Part 3

Words? I gotcha words right here!

I'll tell you, it's very weird looking back at my past and putting it in writing. I now know what it feels like to, as they say, pen one's memoirs, if that doesn't sound too highfalutin. The temptation to make myself over, a new old me, so to say--a better version of the me that used to be, if you will--is truly overwhelming.

For, you see, there's this sneaky little voice in my head that says, "Who the fuck would know?" I can reinvent myself! And I say to me, myself, and I, "Why not? Most who read this crapola are going to think I'm bullshitting them anyway, so why not bullshit them, anyway?" Hmm.

Who would know if I lied my ass off? And I just made stuff up? I could easily say to me, "I would! That's who!" But, and because I've always been just a tad more than irreverent, that would be real bullshit. So, it's much easier for me if I just tell it the way it happened. Believe it or not!

"Cunt! Her hot, steamy cunt! It was now staring right at me, hairy and hungry looking, and I was glad it didn't have teeth, for I wanted to eat it, and not the other way around!" He sighed, and dove right in, uncaring as to the risk involved in the familiar endeavor.

I was tempted, so very tempted, to toss in tons of sexual detail just to satisfy the ones who read just to wank off, but I chose instead to let the events be more important, and keep the sexy shit to a minimum. Oh, they're in there, alright, the juicy parts, but they're more background noise-- much like a low playing radio--than anything else.

If this fails to satisfy the wankers, I say, "Read it anyway! Your genitals will understand, and will still be there for you later on." Mine always are.

As it is, I've probably taken a liberty here and there with the dialogue. It's impossible to remember exactly what someone said at the time, so I've made an educated guess--here and there, and based on faulty memory--as to who would say what, and to whom. And, without trying to, and without wanting to, I've probably thrown in an embellishment or two on an event. But I'll tell you, after rereading what I've written, I don't have the "feel" that I did, except for those embellishments that have no effect on the truth of the matter.

With each story section, I go through a self-imposed ritual. I pour myself a large glass of red Burgundy wine. Cheapo Gallo shit that is sold by the gallon jug. I kill all lights, except the glow coming from my PC.

Then, for some odd reason, I turn on the radio in the other room, and set its volume so low I can just about hear it, but not make out what anyone is saying. Perhaps this reminds me that there are people in the world. Who knows? In some ways, I guess it's my Binky pacifier, my Linus blanket.

I take a good swig of the red, look at the screen, and think, "Think!" Sometimes I actually say the word out loud, as if I need to, so the gods of letters will know I'm on board, and I'm now ready to receive their help. Most times, however, I picture them looking down at me and saying, "Schmuck!"

Gods of letters are like that. I think.

I type in a tentative story header, knowing I'll get creative with it later on. Then, like a madman on speed, I start typing out the salient points--such as "Gene flew out of alcove, landed on Xmas tree, naked. And "Double Mastectomy (sp?)" One after the other, without concentrating hard at all.

I just let them flow, flying out willy-nilly, these so-called salient imps, without any consideration to the order of things. I'll, ha ha, put them in order later. I let my faulty memory lead me, knowing the critical me will be along soon enough to check me out and make things right.

Then I go back and put in as much dialogue as I can remember happening at the time, sometimes adding a new salient point I just remembered. It would probably be very logical to start the dialogue going at the start of it all, but I don't work quite that logically. It would hurt my brain.

Besides, my salient points are not, at this point anyway, in an exact order of how things happened. Their only exact order is the order I typed them in. So I just let them compete with each other for my attention, allowing them to show me why I should choose them, the little alluring sirens, over the rest, and type something for them. At least that's the way it feels after my third or fourth red wine swig.

In a short time, or so it seems, my writing is long enough to pass the bottom of the screen, and I have to do a ton of scrolling, back and forth, to read what I wrote just a moment ago. With a few more swigs of wine, and some fierce up and down scrolling crap, I'm soon totally confused! The gods must be angry, and they've made my usually acute memory suck. By forcing red wine down my throat. Bastards!

I scroll up a yard of screen, and think: When the fuck did that happen in the order of things? Or I scroll down another mile of screen, and think: Didn't he say that later, after he... ? I scroll up to check! I can't find him! And I have the answer to when he said what...

I scroll back down, or is it up? with the answer firmly in my head, and can't find the fucking place I want to put the answer into! And I know I better find it fast, before I lose the answer in my head--it's not carved in concrete, you know, it's ephemeral, and wispy like. Fragile even. And floating around in a brain coated with the end product of red grapes.

Shit! How can anyone be expected to keep a fragile, wispy thought in one's head with all this damn annoying scrolling going on! It's my own fault, I know, for not organizing it better from the gitgo, but I had hoped this time would be different, and I might even overcome my scrolling phobia.

I need a new swig ! It orients me.

I scroll back down, because now I can't remember the filmy, lacy answer that was just in my head! I need to refresh it by seeing that scrolled down place again. I can't find it! Up! Down! Try the middle!

I think: Where the fuck are you? And what was it I was thinking, anyway? By now, nothing looks familiar to me, in spite of going on a scrolling up and down voyage of the damned. Compliments of the gods of letters? Fuck it, it's gone! Flew the coop. Kaput. Nothing I see jogs my mind at all.

Another sweet swig. Helps me think!

Now, where was I in my scrollathon? Fuck it, I don't know, so find a new tack, a new idea to pursue and punish. Another salient, ha ha, point. One with more meat to it this time. Not like that namby-pamby bitch I so easily forgot just a short while ago. What was her name again?

C'mon, you sexy salient points, talk to me, and wiggle your asses at me, and bat those eyes, and purse those lips, so we can get it on. Show me what you got, you cunning little trollops.

Sip! I can see clearly now.

I eventually straighten it all out, as I knew I would, by either solving it or getting sidetracked on something else, with the latter running a solid 10 to 1 in its favor. Oh, I think: If only I had the orderly mind of a Papa Hemingway, instead of one reminiscent of Daffy Duck.

Eventually, almost miraculously, I have a long river of words in Ariel Bold 11 pt. type. Which I then cut and paste into proper chronological order. More fun! Sip!

Then comes the funnest part of all. I have to read what I've written. Sip! And see if it all holds together, and makes sense--it never does! Sip!

Something is, or some things are, as fucked up as Hogan's goat, whoever he was. There I am, rowing up and down the Ariel River with only a blinking cursor for a paddle. "C'mon, crew, put your back into it!"

Sip! I reorganize. I rewrite. I parse it. Sip! I embellish where I think an adornment is needed, but without going overboard. It's hard work, this cursor rowing, but I row on, in spite of it all, for I know one thing will always be true: I will never, ever, run out of red wine! S ip!

Then finally, I'm finished, and I mean finished! I'm drained of all creativity and thought. It's time to turn it over to my friend, and enemy: The spelling and grammar checker. The stupid fucking mindless thing. Never catches a wrong word if it's spelled right. I wanted "here" not "ere," you dolt. Yes, you moron, ere is a word, but who says, "Put it over ere and... "? Well, besides Eliza Doolittle. Huh? Sip!

Yes, I do sometimes--many times perhaps--type so fast I type "their" when I meant "they're," but why must I have to correct you --a gazillion times--by having to punch the Ignore button when I've got it right? You know what you can do with that Ignore button?

Sip! Helps me keep my cool.

So, with my wine-soaked efforts in your mind, let me just say this, "My memory box is again open... relax and enjoy it, and smoke if you got 'em!" And if you find a typo, you now know whom to blame.

This has nothing to do with the price of rice--then again--but my mind says to share the following. Jay Leno, on one of his Headlines bits, read a headline from a newspaper article:

VOLUNTEERS NEEDED TO HELP TORTURE VICTIMS!

This cracks me up! Not only because I find it humorous, but also because it lets me know the gods of letters have a keen, and nasty, sense of humor. I can picture the poor schnook who had to write a headline for this article--while looking at a picture of torture survivors--thinking, "Think!"

The playful gods looked down, smiled their wicked smiles, and helped poor little schnooky do just that...

Fini!

The night I saw Howie bat his wife!

"Guy walks into an empty bar, right?" I nodded, trying to picture an empty bar. "He sits on a stool, orders a beer, and his dog jumps up on the stool next to him. The bartender notices that the dog has these large, luscious lips that are opening and closing sensuously. Bartender says to the guy, 'Man, your dog has great lips! They're turning me on!' I was now trying to picture the strange-lipped dog.

"Well, the guy says, 'that ain't nothing! Rover here gives the best blowjob you could ever get.' The bartender says, 'No shit?' The guy says, 'Oh, yeah, and... ' he looks around the place, 'hey, you're empty here, why don't you lock the front door, we'll take Rover in the John, and you can find out for yourself, OK?' Well, a few minutes later, there they are, in the John, with the bartender's big old boner in front of Rover's face.

"Well, the dumb dog just sits there, his luscious mouth opening and closing, the big lips looking just fine and sexy, but not taking the bait. The bartender says, 'Looks like he's not in the mood, huh?' And the guy says, getting on his knees and grabbing the bartender's dick, 'Listen, Rover, I'm gonna show you just one more time!' " Howie chuckled, and reached for his beer.

I laughed, picturing the silly bathroom scene. Then I said, "That's a good one, Howie, but tell me, what is it you wanted to ask me?" I swear he looked real sheepish to me at the time.

"Well, man, I don't know how to put this, so I'll just say it straight out. Would you be up for having a threesome with Ellie me and?" Holy shit and knock me down! I now reached for my beer.

Ellie was Howie's wife of many years--20 years?--25?--and although in her mid-forties, had a dynamite body on her. With big, firm tits and an ass that wouldn't quit. While not a raving beauty, Ellie had a natural sexiness about her that had, on more than one occasion, made me shiver in the nether region.

I was in my late twenties at the time, and didn't know either of them that well--a weekend at their house here and there, with my latest girlfriend of the moment, was about the extent of our socializing. We traveled in different circles. Their circle was in the country, mine in the city. They had three kids. My first hadn't even been thought about yet.

Well, we set it up, and before you knew it, the three of us were naked in their bed. Me sitting up, my back against the headboard. Ellie kneeling between my knees, and Howie kneeling behind her. Howie, playing at Cruise Director, had positioned us.

Ellie put her mouth on my cock, per Howie's request, and was being more tentative than anything else. Howie entered her from behind, going at her doggy style. He gives Ellie just a few ins and outs, which I liked because she's taking more of me, and then he ups and quits.

And said, "Oh, I forgot. Let me get the new toy." Ellie said something, but my dick filtered it out too much for me to comprehend. But it did sound like an OK, Howie.

Howie jumped off the bed, went to a closet, put his hand in, and brought out the new toy. It looked like a baseball bat to me. A long one, at that, but not as long as a regulation bat. And it's colored red, but not just any red--it's Day-Glo red! Which didn't strike me as being too manly looking.

I had this quick, but weird image, pop into my head of little Tommy feeding the red Day-Glo bat to his little sister, Mary Kay. An inch at a time. Poor Mary. "Now, Mare, you have to hold real still if you wanna see the way Mommy and Daddy do it in their bedroom." Poor, poor Mary.

So I said, trying to kill the kids' image, and trying to ignore for the moment, Ellie's hot mouth, "What the hell is that?" He grinned at me.

"It's a Whiffle bat!" He had said it with some pride, as if Whiffle bats were the latest new mania in bedroom dildos, which made them harder to find than the first Superman comic, and he had lucked out. And he looked at me as if I was a moron for not knowing this well known Whiffle dildo tidbit.

I said, "A Whiffle bat? What adult store sells Whiffle bats?" I didn't know of any, not that I was an expert in such matters. But I got around.

"Oh, I didn't go to an adult store. I'd be way too embarrassed. I got it in a toy store. Three bucks. And it came with a ball, too. A big red one." What else? And he had made it sound like a bargain! A real steal.

Ellie is still nibbling away on me, taking this all in, I assume. Howie handed me the Whiffle bat, as if showing off the latest Louisville Slugger.

It looked like it was made of PVC plastic, about 2" in width, close to 3' long, and it felt as if it was hollow inside, and filled with only air. Your average kid would have a difficult time beating his best friend to death with it. I handed the red thing back to him, and put a hand on Ellie's head at the same time. She was starting to get to me, in spite of our segue into kids' playground paraphernalia.

Over Ellie's back, I watched Howie start to feed it to her. He appeared to be having trouble in finding the hole. Or else the hole was fighting him. But find it he did, and he put in a few inches. I think. It was to tell from my position.

I don't know how much he'd given her, but Ellie let out a whoop that even my cock couldn't muffle too well. "Ommmphaargh!" The Whiffle bat yell! Heard in bedrooms throughout the land.

Howie asked if he was hurting her, and I guess he could understand her cock-muted reply, for he fed her some more Whiffle. From my end, it looked as if she had about six inches in her end. And, from the way her ass was now moving onto the Whiffle, she enjoyed it a tad, too. It wouldn't have surprised me to see her turn her head to him, and yell, "More Whiffle, hon, and don't spare the horses!"

This, my friend, is how Whiffle junkies start out. A free taste. Then an inch or two. More inches. Then, before you know it, they want the whole enchilada. Hooked on Day-Glo Whiffle. At three bucks a pop, with a red ball included. Sad.

Well, before you can say Whiffle, Whiffle, who's got the Whiffle? Howie's arm is going back and forth looking as if he's sawing a log in two. Ellie's moaning and groaning all over my dick, and taking more and more of it, me and the Whiffle bat, which made my day, I'll tell you. The Whiffle bat, too, if it had any sense.

I don't know if she had ever deep throated before, but she was now. I could feel her nose bumping my lower belly. And her lips hitting me in the groin area, making my pubic hairs tickle me.

There she was, Howie's Ellie, impaled on two bats, but only one of them Day-Glo red. And as big around as the bottom of a Coke bottle. And I think you know which one that one was.

I remember thinking I was glad it was only a toy, and not Howie's real pecker. I would have trouble measuring up. But, on the bright side, if it had been his real thing, I would have felt happy for Ellie. I could picture her walking around town with a perpetual smile on her puss, with every woman dying to know her secret. "Howie's big bat, don'tcha know?"

I could feel my balls get wet. Ellie's saliva must have dripped from her. It felt nice, as if my balls had been invited to the party. I hate it when Ike and Mike feel left out. Them being such well behaved little fellas, and all.

Then Howie picked up the pace. It looked as if he was giving Ellie a good ten or twelve inches, and without mercy. The more she moaned and yelled, the harder he slammed it in. Wham! Out again. Wham again. Whew! She was a glutton for pussy punishment.

Ellie must have loved it, judging from the way she was thrashing about. Her head went from side to side, and raked me a tad here and there with her teeth--I understood and forgave her in my mind--and she was working her ass onto the Whiffle bat with such ardor, it seemed as if having a foot of Whiffle in her just wasn't enough. And I could now smell pussy in the air.

Well, I grabbed her head, to stop the side-to-side teething shit, and started mouth fucking her, with my hips leaving the bed an inch or so. Because she seemed ga-ga, and totally lost to herself, I used my hands to bob her head up and down on me. I took a look at Howie. He was looking down at her ass, and grinning like a fool. And using his right arm to Whiffle the shit out of her.

There we were, Howie whiffling, Ellie yelling on my dick, and me playing bounce the head up and down. Like kids in a playground, we were having great fun. The only thing missing was the red Whiffle ball.

When I came, it must have been a sizeable amount, for Ellie not only sounded as if she was choking on it, she started spitting it out all around my cock. I could feel it hit my stomach. She surprised me a bit by removing her mouth from me and saying, "Sorry." I nodded. What else could I do?

I was going to say something, but the scene had fired Howie up. He whammed the Whiffle into her with such force she yelled out as if scalded. He looked maniacal. He did it over and over. I thought he was hurting her, and was ready to say something to him, but Ellie started having orgasms.

One on top of the other, it seemed. And she started agreeing with God. "Oh, God, oh yes, that's it, oh, God, yes, yes God, oh God, oh God, yes!"

As she had the top of her head pressed into my belly, I felt like a Buddha.

I had the strong temptation to say, "Yes, my child, receive my gift." But I felt my humor would fall on deaf ears.

Eventually, Howie tired, and Ellie, too. I didn't because I don't tire just by bouncing a head up and down. Back then, at least. She fell to the side of me and just lay there, with here eyes closed, and a look of great contentment on her face. Howie still knelt on the bed, the slickened up Whiffle bat still in his hand. The way he stared at it, I knew he had the urge to sniff it. And if I hadn't been there, well, he probably would have done just that. I know I would have.

The reason I feel so sure about this is, Howie then reached out and put the Whiffle bat's business end as close to my nose as he could it get without actually touching me. I could smell spent pussy juice. So I got playful.

I gave the offered Whiffle bat a quick, overly-emoted deep sniff, then a quick lick, and said, "Mmm, Sommelier," I saw Ellie open one eye when this word was said, so I sniffed and licked the bat again to let her in on the beginning. "It has a nice bouquet to it. Sassy and pert with decidedly warm undertones." Another bat lick by me. "Yes, this will do quite nicely." I then started licking the bat's tip all over, acting as if I needed a Whiffle wine fix real badly, and said, "Mmm, mmm, mmm!" A few times.