunk, not stupid. “Here,” he said, turning towards her and holding open his washcloth stretched upon his palm. “Let me wash you, okay?” She thought that was sweet, but wasn’t sure if it mightn’t turn kinky somehow. “Okay,” she cautiously replied, “but no funny stuff.” “Can’t help it,” remarked DB, indicating his arousal with a quick nod of his head and a glance of his eyes to it. “Not too much, then,” Boops bantered. His clowning had made her realize that whatever “kinky” he might do, it would not happen without her permission. DB wiped her neck and shoulders first, then moved up to her chin, then the rest of her face. He gazed at what he washed, knowing he would never want anything more in his life than what he wanted now, which was this: to fully fill his days with what he saw, what he wanted—her!—all of her, all the time, for all the time he had. His longing for this beautiful creature, whose face filled his gaze, consumed him to such an extent that the fact that she was washing him, too, barely entered his consciousness. It seeped in slowly, and when it registered, he hoped she was feeling similarly towards him. But he couldn’t be sure, and that pained him. He figured he’d better shift gears. Either that, or go fucking crazy.

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DB had purposefully saved washing what vomit he could from her hair until last, as who wants to be washed down from a sink in whose water floated blown chunks? He got her hair, as best he could, wondering how the hell to break this god-awful, uncomfortable silence that had descended upon them. Boops came to his rescue. “You know, this turned out to be a good evening! Lotta times tonight, when things could of taken lots worse turns.” “Got that right!” mused DB, pushing the stopper rod down, so that the water began draining from his sink. He began rinsing the washcloth, holding it under a stream of water he’d summoned forth from the faucet, saying “Me too! I’m enjoying myself, too! You about ready for me to dry you off?” DB would have sworn he felt more blood surge into his turgidity when he asked her that. Boops’ activities had been matching his, so far as the washing had gone. “Sure!” she replied. She laughed while continuing: “You sure are one unique dancer!” They had begun drying each other off, where they’d washed, which was only where they’d been splattered. “Yeah,” laughed Dagwod. “That was fun! We oughta dance more often!” “Great exercise!” Boops giggled. They were both breathing quite heavily now, a fact each was aware of. As if on cue, they stopped their banter and continued drying silently, save for their labored breathing, staring into each others eyes. After a few minutes of silent drying, they became aware that each was wiping down the other with a towel held in a left hand. Their right hands were occupied elsewhere, and had been for quite some time. Somehow, the bulb atop DB’s prodigious protuberance had found its way into the flesh

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between Boops’ legs. The both of them were mildly shocked, but pleasantly surprised, to consciously discover that the fingers of each of their right hands were rolling the skin of one of Boops’ flesh flaps over the tip of DB’s swollen enormity: Boops fondled DB’s glans through the skin of her right labium; DB pleasured both Boops and himself, rolling her left labium over the tip of his turgidity. This had apparently been going on for some time without either one of them having been aware of it. DB briefly considered apologizing, but quickly decided against it, as it might negate the promises and prospects their fondling foretold. “Far better, fondling to affirm,” he thought to himself, trying to calculate how best to proceed without embarrassing either one of them. He figured some celebratory revelry ought to be interjected. “This calls for a drink!” he announced. He playfully sped up rubbing her moist, silky-smooth skin over himself while he said that, and he even tugged upon her parts, just a little. “I’ll say!” enjoined Boops, who likewise rubbed herself over him more quickly, omitting the tug. She thought that might seem too self-indulgent. Her left hand dropped the towel it held onto the counter and sought the bottle. She lifted her right hand from where she joined DB, sort of, and said “Let me uncork this bottle. . .” “Hey!” interrupted DB, remembering her earlier promise to him. “Uh-uh!” “What?!” asked Boops, who didn’t understand why DB might be so uncharacteristically changing his mind about glugging scotch. “Don’t lay a hand on that cork!” demanded DB, somewhat histrionically. He patted the counter between a couple of sinks, saying to her “Sit here! C’mon!”

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Boops understood what DB wanted her to do and chortled. “Oh, DB!” she exclaimed. “You are such a Dirty Dick! I can do it standing up, you know!” “Oh, yeah!” retorted DB, “and how am I gonna see the action? Kneel down with my head between your legs? Lovely view, I gotta say that for it, but it puts my head too close to the action. Y’already gave me one shiner with that thing tonight!” “Sorry,” replied Boops, who had to admit to herself that DB was not being unreasonably cautious. She sat as he had bidden her, even scooting back farther than he’d asked and putting her heels up onto the counter. “I might be too wet to get a good hold on the cork,” demurred Boops, who nonetheless began moving the bottle to her body’s center. “Oh, Jeeziz!” moaned DB, surveying what lay between her legs. He moved to her, taking the shaft of his staff in his hand, and rubbed his turgidity’s tip over the tops and bottoms of her toe-tips, while his eyes watched her crotch. He was exuding preejaculate. Boops’ left thumb and index finger widened the mouth of her womanhood. DB could see her muscles working, and he glanced up to her face: she was concentrating. When she was convinced she possessed sufficient muscular control, Boops introduced the cork into herself, feeling with her fingers where she, the cork, and the bottle met: she didn’t want any of the bottle inside her—no uncorking it that way! Once she was satisfied that everything was where it should be, Boops moved her left hand from her womanhood to the body of the bottle, so she could pull it. As soon as her hand left her flesh, her large lips began a persistent procession of slow closing, enfolding the mouth of the bottle at which she steadily pulled.

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While watching Boops’ flesh slowly fold onto the bottleneck, DB had quit the toe-tip titillation, and now knelt a safe distance in front of her, his fingers gliding over his glans, watching her exert the steady pressure necessary for separation. The bottle moved slowly away from Boops’ body, sliding past the lips which loosely encircled it. DB hoped she wasn’t losing ground, that the cork wasn’t slipping inside her. Boops could tell she was holding the cork just fine, though. She smiled at him, sure of her efforts. When DB saw the mouth of the scotch bottle sliding into view, past the skin which had earlier concealed it, he thought for sure that Boops had been too wet, that her grip hadn’t been able to hold the cork in place. But the ensuing alto thunk, accompanied as it was by the vision of the unsheathed cork’s end protruding from her, banished all worry from DB’s mind. His eyes widened in admiration at the nubbin of cork she wiggled to him. DB took the wiggles to be an invitation: come and get me. But Boops’ plan was to pop it out to him, much as she had done in the car, and the wiggles were like a wind-up pitch. DB misunderstood what was going on, and moved his mouth to her: he was going to remove it from her with his lips and teeth and tongue, and was formulating some very specific notions as to how precisely he might go about it. It seemed like a good idea at the time. But—too bad for her!—Boops expelled the cork, which flew into DB’s face and bounced off it, settling onto the marble floor. Boops was worried DB, whom she’d only recently met, might take offense and began to explain that she hadn’t meant to shoot the cork out of herself and into his face. “Sorry . . .” she began

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DB was so primed for performing orally upon what she offered him that he had hardly noticed that he’d been hit in the face with the cork. He certainly wasn’t offended. “What the hell for?!” he asked her, spreading the mouth of her womanhood open with both his hands. “Lemme see you do it!” he begged her. Boops was relieved that she hadn’t come off as rude or ungrateful, and she very graciously complied with his request, again working her muscles, this time to the sole end that he might see them in action. She ran the fingers of her free hand through his hair, watching the both of them in the mirror above the row of sinks across from her. She very much enjoyed viewing herself performing sex acts in a mirror, and the two rows of mirrors were set so exactly parallel to each other that she was ably to survey a nearinfinity of increasingly smaller reflections, nested within each other, images of DB’s head between her legs. “Jeeziz!” exclaimed DB, mesmerized to near-ejaculation. “Keep doin’ that, wouldja!” he pleaded, just before suddenly moving his face between her legs, pressing his mouth to her, extending his tongue into her as far into her as he could. That took some work on his tongue’s part. Boops understood and kept working her muscles so he could feel their undulations. She was too aroused to passively allow DB to pleasure her: she needed to be doing something with her hands, her mouth. She began pinching the nipples of her large breasts between her thumbs and index finger knuckles. Once her nipples stood up, she took her right breast in both hands and drew it to her mouth. She had to strain her neck some, bending it downwards, but managed to get her mouth around her right nipple. Her breasts were that big. She sucked hungrily on it, while kneading it between her two hands. Meanwhile, between her legs, DB noticed his tongue becoming

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tired from the exertion, and he concluded Boops’ interior muscles might also be getting, er, bushed. He withdrew his tongue from her, wiggling its tip as he went. “I got an idea!” he said, looking up to her, her sucking as if starving upon the tit she stuffed in her mouth. “Ride my shoulders!” He took the entireity of the flesh between her legs into his mouth, sucking on it and pulling his head back, so her labia popped out, and his mouth made a smacking noise when they did. He did this a few times, so she understood just what he meant when he suggested she ride his shoulders. Boops signaled her understanding and acceptance by sliding forward on the counter. She kept working her mouth on her breast for as long as she could, but eventually—to facilitate transferring her weight from the counter to DB’s shoulders— she removed her hands from her breast, so that she could use her arms to steady herself while shifting her weight onto DB, who squatted before her. Once she was balanced atop him, her thighs wrapped around his neck, DB rose from his squat and stood. Boops hoisted herself so that the backs of her thighs perched mid-length upon DB’s shoulders. She had to use her legs as levers to accomplish this, and had tucked the fronts of her lower calves and ankles around his ribcage, under his arms, so that the tops of her feet pressed against his stomach. DB picked up the scotch, and they exited the ladies’ room. Its door, like the door leading from the vestibule to the lobby, was oversize, but still Boops had to stoop some, to get through it. “Yee-hah!” yelled Boops while DB worked between her legs with his mouth, “I done be bustin’ me a bronco!” Out in the lobby, Alfred could very well hear what was being said in the vestibule. In fact, he had heard most of what had gone on in the ladies’ room, as it was very live, acoustically. He’d even prepared himself to see them

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copulating, as that’s what they’d been doing when they went in there. Despite all that, he was in no way prepared for what he saw entering the lobby through the ladies’ room vestibule door. Boops stooped as she passed through the door, carried on DB’s shoulders, his mouth clearly pressing against her between her legs. Having passed through the door, she straightened up and immediately began singing while promenading to the elevator, her hips rolling forward and backward: He’s a old cow-hand What a penile gland! Yow! my legs is bowed (mmm mmm) And my cheeks, she sang, smacking her ass a few times, is slammed. “Yee-hah!” she cried, still slapping her ass sporadically. “Ride ‘em, cowboy!” she exclaimed as the elevator door opened.” Boops bent down as she and DB entered the car. The door began to close, and the last thing Alfred saw before it shut fully was Boops’ hips rolling back and forth astride DB’s face. “She stoops to conquer,” muttered Alfred, picking up the receiver of The Whore Phone. He dialed “one”. “Bwaak! DB needs a fuck! Bwaak!” rang the phone at the other end of the line. Moanique left off masturbating and stood up, saying “Better see what lover boy’s got himself into this time!” She removed the clothespins from her nipples and set them on a small table by the door. She always wore them when she was on call. She considered it unprofessional for a girl to show up to a job without her nipples being erect. In her book, that demonstrated a lack of enthusiasm. She picked up the riding crop and stepped out the door. She’d had the hat on, the whole time she’d been making herself wet.

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The Festivities Move to the Elevator When Boops had stepped into DB’s private elevator, she could feel the wetness well up inside her. The double row of mirrors in the washroom had been a nice surprise, but this was reflective paradise. Five of the elevator’s six surfaces were mirrors of polished metal. “Oh, DB!” she’d exclaimed, “we gotta do it in here!” She couldn’t wait to see all the reflections of their copulating organs. Neither could DB, and he most readily helped her dismount him. “Here,” he said sitting down on the floor, his back against the rear surface, facing the door which had just slid shut. He grabbed his stiffness at its base and wobbled it slowly, saying “Sit on this!” The elevator started its slow ascent to the penthouse. “I don’t know,” Boops teased him. “Well, all right then!” replied DB, pretending to be irritated. He began to slowly rub the tip of his turgidity with the palm of his right hand, while his left hand grasped it at its base, steadying it. “Guess I’ll hafta do this myself,” he joked, but not without enjoying the sensation. “Don’t you dare!” protested Boops, giggling while she pinched her own nipples, arousing both herself and DB. DB began pumping hjis hand up and down, looking at her and saying in a sing song voice “You better get down here. . .” “Hey!” objected Boops, stepping her right leg astride him, herself facing forward in the elevator, so that her ass was right in front of his face. “Leave some a that for me!”

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“Awright! Awright!” replied DB. Boops could see on the mirrors that he’d stopped pumping his fist up and down. “Hey!” she heard DB say, just as she made ready to descend on him. Her ass’ being in front of his face had given him an idea. “Bend over!” “What?!” she asked, but got the idea as soon as she felt his mouth pressing against the flesh between her legs. She leaned her torso forward, steadying herself by holding her hands on the sides of the elevator doorway. Boops felt his tongue upon her, separating skin, seeking its entry. She watched her breasts bobble in the mirror before her, nipples erect, the rhythm of their undulations echoing those of DB’s face digging into her between her legs. She felt his hands pull wide the mouth of her womanhood, and his tongue strain, gaining entry. His face pressed against her, his hands holding her wide, smelling, tasting, touching her. “Oh Christ,” she groaned, “I’ve got to sit on you!” “Now!” he said, affirming her descent, she holding herself wide, he himself steady, them both surveying in the mirror her engulfing him disappearing into her. They watched in the polished metal their hands meeting as they shifted places, his fingers now stroking her large labia, loose now with their wetness, her fingers tracing what remained of his stiffness without her. Each of DB’s hands held one of Boops’ labium between thumb and fingers, stretching them out so both he and Boops could see more fully in the mirror where the two of them conjoined in their mating. “Nice lips,” he murmured to her, alternately pulling one then the other in seesaw motion, so that her skin rubbed across her clitoris,

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without either of them knowing what it was in his motions that made her feel so good. But this much was true: the lips of her vulva were quite full. “Feels good,” cooed Boops, gazing into the mirror upon her right hand’s fingers tracing the line where they joined. Her left hand repeatedly pinched one nipple, then the other. The elevator came to a stop, and DB figured they could just lie there on the floor in slow fuck with the door open. So far as he knew, they were at the penthouse, and he was the only person living there. The door opened and Moanique towered over them, wearing her get-up, smiling somewhat devilishly as she slowly patted the riding crop she held in her right fist upon the upraised palm of her left hand. She felt the sexual energy within the elevator bouncing off its mirrored walls and blasting past her from out the door that had just opened. She thrived on that shit! “Mind if I join you?” she asked the two lovebirds, as she stepped inside. She pressed the Close Door button, and the doors shut behind. “Hey!” Boops objected. “This is a private party!” “Then let me show you my privates!” said Moanique, running the riding crop over her own wet flesh. “There must be some kind a mixup, Moanique!” said DB. “You know her?!” Boops asked, somewhat accusingly. Moanique’s poison had already begun to work. “No mixup. I got horny waiting for you, DB” Moanique said, her voice dripping with unbridled lust. “So I took matters into my own hands. I’m really wet, DB,” she said, reaching her hands between her legs and holding herself open. Both Boops and DB

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could see that she was by god telling the truth about being wet, and both were inclined to allow her to join them, but neither wanted the other to know that. Monique continued talking about her arousal “What are we going to do about that?” she asked, facing them while settling onto all fours in front of them, between their splayed legs. Throughout Moanique’s grand entrance, DB had kept holding Boops’ skin open, and this had not escaped Moanique’s notice. “Hey, lady!” Boops hollered, somewhat crossly. Monique had anticipated Boops’ resistance and quickly employed upon her an Oriental technique she’d studied some time back in her multifaceted past, called the Vibrating Fingers. It was a variation of a Ninja assassination technique called the Vibrating Palm. Like so many things, the whole trick to its successful execution was the attention of the practitioner. In order to perform the Vibrating Fingers properly, you had to slice your own attention into mere nanoseconds. The first few were dedicated to taking an energetic reading of the person upon whom the Vibrating Fingers technique was being employed. It was much like an astrophysicist taking a spectrographic reading of a star, only this was sexual spectroscopy. The next few nanoseconds were for bouncing that energy around inside your own being, altering it to whatever purposes you had in mind, and magnifying what you’d altered. Finally, you directed the altered and magnified sexual energy back out your arm and into the fingertips, which would vibrate at near sonic speed upon the genitals of the person you were touching. Incidentally, it was more effective for a woman performing the Vibrating Fingers to have recently masturbated herself to orgasm, which was why Moanique had so assiduously diddled herself beforehand. For a man, though, masturbating to orgasm was an advantage, but only if he had not ejaculated while climaxing. The problem there was

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that most men couldn’t even conceive of a non-ejaculatory orgasm. As a result, most men were pretty shitty practitioners of the Vibrating Fingers, once you got right down to it. All that said, you can probably imagine the effect it had upon Boops when Moanique very quickly reached out her hand, and through the hood of skin covering Boops’ clitoris, took a sexually spectroscopic reading of her, then bounced all that and much more right back into her clit. “Lady!?” said Boops, who for the first time in her life felt an unbearably intense, pleasurable sensation focused solely within the front of her vulva. She looked into Moanique’s eyes, her face a mixture of question and surprise. Moanique smiled back upon Boops somewhat haughtily, and again performed the Vibrating Fingers technique upon her clitoris, through the skin that covered it “Lady,” said Boops to Moanique, as the intense pleasure spread from the front of Boops’ vulva and radiated warmly throughout her entire body, “you can do anything you want!” Moanique had broken Boops’ resistance down, and she was about to implement the next stage of her plan, when she witnessed ejaculatory spasms occurring in the shaft of DB’s manhood, most of which was still inside Boops. It crossed Moanique’s mind that DB had come, but—aside from The Vibrating Fingers—this date of his hadn’t, and wasn’t going to, now that he’d popped. Moanique felt sorry for this woman. So far as Monique was concerned, the non-orgasmic life was not worth living. Although she might have been calculating, Moanique wasn’t cruel. Moanique again touched her fingertips to the hood of skin covering Boops’ love nubbin. She wanted to give Boops a

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real whammy, so she’d come good. But Moanique’s empathy for Boops’ predicament had seriously interfered with her Vibrating Fingers technique. She overcalculated by way, way too much the energy she’d need to pump into the young woman: she provided enough for several score of serious orgasms. And Moanique’s aim was off, too: without at all intending to, she redirected half of the magnified psychosexual energy back to herself. And that redirection caused a feedback loop that would keep escalating until something outside the loop interfered with it. A cardinal rule about the Vibrating Fingers was this—you never, never performed it on yourself. That was usually fatal, as you couldn’t stop all your life energy from escaping through your second chakra, where your sexual energy resides. Oops. So the effect of the Vibrating Fingers this time was that both Boops and Moanique came, and came hard, simultaneously sharing the exact same orgasm. Each of the women instinctively knew that whatever she was experiencing was exactly what the other felt. They looked into each other’s eyes breathing hard while unsuccessfully trying to muffle noises erupting from their throats. The noises grew louder and louder until DB had to put his hands over his ears. They were so loud that Alfred heard them in the lobby, traveling down the elevator shaft. DB felt his limpening penis being expelled from Boops by contractions within her and watched in the mirror as juice oozed from Boops and Monique. As a rule, he enjoyed watching that sort of activity, but the damn noise was driving him absolutely bonkers. “Enough is enough,” he thought to himself, and noticed that Moanique’s fingers still lay lightly in a blur upon Boops. He thought that if he

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moved Moanique’s hand elsewhere, the two women might at least quiet down some. He grabbed Moanique’s wrist and moved it away from Boops’ flesh. The screaming stopped almost immediately, and the two women breathed hard while staring at each other, their minds recollecting what they’d just been through. Boops looked as if she sought explanation from Moanique. “Sorry,” said Moanique, still breathing heavily. “I’m not!” replied Boops. Her breathing was still heavy, too. “Hell of an elevator ride!” remarked DB. “Hell of a ride,” agreed Moanique, reaching behind her and punching the penthouse button on the elevator panel with her riding crop. “I’ll say!” said Boops.

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The Elevator Makes it to the Penthouse, Where the Festivities Continue The elevator door opened, and the three of them helped each other stagger their collective way to DB’s king size bed. Moanique shed her vest along the way, dropping it to the floor. She took her hat off her head and grabbed DB’s penis, which for the time being hung limp but wet, and well satisfied. “You ought to see his little fella stand up and wear this hat!” she announced to Boops, who laughed at the image. At the side of the bed, Boops helped Moanique slip her panties off, then put her hands on Monique’s hips, directing her to sit on the bed’s edge. She sleepily put her mouth between Monique’s legs while DB removed Monique’s boots and stockings. Now nude, Moanique scooted herself into the bed, Boops’ mouth following upon her. DB joined them. Soon they were all asleep, one or the other of them waking every so often to suck, rub or poke another, none of them being any too particular whom they copulated with or used as a masturbation machine. DB slept on his left side, and he woke first, just after sunrise. Out of habit, he looked at his bedmates, or tried to. Someone’s cunt and buttocks lay directly in front of him, obscuring his view. It was not at all rare for him to wake up and find himself sharing the bed with someone whose name he couldn’t recollect; sometimes he was unable even to recall having screwed the women he awoke to. DB’s eyes looked down the bottom bed sheet, beyond his aroused monstrosity, and recognized Moanique; she’d been a fixture in his life for some time now. She lay on her back, her legs widespread. Between Moanique’s outstretched legs lay the blonde head of the woman whose parts presented themselves to DB’s face. Moanique’s left leg draped over the blonde’s right shoulder.

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Sometime during the trio’s communal sleep Moanique’s left hand had sought DB’s crotch. Its fingers were now wedged high between DB’s thighs, and Moanique’s left thumb rested upon DB’s scrotum, which hung lying on his thigh But who was this beautiful blonde thing who had managed to slip her thigh under his head while he slept? He listened to her soft musical snoring. He pressed his mouth to the skin between her legs and worked on it with his lips and tongue. “Mmm,” she cooed in her sleep, while her hips rolled slowly. The voice sounded familiar. DB tried to recall last night’s events, while his mouth continued upon her, whoever she was. “Oh yeah,” he thought, “that shittin’ bar!” Then it hit him: he’d pulled some babe out of there! “Must’ve fucked her,” he figured. But what had happened? Just how had last evening’s fornicatory, fuckaceous festival proceeded? “Oh, Jeeziz!” thought DB, remembering. His mouth stopped its fervent osculations. He looked at the blonde at his front and thought “Vomit Vixen!” The recollection of what had transpired last evening dumbfounded him. There was plenty to recollect, and the notion that they’d done any of it after their having vomited upon each other was difficult to accept. Even more difficult to accept was his urge to fuck the brains out of her, right now, and continue fucking her ‘til death do them part. “Jeeziz!” he thought to himself. He hoped the morning routine of shit, shave, and shower might clear his head, so he slipped out of bed, trying successfully not to wake his bed mates. DB went down the hall, to the guest bath, so as not to disturb anyone else. He was standing in front of the mirror and sink, close to finishing the “shave” part of his routine, when Moanique came in to pee. Like DB, she had sought the guest bath because was considerate enough that she didn’t want to wake anyone who might wish to sleep.

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“Gotta pee,” Moanique explained to DB, as she walked to the commode. She and DB had been around each other so much, often naked, that they’d piss in front of each other without it bothering either one of them. Moanique sat down and noticed that, between his legs, DB was swollen, but not erect. He hung in an arc like a water hose over the sink. She thought he might have been masturbating here in the guest bath, alone, and that didn’t jibe with her sense of him. DB could hear Moanique let loose her water as she asked him “You been jerkin’?” She wasn’t being accusatory. It was just that she’d never known DB to go off and surreptitiously stroke his salami when the real thing was available, and she was genuinely concerned for him. “Nahh,” replied DB, truthfully. “It’s just that Boops girl’s got me so damn confused and excited!” “I can tell,” Moanique said, taking some toilet paper from off the roll. DB was almost finished shaving, and had yet to wipe what lather remained from off his face. “I think she might be The One!” exclaimed DB, of Miss Boopadoop. “Shower?” Moanique asked DB, while she patted the last of the pee from off herself. For the time being she wanted to defer any talk of Boops being DB’s intended. “Together?” asked DB as Moanique dropped the folded paper from between her legs into the toilet and stood up. “Shower with a friend. . .” answered Moanique, flushing the toilet. “Lots to be said for That Good Old War Time Frugality” remarked DB, striding to the shower. “No shit,” sighed Moanique, her face briefly clouding in recollection of the sailor boyfriend she’d lost in the war. She noticed DB heading to the shower. Hang on,” she

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advised. “Let the toilet fill first.” Even the rich people in their penthouse apartments have to wait for their toilets to fill up before turning on the shower. Somehow, its comforting for the rest of us poor proles to know that. “Oh yeah,” DB said. He was stiffening again. DB was young enough that the possibility of taking a shower with a woman, especially as bitchin’ a babe as Moanique, set him to swelling, and he was good and hard, by the time the toilet’s tank had filled. Moanique reached into the shower and adjusted the hot and cold water dials, then stepped back and slid the shower door closed, to wait for the hot water to make its way to the showerhead. They stood side by side outside the shower, facing it, and Monique started clowning, taking his erection in her hand and talking as if she were a carnival barker before a crowd of curious women who’d assembled before her. Her hands quite gracefully moved about the space surrounding his penis, pointing out each of its features as she enumerated them. “Now, folks,” she said “you see here before you one of the Undiscovered Wonders of the Western World! Gape at it, all you will! But ladies, please! No groping it until you’ve paid the full price of admission, which is one squeeze of a shapely buttock plus two licks of a stiff nipple! Note the length, which but few among you can accommodate fully! A fact verified by extensive field testing! And gaze to your content upon the girth of it, which is guaranteed to please any and all of you who have not yet born litters of kids! Low hanging scrotum, complete with lover’s nuts, comes standard! The oversize head, bearing a one-of-a kind, king size corona is sure to tickle your innards! And let us not fail to aver the curvature of this spermatacious specimen, backward towards its studmuffin owner. The bottom line about the Belize boner before

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you is this: I can guarantee you from repeated personal experience, yes! I may gratefully say, experience often repeated and very personal, that this swollen organ will satisfy you like no other, it will spoil you ladies, its unique construction—the length, the girth, the oversize head, and the curvature—imparting to it an ability to massage the walls of your vaginas like no boner has before, or will again, leaving you screaming in ecstasy!” Moanique guessed that she’d been farting around long enough for the shower to have warmed up. She slid open its door, saying “So line up ladies, bare a buttock and a boob!” Moanique stuck her left arm into the shower, held her hand under the stream, and judged the temperature to be on the money. She grabbed her right nipple between the thumb and first finger of her right hand, and rolled it hard between them, while she continued her barking: “Pinch stiff a nipple, so that ye may enter into the first booth, the booth of frenzied fondling upon this wooden dagger, this Dag-wood!” DB stepped toward the shower, and Moanique blocked his entry with her kick-ass body. “Uh-uh,” she explained, squeezing her right breast upwards towards him. “Price of admission.” “That’s you!” protested DB goodnaturedly. “The ladies hafta pay! Not me! Hell no! I’m the Guy With the Belize Bone!” “Now how the hell ‘m I gonna get into the booth until I pay admission?!” Monique countered. “From outside the booth, that’s where you pay it! You’re so fuckin dense!” She held her tit to him, again. “Okay, okay!” replied DB, feigning annoyance. “Jeeziz!” He lowered his head to reach the nipple she held to him, and did yeoman’s duty licking upon it, his tongue twice tracing an inwardly moving spiral, beginning with the outer fringes of her areola until it arriving upon the stiff ticket at its center, circling it. Each time his tongue arrogantly left

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her nipple with an insolent, quick lick upon its tip, throwing his head back. He noticed she still held her breast towards him after he’d finished the second of his licks upon its nipple. From the look on her face, he suspected she was frozen in trying to figure out if he was really angry with her. He figured maybe he’d overacted his annoyance and again bent his head to her breast and took the nipple still being offered him full into his mouth and worked on it with lips and tongue for several seconds. He pulled sucking from off the tit with a smacking sound and said to her “Not a bad game, really” while he reached around her with his right hand and massaged her left ass cheek, smiling at her. She realized that she’d misunderstood, and her relief spread over her face. “You realize I’ve overpaid!” she declared, back to joshing him. She stepped into the shower and made room for DB to join her. DB followed. “Shit!” he pretended to grouse, “guess that means I’m gonna have to let you grope longer on one of the Wonders of the Western World.” There was little groping in the shower, though, as their primary task was getting cleaned up, especially for DB. The notion of sex occurring between them was always present; DB’s unbidden but unabashed arousal made sure of that. But they bathed, his hardness being more a physical impediment to their cleansing than anything else. “Can’tcha do anything about your pecker bein’ hard?” Moanique asked DB. “Shit, Monique! You offended or something?” answered DB. “You know that’s not it,” said Moanique. “But we’ve showered together after some serious fuckin’, and if you’re hard in the shower, you make it a point to get right down to business. You’re not doin’ that.” She became pensive. “You okay, DB?” she asked.

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“It’s that Boops girl,” replied DB. “Moanique, I think I’m seriously smitten. You know we puked on each other last night?!” “You’re shittin’ me!” Moanique exclaimed. “I’m lyin’, I’m dyin’,” DB told her. “Damn DB!” cried Moanique. “And you still wanted ta fuck each other? Puke on a person the first date usually ends it and makes sure there’s no second one!” she remarked. “Get my back, wouldja?” she asked, turning her back to DB, who began washing her, the tip of his erection inadvertently prodding the small of her back. “We’re talking serious heat!” “I know,” agreed DB. “My guess is she probly feels the same. Why else would she of fucked me so much afterwards?” He was finished with her back and asked her “You done?” “Good point,” agreed Moanique, turning her back to the shower stream. “Yeah, I’m done. Let me rinse my back ‘n I’ll turn off the water.” “Hope she’ll stay the weekend,” said DB as Moanique turned off the water. “From what I saw in the elevator, she probly will,” replied Moanique, sliding the shower door open, then reaching her arm around and grabbing a couple of towels that hung from its outside. “Here,” she said, handing one of the towels to DB. They dried off well enough to exit the shower, each helping the other with their backs, then continued drying themselves outside it. “I wouldn’t go seeing her too often,” continued Moanique. “The Old Man might intervene.” By that she meant that DB’s father would surely find out that things were getting serious between his son and this young woman. DB was

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supposed to wait another few years for that kind of seriousness to happen. So far as The Old Man was concerned, this particular period of DB’s life was for frolicsome fucking. “Be tricky,” agreed DB. Moanique had put her left foot on the toilet lid and was bent over drying between her toes. DB moved to her and tried to enter her from behind. “Hey! Hold on, DB!” objected Moanique, mildly. “I’m game,” she explained, “you know that. I’m just not aroused.” DB stepped back, and she turned to face him. She grabbed his erection and shook it playfully, saying “I’m gonna need some lube for this whopper. Give me a second to scrounge some up, and I’ll meet you in the guest bedroom. Let’s let the girl sleep.” “Tell you what,” suggested DB. “I can forego the festivities. Let’s get some breakfast. I just now realized how hungry I am.” “Sounds like a plan,” replied Moanique. DB walked into the guest bedroom and over to the bedside phone and called room service, ordering one hellacious breakfast: fruit and pancakes and sausage and French toast and bacon and eggs every which way and coffee and juice and champagne and whatever else one might want. There would be more than enough for them all. Moanique and DB slipped on some terrycloth robes they found in the closet, and walked into the kitchen to pour some coffee to drink while they waited for their breakfast to be delivered. Moanique had had the presence of mind to fire up the electric percolator before she’d sought out DB in the guest bath, and coffee was waiting for them. The two poured each other a cup of coffee and headed into the dining room, where they sat at the table across from each other and talked, while Miss Boopadoop snored quite loudly in the bedroom down the hall.

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“Just listen to her,” DB requested of Moanique. He was referring to Miss Boopadoop’s snoring, which literally rattled the windows of the bedroom in which she slept. “Isn’t she something?” “Sure is a snorer!” replied Moanique. She sipped from her coffee before continuing. “Listen, DB,” she said. “You might want to go easy on this notion of her being The One. Even going steady with her’s risky. You’ve only got to wait a few more years before The Old Man gives his blessing to your tying the knot. I wouldn’t go making any decisions right now. Lots of fish in the sea.” “Oh, jeez, Moanique,” protested DB. “You’ve seen her! Hell, you’ve fucked her! She’s got the goods!” “Uh, DB,” Moanique interjected. “There’s more to being married than fucking. When they say ‘til death do us part’ they don’t mean your organs are joined continually, although there’s some fish species that does just that. Humans, we gotta come up for air every so often, get the housework done, make a living.” She again drank from her cup, allowing DB his say. “Hell, Moanique, I realize that,” enjoined DB. “But what’s the point? Let’s say I wait to marry and to take on the old family obligations, for what? So I can come home to boink someone who’s sensible, who I’m not crazy about, pumpin’ her full a kids who look like her? Someone I might respect, but don’t very much care for? That’s insane!” DB paused to consider something Moanique had said in passing. “Hey! Is that true? About the fish?!”

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Room service knocked on the door. Albert had let them up through the private elevator. Service for three had been ordered, including water, complete with fashionably flexible straws bent down over the rim of the tall water glasses. “Yes,” answered Moanique, walking to the door and opening it. Breakfast was unloaded while Moanique told DB about the fish he’d just asked about. “The male angler fish mounts himself atop the female and they remain joined.” “Sign me up!” offered DB. “You might want to hear the rest of the story,” Moanique warned him. “There’s more?!” exclaimed DB. “This sounds interesting!” “Oh, it is.” Moanique sipped from her cup before continuing, for effect. “After a while the fishes’ circulatory and digestive systems merge. Except for a fin remnant, all that’s left of the male are his genitals. The rest of his body just atrophies and disintegrates. So all you end up with is a female being continuously shot full of sperm by an oversized set of male genitalia riding on her.” DB mulled it over for a second or two. “I could do that,” he proclaimed. Moanique couldn’t tell whether or not DB was serious, but she faintly suspected that, given the option, he might elect to live out his life as one of those male fish. Most men would, she believed. The room service attendant left, wondering how rich people made their money, sleeping late as they did, then talking about fish genitals and such; it sure didn’t add up. Moanique and DB resumed their conversation while they ate. DB was really putting it away.

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“DB,” explained Moanique, “that’s simply the fish’s method of housekeeping, an arrangement for making more fish. It’s the price they pay: there’s always a price. The Old Man”—she meant DB’s father—“just doesn’t want you to pay too heavy a price later in your life for any poor decisions you might make early. And people tend to make the seriously bad decisions about their biological lives in their twenties. We just don’t wise up until about age thirty, and there’s not much anyone can do to accelerate the timetable.” “ ‘ike I ‘onna ‘ake any ‘ad ‘cisions!” insisted DB, his ravenous mouth stuffed full of pancakes and sausage while washing it all down with coffee and orange juice. Moanique continued at the dining room table in the same vein, trying to convince DB to hold off committing to this vomitorious vixen he’d just picked up, while in the bedroom Miss Boopadoop woke herself up with an especially loud inhalation, followed by several hog-like snorts bringing her out of her slumber. She looked around, wide-eyed and confused, knowing herself to be quite naked. “Jeez!” she thought. “This place looks like the storefront window a some upscale apartment store that sells furniture too, like Bloomingbirds!” She saw the huge picture window which, for the sun streaming into it, Miss Boopadoop couldn’t tell overlooked the Big City Skyline, and she dimly thought that she herself might be part of a window display. She really wouldn’t have minded touching herself, like the storefront whores in Amsterdam, but she realized the authorities in Big City might be less lenient about such doings than were the Dutch, so she desisted. Instead, she feigned modesty and covered herself with a top sheet from the bed, holding it to her front while she walked to the window to peer out it. “Holy shit!” Miss Boopadoop whispered to herself, letting drop the sheet when she realized she was in the bedroom of one audaciously ritzy penthouse which sat atop

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the Big City Skyline. She stood staring, trying to recollect how it was she had got there. As her memory of the previous evening coalesced, Miss Boopadoop realized she and whoever his name was, as well as whoever her name was, had really hit it off at a very physical level. The memory of it reminded her of a short black and white film she saw in high school Girls’ Health Class. The movie opened with its screen filled with an untold number of frogs, frantically mating, while the bass-barreltone voice-over authoritatively announced: “Youth of America! Don’t be like these frogs when it comes to choosing your partner! Frogs who have no notion of . . . . [title accompanying words] The Scourge of Venereal Disease!” Having herself participated in a few such scenes, she figured the frogs were doing just fine, thank you. “And besides, these days we have penicillin,” she thought to herself. Miss Boopadoop’s ruminations halted when she realized she was hearing two dimly familiar voices conversing amid the staccato clatter of cutlery clipping into plates. She wondered whether she ought to just walk out to join them in the altogether—maybe they were nude, like her. Or perhaps they were formally attired. In a place like this, “formal” might well be the breakfast dress code. Miss Boopadoop opted for poking her head through the doorway, to determine which way the metaphoric wind blew, apparelwise. Moanique was the first to see Miss Boopadoop, peering out the door. “Hey, sleepyhead,” she greeted her “If it isn’t the lovely Miss Boopadoop,” added DB, turning to greet her.

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The sound of the man’s voice induced Boops to remember his name. “Morning, DB. DB Bumstiff,” she called through the opening in the door. She looked at Moanique. “I’m sorry—I don’t remember your name.” Monique understood and was gracious. She got up to greet Miss Boopadoop. “I don’t think we were properly introduced. My name’s Moanique,” she said, moving halfway from her chair to the door and extending her hand. She was surprised that the stranger didn’t cover her own half the distance. Miss Boopadoop explained her seeming rudeness from her side of the door “I’m sorry. Let me get a sheet or something on, and I’ll come out.” “You’re fine just the way you are!” DB offered, understanding that she was nude. “Come on out. Hell, I’ll strip off! Just to be polite!” “Oh, Jeez, DB” Moanique pretended to scold him. She turned to Miss Boopadoop behind the door and said “I’ll come in and help you find a robe or something, if you’d like.” “Okay,” agreed Miss Boopadoop. “Watch her!” DB said to Miss Boopadoop. “She likes women, too!” “Nothing wrong with that now, is there?” retorted Miss Boopadoop to DB as Moanique crossed the threshold. Once Moanique was inside the door Miss Boopadoop said to her: “I thought last night was quite proper an introduction. Just we didn’t have a chance to exchange names.” She extended her hand, and Moanique took it. “I’m Blondie. Blondie Boopadoop.” “Mind if I call you Boops?” asked Moanique, holding Boops’ hand in both of hers.

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“Boops, huh?” asked Miss Boopadoop. “Yeah. I’d like that. That’s what I told DB to call me.” Moanique let go of Boops’ hand, nodded her head to a sliding mirrored door, and touched her fingertips to the outside of Boops’ upper arm, near the shoulder, as she started to step past her, saying “There’s probably a robe in that closet.” Moanique strode to the door and slid it open. “Here’s one,” she said. She turned to face Boops. “Hey breakfast is still hot,” Moanique announced, walking back to Boops. She helped her guest put on her bathrobe, saying “I bet you’re hungry!” While Boops fastened her belt with an overhand knot she replied to Moanique, “Now that you mention it, yes! I’m famished!” The two of them stepped out the bedroom door, Moanique holding the door open for Boops, who went out first. “Ooh la la!” exclaimed DB, when Miss Boopadoop walked through the threshold. He had been thoughtful enough to have cleaned off his and Moanique’s dishes from the table while the two women had conversed in the bedroom. “Jeeziz DB,” groused Moanique. “Stop thinking with your dick and get the girl something to eat!” “Something to eat, huh?” mused DB. He stood up and moved to behind the empty chair in front of Boops’ place setting and pulled the chair back. “Madam,” he said, using the French pronunciation. Miss Boopadoop sat in the chair, and DB subsequently scooted her forward. He could be quite elegant and charming. But he rarely passed up the opportunity to squander an elegant moment by clowning immediately afterward. “My-damn!” exclaimed DB, theatrically ogling down, from behind Boops’ shoulders, into the ample cleavage which the robe did little to hide.

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Moanique sat down in a chair across the table from Boops, one which had arms to it. “For chrissake, DB!” she admonished him. “Would you let the girl eat in peace?” she said, scooting the chair a few feet away from the table. “Just get your horny ass over here and leave her alone! Jeeziz!” she said, draping her legs over the chair’s arms. Moanique opened her robe fully and began fondling herself between her legs. “Ay-ay!” DB replied to Moanique, looking over at her and saluting. He quickly turned back to Miss Boopadoop and explained: “Sorry, Ma’am! Duty calls,” he announced with a shrug, before walking to the other side of the table and allowing Boops to wolf down her breakfast unimpeded. “Flag’s flying full staff, soldier’s at attention, ready for his dishonorable discharge,” remarked DB of the arousal poking out of his robe, which he shed while on his way to the other side of the table, to join Moanique. Outside of her emitting loud sounds of ingestion that bespoke either extreme hunger or ill breeding, Miss Boopadoop ate pretty much silently, only occasionally uttering her dispassionate observances of what transpired before her between Moanique and DB. Boops watched as Moanique openly pleasured herself, rubbing the top part of the flesh between her legs while DB was inside her, on the chair. That was a new one on Boops: she’d considered masturbating and copulating two related but separate activities. She’d figured that if the woman were to flip her lips, the man might not take too well the tacit implication that his pecker wasn’t sufficient for the job at, er, hand. But DB seemed to be more than satisfied with the arrangement, a fact that did not go unnoticed by Miss Boopadoop. “Gosh!” remarked Boops, her mouth full of pancake and sausage, “I never realized a girl could go for the flapstacks at the same time she’s fillin’ up with sausage!”

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DB pulled out of Moanique and sat on a nearby armless, spindle-back chair. He faced Boops, who could see his glistening eminence, courtesy of Moanique’s lubricatory juices. As Moanique, nude now, positioned herself astride DB, facing him, Boops held up a link sausage she had speared with her fork and inspected it. “I never realized how greasy a sausage could be!” averred Miss Boopadoop. She watched as Moanique descended upon DB, taking him in, the skin at the mouth of her vagina distending as it slid down his turgidity. Once DB’s length was inside her, Moanique began undulating her hips back and forth, and it appeared to Boops that Moanique’s anus was winking at her. Miss Boopadoop, who was still quite hung over, winked back a few times before she realized what she was doing and stopped. She noticed that DB’s face was caught between Moanique’s tits, and it was suffering a serious slapping, poor thing. Miss Boopadoop bit into a slice of cantaloupe. “Lot a melon around here,” said Boops, her mouth full, holding high her cantaloupe slice, a large chunk of it missing. Boops watched Moanique’s and DB’s conjoined organs, while on her plate she fashioned a pig in a blanket, with which she imitated the lewd happenings transpiring before her. “Listen,” Moanique told DB, “I’m ready to bring myself off, with you in me, but I want to do it with me sitting up, on the table.” Moanique could be quite matter-of-fact when it came to her sexual wishes. She slid rather unceremoniously off DB, their uncoupling making a loud SCHLORP noise, and she sat on the table, in front and to the right of Boops, her back to the girl. Moanique spread her legs wide, positioning her left foot on the arm of the chair where she and DB had begun their fornicating. DB took the hint and entered her. Moanique resumed pleasuring herself with her right hand, and

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steadied herself with her left arm, while leaning back on the table, to enjoy the sensation. Despite the fact that Moanique’s activity intruded very much upon Miss Boopadoop’s space, Boops kept wolfing down her breakfast, taking events in stride. Moanique came, making lots of noise and goo, while Boops poured syrup over the pig in a blanket on her plate. After Moanique had finished she and DB were quiet a while. The only sounds were their heavy breathing and Miss Boopadoop’s chomping on her breakfast. DB finally spoke. “Champagne?” he asked, reaching for the ice bucket that room service had left by the side of the table. “Sure,” Moanique answered. “Jeez!” remarked Boops. “A champagne breakfast!” DB grabbed one of the bottles and uncorked it, holding it between his legs at an obscene angle while foam spewed from its neck into the ice bucket. “You know,” announced Boops, while watching DB’s pantomime with the champagne, “that reminds me of something!” For a few seconds the very hung-over Miss Boopadoop tried to conjure up her thought. “Oh, yeah! I know what it is! ” she remarked of her remembering. “I ought a take a shower!” She stood up to leave the table. “Thanks for breakfast. It was delish!” she declaimed, sauntering off to the master bathroom. Shaking her head slightly, in disbelief, Moanique took up two of the glasses room service had left upon the coffee table near her chair and held them out to DB, who filled them. DB corked the champagne, and they each took a glass, moving onto chairs in the adjoining living room.

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“Cheers!” they said, clinking their fluted champagne glasses together. They tossed back a mouthful each. Moanique checked to make sure Boops was occupied in the shower before resuming Talking Sense to DB; this time, though Moanique decided to leave out any mention of The Old Man, as she figured the obligatory generational strife would color DB’s ability to think sensibly. They both could hear Miss Boopadoop singing off key and slapping her ass while she bathed: “I’m a old cowhand . . .” “Listen, DB,” advised Moanique, “there’s a few things working against this girl.” “You like her,” remonstrated DB. “Yes I do,” agreed Moanique, “but that’s got next to nothing to do with whether or not she’d be a good wife for you. That’s where this is heading, right?” DB was silent several seconds before answering “Yeah. That’s where this’s heading. Think she’ll accept?” “With your money, she’d be crazy not to, even if you made her puke.” Moanique had meant this last comment as a figure of speech and was sorry she’d employed this particular idiom as soon as she’s said it. It sure got DB’s ire up. “Goddammit Moanique!” snapped DB. “She told me how come she pukes.” DB briefly recounted Miss Boopadoop’s explanation of her vomiting to Moanique, who could hardly contain her laughter. “How Pavlovian!” Moanique declared, once her laughter had subsided enough that she could talk. “Look DB,” she continued, still laughing some. “Sorry,” she continued, checking her chortles. “Maybe that’s true, maybe not. Question for you is ‘Can you live with it?’ Love will only get you so far. Unmitigated lust even less so.”

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“Shit Moanique!” protested DB. “You know I’ve been around enough to realize when I’m simply smitten! This goes way beyond that! It’s serious!” Moanique realized there was no point in arguing about ‘seriously smitten’ and tried another tack. “You know that thing I do with the fingers?” she asked DB. She’d done it with him any number of times. “Oh yeah!” answered DB, smiling. He liked The Vibrating Fingers. Everybody did. “Remember what I told you first thing I do is?” she continued with her questioning. “Something about taking a reading, right?” DB replied. “That’s it,” affirmed Moanique. “There’s a real problem with her, DB. That’s what my reading last night told me.” “You’re just saying this because my dad pays you!” protested DB. He knew that whatever Moanique was going to tell him about Miss Boopadoop would be true, and he was trying to negate its impact, before it was out. “DB, I don’t need your dad’s money,” replied Moanique. That was a fact. She’d parlayed some gold bars she’d stolen from the Federal Reserve Bank in Big City into a minor empire of stocks and bonds and was now an independently wealthy woman. “Here’s what I read: she doesn’t come!” “What about last night?” retorted DB. “The second time you fingered her, and you both went nuts?” “That’s just it!” replied Moanique. “She wouldn’t have come if I hadn’t given her major help. Maybe she’s come a few times. But shit, DB! How old is she? Early- to

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mid- twenties? I should have encountered a significantly more extensive orgasmic history in a woman that age. And given the breadth of sexual experience her body’s stored—she’s been around, believe me!—there really should have been more orgasms. Looks to me like she doesn’t enjoy sex, but uses it to get what she wants.” “You should talk!” DB threw back at Moanique the fact that she was a very wellpaid prostitute. “Glad you brought that up,” Moanique calmly responded. “I’m very up front about what I do.” She left unsaid the inference that Miss Bopadoop—who was now in the bathroom, drying off—was surreptitiously manipulative, when it came to her motives for fucking. Moanique watched DB withdraw into himself for the greater part of a minute. “I just want to fuck her,” he said, his eyes looking into the distance, “forever.” “So go ahead and fuck her,” advised Moanique. “If it turns out to be forever, then that’s the way it falls out.” She figured that after several weeks, DB would tire of Miss Boopadoop. “You look tense,” Moanique told DB. Neither she nor DB had bothered to put on their robes after they had had sex in front of Boops, and had carried out their drinking and conversing in the buff. Saying “It figures,” Moanique slid from her chair onto the floor in front of DB, “you didn’t come, on the table,” she noted, taking DB’s softened snake into her mouth. DB ran his fingers through the hair on Moanique’s head. “Thanks,” he said.

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“For what?” Moanique wondered to herself, while she worked to arouse him. “Wising you up or servicing you?” He began swelling quickly, and she figured it was the latter. She was right. DB would have made a fine angler fish. Hair still damp and combed straight back, Miss Boopadoop walked into the living room wearing the robe Moanique had scrounged up for her. Boops saw that Moanique knelt nude on both knees in front of DB, her mouth encircling and slurping his emerging turgidity. DB noticed Miss Boopadoop, and Moanique felt his pecker appreciably stiffening in her mouth. “You ought to come join us!” DB told Miss Boopadoop, not without considerable enthusiasm being evident in his voice. “Looks like a private party to me!” exclaimed Boops. When he heard Miss Boopadoop say that, DB thought she was signaling her intent to pass on the threesome, and he softened some. Moanique could feel the slight limpening with her mouth, and was irritated with DB’s allowing the fortunes of his sexual activity to wax and wane with the whims of this woman who in all likelihood was merely a gold digger. Miss Boopadoop let her robe drop onto the floor, saying “Good thing I brought my privates!” DB again began hardening in Moanique’s mouth. Boops immediately sized up the situation’s possibilities and moved to act. DB was being taken care of by Moanique, but who was taking care of her, poor woman? Looks like that task would fall to Boops, which was fine by her—she remembered some serious screaming in the elevator, which her mouth having intermittently been upon Moanique’s muff last night did not even begin to repay. Now was the chance for Boops to get her licks in and do right by Moanique.

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Boops cribbed some unused pillows and cushions from sofas and chairs, placing a few of them on the floor between Moanique’s legs; she left some extras near Moanique’s feet. Boops then lay on her back, behind Moanique, then slid herself up until her mouth was directly under Moanique’s crotch, her head resting on the pillows. “You okay with this?” she asked Moanique? Moanique, whose mouth was too much otherwise engaged for her to answer Boops verbally, signaled her acquiescence by reaching one of her hands to her flesh, spreading it some, then moving her fingers in a slow circle, changing the configuration and contour of herself. Rightly assuming Moanique’s manipulations to mean Yes, Boops reached down and grabbed another pillow, tucking it under her head, so that her mouth could touch Moanique, without having to strain her neck. Moanique soon wet Boops’ face. While one end of Monique’s body oozed onto Miss Boopadoop’s countenance, the other end—her mouth—was taking in the ejaculate being expelled from DB. From Moanique’s perspective she was engaged in a zero-sum activity. So far as this morning’s transactions went, here was the tally: Moanique had climaxed twice, DB once, and Miss Boopadoop not at all. Moanique noticed with approval that Boops was not one to simply take such an inequity lying down. Uh-uh. Miss Boopadoop, her mouth still upon Moanique’s slick skin, was working herself between her legs with her right hand. Her left hand brushed the inside of Moanique’s thigh, just before a couple of its fingers slid into her. Inside Moanique Boops discovered a spongy spot, about an inch up, on the anterior wall. A good number of the women Miss Boopadoop had been with had such a

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spot. In the past, Boops had explored herself as far up as she could, with her own fingers, and hadn’t found herself to have that particular physiological configuration. Neither she nor any of the women who had that patch of spongy tissue on their vaginal walls thought much about it, one way or another. On a whim, really, Boops decided to focus her massaging of Moanique’s insides on the spongy tissue, while she licked at the front of the skin which hung down towards her mouth. In no time, Moanique found herself coming again, pressing her face against DB’s crotch, which was now limpening some, but was still serviceably turgid. Moanique gasped wide-eyed up into his face. DB was generally one to appreciate it when a woman climaxed in his presence. This time was no exception, and Moanique’s having another orgasm caused him to wonder how well Miss Boopadoop might be faring. He looked past Moanique’s back and ass and saw poor Boops flipping her lips, and felt bad for her, having to take matters into her own hands. He decided to remedy that and slid from underneath Moanique, who was still coming, so that he could service Boops, between whose legs he soon knelt. While Boops kept rapidly rubbing herself, DB scooped up her thighs and pressed them upwards towards her torso, so that she presented herself more readily to him. He slid a couple of the pillows Boops had placed near Moanique’s feet under Boop’s ass, then bent down and began working her with his mouth, keeping at it for a good fifteen minutes, while Boops used her hands, both of them now, to stroke herself. Moanique took the opportunity to dismount Boops’ face, quite satisfied. She poured herself some champagne and sat down on the couch to watch the two of them attempt to get Boops to climax on the floor in front of her. Although DB’s face ended up wet from eyebrows to

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chin, Boops herself never showed any of the symptoms of coming. DB had been servicing Boops a long enough time that he had regained his turgidity. “I’m sorry,” Boops apologized to DB, embarrassed. “I’m not much of a finisher.” DB figured Boops just needed his protuberance up her and pumped her with it a good twenty minutes, to no avail. Moanique watched and waited, all the while sipping champagne. Boops and DB were becoming both frustrated and embarrassed. When DB decided to pick up the pace and began thrashing his hips with great vigor, Moanique intervened. “Ho-o-o-ld o-o-n thur, Babby Louey!” announced Moanuque, her voice sounding like the cartoon character Quickdraw McGraw. She set her fluted champagne crystal upon the glass top of an end table and moved onto the floor. “I thought . . .” began DB. “A-a-ahl d-o-o the thinnin’ around he-e-re!” replied Moanique. DB understood that Moanique was going to take matters into her own hands, so far as Boops’ orgasm was concerned. Even though he was a little irritated, he took solace knowing that at least his new friend Miss Boopadoop would no longer be frustrated. Moanique moved on the floor next to DB, between Boops’ legs. She bent down touching the outstretched fingers of her right hand onto the skin covering Boops’ clitoris, much like she’d done last night. But today, Moanique got it right: she directed all the psychosexual energy properly through her fingers and into Boops’ love nubbin. None of it bounced back into Moanique, and the transaction went smoothly and swimmingly, with

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Boops experiencing a strong and sure climax which was masterfully controlled by Moanique. When Boops’ orgasm was over, she lay on the floor, still breathing heavily, looking at Moanique and DB between her legs. “Let’s get on the bed and snuggle,” she suggested to them. “That’s a great idea!” agreed Moanique, knowing full well DB hated the thought of snuggling after sex. Even though he could be effective at it, snuggling ran contrary to his self-image. “DB really likes to snuggle, don’t you DB?” she addressed him. “Umm,” DB answered. “See!” exclaimed Moanique. “I think I’ll have some fruit,” announced DB, hoping to get off the hook. “That’s a good idea!” exclaimed Boops. “We can eat fruit while we snuggle in the bed.” “Umm,” replied DB, haplessly following Boops and Moanique into the master bedroom. Moanique had picked up the large, woven basket of fruit and was walking with it into the bedroom. The three of them sat on the bed in a circle, facing the basket of fruit, which was at the circle’s center. DB made no effort to conceal the fact that he was again stiffening while he ogled Miss Boopadoop. “Jeez Moanique!” exclaimed Boops, her mouth taking its time with a banana. She had hoarded another, which rested on the bed, between her legs, leaning upon her wet flesh. “That finger thing you done on me—you got a teach me that!” Boops signaled to DB her acceptance of the attention he was pointing her way: she slid the fingers of her

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right hand, palm up, between the sheet and his scrotum, and coddled him with her finger’s quiet undulations. “No can do, Boops,” replied Moanique. “Sorry. It takes years to learn. And you have to go to Japan.” “You been to Japan?!” asked Boops. “Oh, yeah,” replied Moanique. While DB and Miss Boopadoop listened and attempted to restrain themselves from fondling each other—with increasing lack of success—Moanique relayed the true story of how she’d gone to Japan and what she’d found there.

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Moanique’s Tale Moanique said she had felt she owed it to her boyfriend, Seaman Squirtsinner, with whom she’d been madly in love, to travel there and heap her hate upon the “Jap bastards” (as she called them) who’d killed him. She didn’t tell DB or Miss Boopadoop that he was the one man she’d loved who she’d ever shown her clitoris to or let touch it. She did tell them the one reason she had been so angry with the Japanese was this: her boyfriend was one of forty-eight sailors killed or missing due to a kamikaze strike upon the U.S.S. Borie August 9, 1945. He was not among the missing—his mangled body had been found, identifiable only because of his dog tags. The first atomic bomb had been dropped on Hiroshima a few days earlier, and so far as Moanique was concerned the Japanese ought to have surrendered immediately afterward. Squirtsinner had been killed the very day the second atomic bomb had been dropped on Nagasaki. When she planned her trip in 1946, she felt the Japanese deserved to have that second bomb dropped upon them. But that was earlier in her life; by 1953—there, on the bed with DB and Boops— she realized she had been in love and had resented the war’s having interfered with her and her lover’s passion with such cruel and ill-timed finality. By 1953 she also strongly suspected that she and Squirtsinner would have soon fallen out of love, all by themselves. Most couples do; just give them some time. She had chosen to visit Nagasaki, mostly to gloat. She thought she’d enjoy what she would see there, and treat herself to a “serves ‘em right” moment. But the devastation she witnessed was horrifying beyond comprehension. Her pitiful, self-indulgent suffering, or even what Squirtsinner had endured in his death throes, neither of those was anything when compared with the hell that had rained in but one blast upon Nagasaki.

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She was surprised to find herself feeling sorry for these quiet and kind people, who had been so recently portrayed to her as rabid and vicious imperialists Upon seeing the widespread obliteration, Moanique expected the Japanese to treat her every bit as shabbily as she had wanted to treat them. But none of that happened. And although she had never been a particularly religious person, she found herself wanting to go to a church, light a candle and pray to whatever—out there; up there; hell, down there, if that’s what it took—whatever might care enough to listen, that the nastiness the world had lately been through would never again be visited on it. When she conveyed to her Japanese guide that she wished to go to a church and light a candle, she was directed to the only place available: a monastery well outside of town, far enough away that the radiation sickness there hadn’t been too terribly bad. Her guide, whose command of English really wasn’t up to the task of showing Moanique around, talked briefly in Japanese with the monastery’s abbot. Fortunately, the abbot had studied a couple of years at a seminary in the United Kingdom, and his English was good enough that he was pretty sure Moanique’s guide had misunderstood what she wanted to do. “Your guide tells me that you wanted to find a holy place and set it on fire. But I sense that is not your intent,” the abbot told Moanique in English. Moanique was stunned, and she felt very sad that her guide would have acquiesced and had brought her to the monastery. “Tell him I’m very sorry he thinks that I would want to destroy a holy place. I just wanted to pray—I don’t know to whom—that the destruction will not happen again.” The abbot spoke to the guide in Japanese. As the guide started to understand Moanique’s intent, he looked at her, his expression changing as he increasingly

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comprehended what she had intended. “So solly,” the guide told Moanique. He was apologizing for having misunderstood her intent. The abbot felt he needed to interpret. “He says he’s sorry,” the abbot told her. “I’m sorry, too,” replied Moanique, thinking of how bad the last decade had been worldwide. “Sir,” she addressed the abbot, “why would he bring me here thinking I might burn it down?” “Very simple,” answered the abbot. “You are the victor, and we are at your mercy. We expect no mercy from a conqueror. You are more than welcome to destroy what you might want to. As you saw in the city, you Americans have made such a fine beginning of destroying us. To our way of thinking, it would be a foolish of you not to complete what you have started. But that must seem strange to you, I think.” “It does,” replied Moanique. “It seems very strange.” It was Moanique’s turn to be sorry now. “Your request, even properly understood, seems strange to him,” said the abbot, meaning Moanique’s guide. “Less so to me. I have studied in the West. Wanting to change the world for the better is a noble but futile notion. The best one can hope to do is to change oneself. The world will do as it will, all your prayers and candles notwithstanding. But come on in and light a candle, if you want.” The abbot smiled and his eyes shone. “It is futile for me to want to change your mind about this.” On her way to the shrine, Moanique felt obliged to explain to the abbot why she had traveled to Japan. “My boyfriend was from New England, and his name was Seaman Squirtsinner,” she began. The abbot laughed.

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“I have read your Hawthorne,” he explained. “Your boyfriend’s name comes right out of Hawthorne’s tradition. But please continue.” Moanique thought she ought to back up and explain the time she applied Descartes’ methodology to herself, between her legs. She was especially keen to recount to the abbot the phenemonological and epistemological musings that had sprung into her mind, during her initial philosophical titillation. The notion had struck her while diddling herself that she was no more than a series of electrochemical reactions: her eyes watching the mirror, receiving visual information, which got passed along to her brain, which made decisions regarding where between her legs her fingers needed to apply pressure, tug, separate, and depending upon the sensation registered in her brain, she would again modify the location, rate, and method of applying her fingers to her genitalia. “All of these electrochemical reactions,” Moanique mused, “modifying the stimuli I applied to myself, and all to achieve an admittedly pleasurable goal—extremely pleasurable—which is itself merely another electrochemical cascade. What I don’t see is the point of it all.” “My little chickadee,” replied the abbot, sounding a bit like W.C. Fields, “all human activity is folly, and the fact that most people never begin to wake up to that fact might be considered by some a tragedy, by others a blessing. Arguing about it—blessing or tragedy—is also folly. All we can do is be aware of our foolishnes as we practice it, our controlled folly, knowing that even that is foolish. Might I suggest that, as an exercise in this, you simply watch the flame of the candle you have just lit? Think of doing so as a way to find your own center.” So for the next several hours, Moanique did as the abbot had suggested, until the long, tapered candle she had lit had burned itself out.

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The abbot watched the whole time, and he was impressed with her ability to concentrate and calm herself. The rest of the people at the monastery were grateful that Moanique understood that the Japanese were indeed humans who had suffered terribly during the war, and she was invited to stay at there for a few days. She liked what she saw there and asked the abbot to let her remain as a student. He readily agreed, as from what he had seen and heard he believed she had a considerable amount of the type of talent one needed to be a successful monk. Everything was communal, which included studying, bathing, and sex. The monks were encouraged to go with the flow, but not be obsessive about any particular thing in their lives, other than making overall progress in their studies. While engaging in sexual relations with both the male and female residents, Moanique noticed that some of the members of the commune knew about clitorises, some didn’t. After she’d have sex with one who knew, she’d ask him (or her) why, if sex was so openly practiced and studied there, none of the teachers mentioned clitorises when they lectured on sexual techniques. The answer she got was that even though knowledge of the clitoris was quite fine for an individual, the general consensus was that it tended to be socially disruptive. Those few who found out about it were predestined to do so, and if they studied in her monastery, the fact that they already knew was brought to the attention of the appropriate faculty, who taught Those Who Were Ready the Vibrating Fingers. Those who never discovered the clitoris lived out their lives in the ignorance that was the overall lot of mankind. Even though the explanation struck Moanique as an absurd mix of oriental thought and Calvinist clitoral claptrap, it did resonate with her own thinking at the time, which was this: plenty enough serious shit had just been laid on the planet: the

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atomic explosion that had leveled Nagasaki was a fine example of that; let’s not be putting any more heavy-duty stuff out there. And knowledge of the clitoris is serious enough shit, she figured, that her fellow monks were probably right: just let some lucky chumps stumble upon it every so often, but don’t shout it from the rooftops. No telling what might happen, then. By the way, the teacher who instructed her in the art of the Vibrating Fingers was a Chinese immigrant named Won Hong Schlong. He was her favorite partner, when it came to sex, and could fill her recesses like no other could or would. That was, until she became DB’s courtesan, several years down the road. DB, he had serious wang. Despite what it might sound like, especially with all the sex (both private and communal) being practiced in the monastery, life there was almost unbearably severe. Lights out was at 9 PM, and wake up was at 5 AM. Nearly every waking minute of every day was taken up with some kind of mandatory activity, and each novice was paired with an older monk, all of whom watched over their charges like the proverbial hawks. Her first few weeks at the place were utterly exhausting, and she really craved more sleep that she was getting. Then she realized something near the middle of her third week there: through some fortuitous oversight, her schedule was blank for the half-hour between 8:30 and 9:00 AM. She asked her mentor, who was a rather astute middle-aged woman, if it was permissible to go to her cell and crash for those precious few minutes. (The rules were this: you had to tell your mentor everything: all your doubts, your misgivings, any deviations you had made from the program, or were planning to make.) Her mentor already knew about the free half hour, and told Moanique to go ahead and sleep, if she wanted. And things took a curious turn for Moanique about ten weeks

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into her training. She noticed that as she fell asleep (which was usually about 8:32 AM), she would think to herself: “I’d like to dream about this,” and dream about it she would. Once she realized that she was exercising some control over her dreams, she told her mentor about it. That was the rule: you told your mentor everything. When she had heard Moanique out, the mentor said, “That’s good. You’re coming along nicely.” “What?” asked Moanique. “We want you to be doing that,” her teacher answered. “You know those long services we have to sit through several times a day?” “How could I miss them?” retorted Moanique. Her mentor laughed when she said that. “Those little trips you take when you’re asleep,” replied her teacher. “I take them while I’m awake, during those services.” “No!” exhaled Moanique, incredulous. “Oh yes,” answered her teacher, quite matter-of-factly. “This place will drive you insane, if you don’t learn that trick. Keep up the good work,” said her teacher while walking away from Moanique, allowing her the space to wrap her head around this development.

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Moanique Performs the Vibrating Fingers Upon Boops and DB Boops and DB had really tried to listen to Moanique’s recounting, but Miss Boopadoop performed some imaginative pantomime with a banana, fairly early on in the story. DB’s eyes had taken in what she was doing, and he had become so fully aroused that the swelling was slightly painful to him; the two began fondling each other and things progressed such that by the time Moanique had finished her story (just short of outright mentioning clitorises to the lovebirds), here’s the sight that greeted her: DB lay on his back while Boops squatted astride him, completely taking in his enormity. Moanique considered the fact that Boops could take all of DB into herself a critical fact, if the two of them were to remain together any length of time. In fact, when she herself had applied for the job as DB’s courtesan, she had been required to demonstrate this capability. The reason most of DB’s pickups lasted only a few short screws before he tired of them was this: usually, he had to be careful not to penetrate too deeply into them, and—like most people when they have sex—he would rather be able to just plain let go. Moanique watched DB and Boops on the bed, well into the second day of their first date, both letting go, and she felt happy for them. While she took him in squatting, Boops faced away from her partner, who was very much enjoying the sight of her well-shaped ass raising off of his groin, so he could see himself entering her, her again lowering down to slap against him as his hardness disappeared inside her. Boops very much enjoyed the feel of his hands on her hips; she found that very arousing. Sometimes he would thump a thumb against her anus. She liked that, too. Her own hands alternated between coddling DB’s low hanging balls and squeezing her breasts, her back arched.

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Moanique watched the sight and wondered. She knew DB’s father would cut him off if he got serious with a woman before he was thirty, and there were still a few years of DB’s fornicating and philandering to fulfill. She also began to suspect that the two people fucking on the bed in which she also sat had a shot to make it, as a couple. Jeeziz! How often did a girl get the chance to lay permanent claim to a cock like that, knowing she was satisfying it? Not often enough: that was Moanique’s take on this particular aspect of female sexuality. On the downside of it, Boops’ puking would be a problem; even more so would be her inability to climax. So far as the lack of coming was concerned, Moanique foresaw that the two of them would first blame themselves for it, then each other. The sad thing about the blame game being this: Boops’ inability to climax was simply a condition of her life for which no one was culpable. Moanique thought maybe she could help, though, and decided to ask for their cooperation. “Hey, Boops,” she called to Boops. “Moanique,” Dagwod replied to her, from the other side of Boops. “We’re kind of busy here!” Moanique ignored DB and shifted her position on the bed, so her face was directly in front of Boops’. “Hey, Boops!” she repeated. This time she got through to Miss Boopadop. “Yeah?” replied Boops, continuing with her motions. “Hold yourself high a few seconds, before you slide down the salami!” suggested Moanique. “Huh?” asked Boops.

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“Hang where you are, next time you get to the top of an upstroke!” Moanique rephrased. “Uh. Okay!” replied Boops, comprehending. She stopped grinding her ass against DB’s groin and raised it up off him slowly, savoring the feel of his turgidity’s tip as it descended the length of her. She felt the large bulb stretching the mouth of her womanhood, held her position, and asked Moanique “What now?” “Hey, Moanique, we were really doing okay!” protested DB. “Trust me DB,” replied Moanique. “You’ll like this!” “Umm,” DB replied. Moanique slid her right thumb into Boops’ vagina, wedging it between the bulb of DB’s engorged enormity and the posterior of Boops’ introitus. Once Moanique was sure that the ball of her thumb was properly making contact with DB’s glans, she moved her fingers to the hood of flesh which covered Boops’ clitoris. Moanique performed the Vibrating Fingers upon the both of them, simultaneously, joined as they were. Soon, Moanique’s fingers sensed a shuddering in both sets of organs—his and hers. Both DB and Boops moaned while they came. They moaned a lot. Moanique had heard whispered rumors about performing this procedure upon a couple while they mated, when she was still at the monastery. She had simply improvised it here, with these two lovebirds, wishing them well, hoping that the memories of the orgasms she’d been inducing in Boops would later help her to climax at such times as might be appropriate. Had Moanique stayed on at the monastery, she would have been formally taught The Coupled Vibrating Fingers, and here’s the first thing she would have learned: you never, never do this to a couple, unless both of them are very far along the

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path of Spiritually Heirarchical Internal Truth (SHIT, for short—so each partner had to know SHIT), and unless both understood full well the ramifications of their sexual karmas being bound inexorably by the procedure, which was irreversible, save for one of the partners experiencing something called a Cosmic Orgasm. But no one knew what that was. Which meant that the procedure was Absolutely Irreversible. Oops. So far as Boops and DB were concerned, what Moanique had just wrought, no man could put asunder. Not nobody, not no way, not no how. No matter how fed up the two of them might become with each other, no matter how much both might stray from the other in search of what the other couldn’t or wouldn’t give them, this much was now true for both of them: they couldn’t live without what was between the legs of the other. Double oops. Road to Hell, Moanique. Road to Hell.

************* After Moanique had used the Coupled Vibrating Fingers to cause Boops and DB to climax excruciatingly, Boops slumped forward on the bed, still astride DB inside her, and DB lay on his back, drained. Both were breathing heavily, trying to catch their wind. Boops was the first to recover her strength. She moved her hips upward, so that DB withdrew from her, and rotated herself so that she now faced him. He was turgid enough he could still enter her, and she guided him back in with her hands, before

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descending upon him with her torso. “Oh, God, I love you!” she declared, moving her hips back and forth so that he pumped up and down inside her. DB hugged her tightly, moving a hand to grab her ass, and coordinated the motions of his hips to hers. “I love you, too!” he replied. It was a moment right out of the second act of Wagner’s opera Tristan: two poor chumps in love, not even beginning to give a shit about the consequences. They lay there, mating and professing their eternal love. Sharing the bed with them, Moanique surveyed the wet spots on the sheets, the respectably sized new one, still glistening, along with an indeterminable number from last night, which now lay spread upon the sheet in thin film of crusty quilt-work patches. “Let’s throw on some robes and head to the living room. We need to call housekeeping to freshen up the bed,” she announced, reaching for the phone. “Fuck the robes!” exclaimed DB. He was okay with quitting the humping for the time being, as his pecker needed a few minutes to rest. “Housekeeping doesn’t care if we’re naked or not.” “We ought to at least sit on the robes or something,” countered Moanique, waiting for housekeping to answer the other end of the phone. “Need to protect the furniture, what with all the activity we’re doing!” “Good point,” said DB, smiling at Boops, who was giggling atop him. She was giddy over the fact that she’d been coming, finally. Housekeeping picked up the phone at their end and Moanique gave them their instructions. The three grabbed robes, neither donning them nor caring whose was whose, and walked into an informal entertainment room. They could close the door behind them

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and not be seen by housekeeping when they came in to change the sheets. The entertainment room was complete with pool table and television. The television, or TeeVee, was the newest technological marvel of the Atomic Age. “Jeez DB!” exclaimed Miss Boopadoop, all wide-eyed. “You actually got one a those TeeVee things?” “Yeah,” replied DB, sounding bored. He was inspecting the contents of a hat tree. He collected all kinds of hats: the tree sported a derby, top hat, fireman’s hat, fedora, Quaker hat, Panama hat, ten gallon hat, and lord knows what else. “Nothin’ on but a bunch a crap, though, you ask me,” continued DB as he sat down on a couch, hoping Boops would join him. Moanique took a love seat, hoping for the same. Boops stood several feet from the TeeVee studying its dials. “Want a watch some real entertainment on TV, check out the HUAC hearings,” asserted DB. “Scary stuff,” said Moanique, adding her oblique agreement. “I’ll say,” enjoined Boops. “All those communists among us! Who’d a thought it?” she asked, laughing. “Like who wouldn’t a joined up in the Thirties, with all the Western democracies on the ropes?” “These hearings be a rib-tickling spectacle of absurdity,” said DB,ept for people’s lives getting ruined just showing up to testify.” “That McCarthy clown, in the Senate,” added Moanique. “Bully’s got everybody running around scared. What a prick! Like he’s fit to be the judge of what’s normal.” “Whole witch-hunt conformity mentality started with the Nixon/Hiss hearings in the House a few years ago,” grumbled DB.

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“Why doesn’t Ike just kick some butt?” asked Boops. “He won the war! He oughtta just knock some congressional heads together, like Moe in The Stooges. I don’t get it!” “Me neither,” declared both Moanique and DB, in heterophony. A sad silence ensued. “I’ve always wanted to watch that Howie Dooey show!” declared Miss Boopadoop suddenly. “They say it’s real good! And my friends at work tell me it comes on right now!” “What do you mean ‘You’ve always wanted to watch it’?” DB began needling her. He was still stewing over the country’s current political quagmire. “When you were two years old, you want to watch it then?” “Course not, silly!” replied Miss Boopadoop. “There wasn’t even TeeVee then!” “So how can you say you always wanted to watch it?” insisted DB. “Shit, DB, it’s just a way of talking!” Miss Boopadoop responded, defending herself. “Jeeziz, DB,” Moanique interjected herself into the conversation. “There’s plenty of scotch! Just toss back a stiff drink, and maybe with some luck it’ll kill that bug that’s crawled up your ass!” “Hey! I’ve seen the show,” asserted DB. “It’s stupid! Some grown man dressed up in a half-assed cowboy outfit, talking to a fucking marionette! Waste a time!” “Sounds charming,” chuckled Moanique. She really didn’t find the show one bit charming, although she enjoyed it for her own reasons. “DB, you really need to lighten up,” she goaded him while Miss Boopadoop crossed the room to turn on the TeeVee.

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“Uh-uh-UH!” DB ordered Miss Boopadoop. “Don’t touch that dial! Blondee! . . .” “Let the girl watch the goddamn show, if she wants,” Moanique scolded DB, as Boops clicked on the big dial of the console TeeVee. DB had enough sense to shut up and admire the sight of Miss Boopadoop in the buff as she bent to reach the dial. Tits in a wobble as they dangled straight down, taut haunches supporting an ass crack to die for, underneath that—in the shadow between her legs—a glistening mystery. DB began to stiffen noticeably. “See, DB,” said Moanique, observing his excitement. “I knew you’d warm up to the show.” DB fumed some, but not all that much; nothing like a well-timed erection to elevate one’s spirits. Boops sat on the floor cross-legged in front of the tube, watching the picture slowly widen until it filled the screen. “Boops,” cautioned Moanique. “Better sit back in a chair, away from the TeeVee. Too much radiation comes out of it for you to sit up close. These damn TeeVees, they actually glow in the dark, there’s so much radiation.” “Really?!” asked Miss Boopadoop, growing alarmed. She stood and backed away from the console, towards the chair in which Moanique sat, and lowered herself onto the floor, to the right of Moanique’s shins. “Radiation’s bad shit!” declared Moanique. “Saw plenty of that in Nagasaki.” “Hey kids!” Buffalo Ben addressed the Peanut Gallery. “What time is it?” “It’s Howie Dooey Time” the roomful of little bastards hollered back to him in illunisoned cacophony.

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As Buffalo Ben and the Pee-Nut Gallery (affectionately referred to by the studio crew as “Buffalo Ben’s Bastards”) sang the show’s theme song, Moanique commented. “Jeez, who the hell’d be caught dead in that fringe get-up?” She was referring to Buffalo Ben’s costume. “These days, lotsa guys wearing that crap in the yo-yo bars in The Zone,” answered DB. “Old Ben, he’s a trend-setter!” “Yo-yo bar?” asked Miss Boopadoop. “Whatcha mean by that?!” “Yo-yo!” responded DB, holding out a forearm, and spreading his fingers while pointing with them downwards to the floor. “Oh,” said Miss Boopadoop. “Queers. You don’t think Buffalo Ben? . . . .” “Course not!” DB averred, just a bit too quickly. “They wouldn’t let any queers on TeeVee, now!” he asserted rolling his eyes barely perceptibly. Miss Boopadoop stared at Buffalo Ben’s image on the screen, her eyes held wide and her jaw low, feigning mock shock. She turned to Moanique and asked her “What do you think?” “Boops,” answered Moanique, “America doesn’t realize it, but this show is about us as a nation coming to grips with harmless sexual deviance.” “Oh Jeez, Moanique!” DB protested. “You read too much. You really ought to get yourself psychoanalyzed.” “I’ll get right on that, DB,” retorted Moanique. “Whatcha mean?” Miss Boopadoop asked Moanique. “America coming to grips with deviants?”

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“You and me, Boops,” Moanique began to explain. “We like each other. Or at least we have a history of diddling each other between the legs and enjoying it, right?” “Yeah,” answered Boops, staring into the distance while her eyes became dreamy. “That’s deviance: any sex not between one man and one woman. Hell, sometimes, DB joins in, sometimes he watches and wanks. Either way, with him being involved, that’s even more deviance.” “The more the merrier!” declared Miss Boopadoop, ogling DB’s respectable erection. “And that Ben guy? . . .” “Dressing like he does,” asserted Moanique, “you really got to wonder about which way his door swings. I think most folks watching the show dimly sense the latent homosexuality. And that damn puppet, his ‘little man’! You never know what sort of indignity that tricky ‘little man’ will force Buffalo Ben to endure!” “Little man?!” blurted Boops, Moanique’s point beginning to sink in. “Buffalo Ben’s talking to his tricky Little Man?! Oh jeeziz! This is like this maybe gay guy’s having this conversation with his penis, right on live national TeeVee!” “Pretty much the way I see it,” announced Moanique. She leaned towards DB and pointedly told him “Looks like your little man’s taken a liking to Buffalo Ben!” “Oh for chrissake!” protested DB, explaining his arousal. “This started happening when Boops bent over! . . .” “To turn on the TeeVee!” Moanique quickly interjected, extending the sentence DB thought he’d finished. “You didn’t want Boops to watch Howie Dooey because you didn’t want us to know how much you lust after Buffalo Ben!” Moanique teased DB.

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DB really didn’t mind Moanique’s goading him. And she knew she was dead wrong about DB: when it came to sex, he only went for women. DB looked over at the girl he’d picked up last night, still slackjawed, watching Buffalo Ben talking to Howie Dooey, to his Little Man. At that moment, he felt about her like he was now fated–save some sort of Cosmic Intervention—to feel about her for the rest of his life: God, he wanted to fuck Miss Boopadoop, right then and there. Road to Hell, Moanique. Road to Hell.

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