Grayson, Kentucky ... Yup, I visited there once. Many, many years ago...

I’d gone to meet a girl I’d met online.

Driving in from the Big City, I discovered truth to the notion that small-town folks are often friendlier than their urban counterparts. Almost instantly, I felt charmed and welcomed. Randoes smiling, making conversation. Strangers strolling by at the gas station, happily asking “How are you doing today?” as I was filling up my tank. At first, it was slightly off-putting, coming from the Big City, where most everyone is tight-lipped and in a hurry. But I quickly came to appreciate Grayson’s slower pace and congeniality.

Grayson, to me, was like a real-life embodiment of The Andy Griffith Show. It just exuded that category of genial warmth and inviting atmosphere.

Not only were the people pleasant, but I also found the area’s surroundings majestic. And green. Full of bucolic foliage emblematic of the Appalachian Plateau ... That sorta gorgeously rugged terrain steeped in rolling hills and deep plunging valleys ... Panning my gaze, I admired a multitude of oak, hickory, and maple trees alighting under the big blue sky, sniffed in a stack of fresh air, and appreciated the peaceful rush of a nearby stream as I idled at an intersection.

Seizing on the feeling, I whistled The Andy Griffith Show’s theme song over an obnoxious AM radio ad for an ambulance-chasing lawyer.

When I arrived at my motel, which boasted of having “Color TV!” the place was quiet. Nearly to a creepy extent. I might have been the only guest there, at this roadside, self-proclaimed “Motor Hotel.” I wondered who exactly would be staying at a roadside motel, in rural Kentucky. Perhaps other people in town to meet people from the internet.

After checking in, getting situated, I decided to get some exercise and walked a couple of blocks down to the downtown but didn’t find much. I’d read an article in Rolling Stone about how Walmart and its pernicious, predatory business model had killed Small Town America. Decimated Main Streets. And that was what I found. Boarded-up shops, empty buildings. I can imagine it being far worse now, with all the phone zombies, Amazon, post-Wuhan Virus...

After my disappointing foray downtown, I returned to my motel, washed myself up, slapped on some deodorant, trimmed my nose and ear hairs, changed into a nicer shirt, and readied for the big night. Lil Wayne’s “Lollipop” was on MTV, on my room’s “Color TV!”, and I grooved and lip-synced with myself in the bathroom mirror.

I was psyched to finally meet my internet girlfriend. We were to meet at a bowling alley that evening. But she wouldn’t be coming alone. She would be accompanied by her younger sister. Which I didn’t really like. I wanted to meet my internet girlfriend and only her. But I could understand. Meeting a stranger online was, I’m sure, why she didn’t want to meet me alone.

Despite the 1950s sitcom vibes, Grayson had to have its darkness ... So I plugged in my laptop, connected to the room’s ancient 58K modem. After enduring a painful series of strangled beeps and white noise, I started Googling “violent crime,” “crime rates in Grayson, Kentucky.” But my search didn’t yield much aside from a 1993 school shooting, when some shitbag pulled a copycat attack inspired by Stephen King’s Bachman novel Rage... Then I read about a few meth labs exploding or getting raided ... But crime in Grayson seemed nothing like the urban war zones, gang violence in the Big City. So I felt safe enough.

However, I considered my safety. I didn’t carry much cash and decided to stash my gold watch at the motel.

It’d be a pretty dastardly scheme to lure a stranger from the Big City to Grayson, Kentucky, just to rob him. The local scammers and crooks could easily rob locals, I thought. But maybe they already robbed all the locals and were widening their base.

Or were they trying to steal my kidney? I was more concerned about getting my kidney stolen than anything else because I’d recently seen a movie and read an internet story about organized, international kidney thief syndicates. And that was more in line with the sort of scam I’d envisioned. A healthy kidney could fetch $40K to $50,000 on the black market.

(For a time, I worried everyone, anywhere might be conspiring to steal one of my kidneys. That even visiting a restaurant or a trip to the dentist put me at risk of waking up in a bathtub filled with ice cubes.)

Just in case I was being drugged, about to have my kidney stolen, if I got groggy before passing out, I planned to yell out that I have AIDS or Hepatitis C or something like that. Sure, that might not stop a highly professional, diabolical and well-prepared kidney thief. But maybe it’d work against my date.

But fortunately, that night’s events never reached such dire outcomes. Although what transpired was dark, too, in its own right...

I’d videochatted with the girl. I’d seen pics. But when two young ladies entered the bowling alley, I was struck by their appearances. They were practically identical twins. They looked about the same age. And both had heavenly faces. Both with perfect Barbie doll features and facial structure.

But from the face down, the two were far from alike. One had an hourglass figure, was showing lots of skin in a black half-shirt and a shorter-than-short plaid skirt. Her silver, fuck-me heels clicking louder upon approach. While the other, in a loose floral sundress, had a squarish physique, as if she were built of Lego blocks.

But far worse...

She wore sandals with socks.

I’d only seen headshot photos of my internet fling and when we’d videochatted, I’d only seen her face. But still, I was invisibly slapping myself. How could I not have known? Or thought to check...

That she wore sandals with socks.

Bright white tube socks underneath big clunky Birkenstock-style sandals too...

As the two approached, my heart thumped like a drum. I was hoping, praying, just really, really wanting the girl in those loud, click-clacky heels. No, not the girl in sandals with socks. No ... Not the girl in ... No ... Please, not the...

Then they introduced themselves. And yes, mine was the one in sandals with socks.

I was disappointed. But I decided to stick it out. I’d really vibed with this girl. We’d had long chats and shared secrets, deep thoughts. We both said that if it didn’t work out when we met that we could be friends.

However, what happened next would change everything...

As we sipped Cokes, munched on pepperoni pizza, the younger sister, who was sitting to my right, without provocation, ran her hand underneath the table, and rested a warm palm on my thigh.

She played coy, showed no change of expression as she went below the belt. Began snaking her sticky fingers under my cargo shorts. Then she went below my boxers. Wrapped her soft digits and palm around the tip of my cock, which was growing, inflating like a balloon. Lightly, she squeezed and caressed my mushroom tip. Started working her way back. Glided her palm along my shaft. Then, her hand still slick from the oily pizza, she started to slowly jerk off my suddenly stiff dick.

Her sister, to my left, showed no sign of knowing what was happening and went on with this long story about her cat’s strange habits and that she honestly thought her cat might be gay.