Jack and I had gotten away with the perfect murder, so why did I feel so shitty? And, as Jack had said, "The bitch deserved it!" She did, if anyone did, so why did I feel so shitty? The police were at a complete dead end, no closer now to solving it then they were last week. So why did I feel so shitty?
I just did, is all. Perhaps the fact that I don't go around killing people, whether they need it or not, as a general practice, figures in somehow. I'm funny that way about killing people. Even slimeball bitches.
I looked at the clock. Jack would be here in thirty minutes. I had time to get one more drink under my belt before I had to listen to his rah-rah bullshit again. His pep talk, so to speak. His, "We've got nothing to worry about, so relax, old fart. The cops are looking for a guy who doesn't exist. With DNA from a man who died ten years ago. So, lighten up, for crissakes, before you have a friggin' heart attack." I could hear it now and quote it verbatim if I had to.
If only I had resisted his usual jackass bullshit on that fateful day. But I was too fucking stupid, or too fucking horny! Horny! Yeah, for a piece of Malomar Twine!
Malomar Twine! What a woman! She made all other women, including my darling wife, Angie, look like Ben Franklin by comparison. Malomar was the epitome of feminine sexuality. The be all and end all, if you will. And I will!
She topped out at 5' 7" tall, with a set of sculpted, long legs on her that looked as if Michaelangelo had spent his entire life drawing them until he got it perfect. Add long, ash blonde hair and the bluest eyes you've ever seen to the mix and the picture's getting even sweeter to look at.
But don't stop there, no sirree, buddy! Put some nice breasts on that puppy. And not your run-of-the-mill boobs, either, but those kind of titties that make most men drool all over themselves just thinking how those beauties would feel like to the tongue. Picture, if you will, the most perfect breasts you've ever seen in any copy of Penthouse or Playboy, then triple it! Fuck, quadruple the equation.
While were on this add-to-it tack, put some wide, flaring hips on Malomar. Those hips the old time wives would say are built for child bearing. Or, as the old time men would say: Built for holding onto as you pound her beautiful fucking ass into the mattress.
Got the picture, fella? If not, friend, you need a blood transfusion. Stat!
Yeah, Malomar Twine. I'd secretly had the hots for her from the first day I laid my old peepers on her. Shit, I can't count how many times I thought of her while fucking Cindy. I would even squint my eyes and pretend it was Malomar's perfect bubble-butt ass I was doggy-style humping to beat the band instead of my wife's nice, but average-like little heinie.
But that was then and this is now. If only I hadn't listened to Jack on that fateful day. If only I hadn't such hots for Malomar Twine. If only I had listened to the little voice in my head that warned about cheating on the marriage. If only...
THE PARTY was in mid-swing and Cindy had asked me to refresh her drink, her usual rum and coke. I passed Malomar Twine on the way to the kitchen and, as always, felt that old stirring in the old crotcheroony.
In the kitch, I bumped into my old pal, Jack Spratt, as he fetched his wife, Loretta, a refill.
Yeah, I know, he's got a funny name. Rhymes with fat. And if Jack hadn't heard every possible fat and lean reference people can come up, well, he ain't heard a one. I approached him from behind as he was putting some ice cubes into a glass.
"Hey, Jack," I said. "You bartendering? I'll have a rum and coke, and while you're at it, throw in a Scotch on the rocks, splash of soda with a twist of carefully sliced lemon. And be quick about it, man, as I've got a big thirst comin' on." He spun around, grinning. That grin of his! Every time he laid it on me, I thought of a canary. Sometimes it was Tweety Bird. In Sylvester's big, old cat mouth.
"Yow, it's Artsy Fartsy," he said, then whispered. "The man who hasn't had a decent blowjob in six years!" Shit, I never should have told him Cindy hated oral sex and had performed it on me just one time, on our wedding night, six years ago. She had been way tipsy and way overfed. And, when I came in her mouth, surprising her, well, shit, she upchucked an entire meal all over my crotch. Filet mignon, roast potato, carrots and peas. Colorful, even on a groin area.
I would have stood for all the upchucking if Cindy had just kept doing that magical shit to me, but, as she put it, "That's it! I'm never doing that nasty thing ever again! See? It made me sick, Arthur." Hell, Cindy, throw up on me, I don't care. That's the reason showers were invented in the first place. Dontcha know?
"What's new, Jack, besides your neverending fascination with ball-busting me?"
"Relax, old top, just funning. But as to what's new... " He grinned, an especially wide one, even for him. Then he whispered in a very conspiratorial tone, "You know Malomar Twine? Sure you do, you fucking lech! Well, old crumpet, I've tagged her!" He grinned again, his eyes bright.
"Tagged her?" Sometimes I have a senior moment. Even at forty two. For some strange reason, an animal's ear was in my head. You know, where they tag them and let the loose in the wilds.
"Schmuck! I've been fucking her, old fungus! For weeks now. And you know all those perverted fantasies you have in your head about her? Well, fuck it, old twerp, cross 'em out and start all over! This bitch invented sexual heaven!"
As Jack grinned once more, I could see Malomar Twine out in the living room. She was conversing with that old, bald fart, Dexter Drake, the president of our town's only bank. While Malomar chatted at him animatedly, I could see old Drake had a small tent in his trousers. And his upper lip was covered in a shiny layer of perspiration. He also looked quite demented. And horny, if that's how staid bankers look when their excited about anything other than money.
And, I hate to admit it, but, even at this distance, I had the start of my own woody. She'll do that to a guy, even an ex-choir boy like myself. I shifted my eyes back on Jack. He was adding soda to my drink. I guess he was the barman, after all.
He handed me the drink. "You forgot the lemon, Jerk!" I took a sip. "But anyway, Jack, tell me more about this Malomar lie of yours. I'm all ears, Sylvester." This reference went over his head, as it should have, but he did correct the lemon oversight by quickly slicing a chunk off one and plopping into my drink.
"Well," Jack began. "I was on the road one evening and... " Jack stopped. Drake had just walked in, two stubby drink glasses leading him. He was obviously fetching a refill for Malomar. He had a look on his puss that said he had high hopes of making a small deposit this fine night in the First National Malomar Bank.
We both helloed old Drake and then Jack took me by the arm and led me out the kitchen's back door for some backyard privacy. I was eager to hear his tale.
"As I was saying, I'm on the road, right? Well, I come across sweet ass Malomar. With a rear flat, in fact. Anyway, to make it short, the brazen hussy says that if I can find it in me to fix her wheel, she'd find me in her! Just like that, but with a wink thrown in just to make it all the clearer.
"And, old foghorn, just to make sure even a dunce like me got her meaning, she ups and throws both arms around my neck. And plants one right on me! Right there on the fucking road."
"No shit?" My woody was saying hello to me again.
"No shit! Scout's honor and all. Well, of course I said OK. Who the fuck wouldn't? After fixing her flat, we went to her place. Nice apartment over on Kenway Street. Well, as you can probably guess, old curmudgeon, I was all over her ass! Like a fucking teenager who's just found out his girlfriend's titties are for real and are now available to him.
"Man, I groped her and pinched her and pulled on her and you name it, I did it. I hadn't been that fucking hot in thirty years, if even then." Oh, yeah, woody was talking up a storm at me. I could see Jack had a similar problem caused, no doubt, in reliving that first night with Malomar.
"And, old tire iron, if you think she's mouth-watering in a tight knit dress, well, baby, in the buff, holy mother of God, she'd raise the dick of a castiron statue!"
I saw through the kitchen window that old Drake had taken his deposit elsewhere and Malomar was now chatting amiably with another horny fucker, Charlie Payne, owner of Payne's Messenger Service. Payne kept shooting glances in the direction of his frowzy-looking wife, May, who was glaring at him from the sofa. Jack had said something.
"... figuring this could be a one-shot deal, I put her through the all the paces. I had her blow me, I ate her pussy, I fucked her missionary, then her on top, me from behind and a few new positions I think I invented on the spot. And, old fruit, I had to think of every fucking baseball game I'd ever seen, from Abner Doubleday's birth all the way to the present, just to keep from popping my cork too soon! It was tough as hell, I'll tell you!" I could imagine.
"She actually blew you?" I was now looking through the window and squinting my eyes to focus them on Malomar's luscious and pouty lips. Oh, man, I thought, her fat bottom lips would have me cumming so fast baseball wouldn't have a chance. I had new admiration for Jack's tenacity.
.... There is more of this story ...