(Editor's Note: I've always wondered why some bloggers deliberately misspell words, etc. (like bre@sts) to deter raunchy Googlers from finding them...I'm not sure what happens when raunchy Googlers find you and why it's bad. So I guess I'll find out now. I'll let you know.)
Chapter 4: Justina Gets Laid
As it turned out, Justina didn't have to wait much longer to be rescued from her tower of celibacy. Two weeks later, to her surprise and delight, she found herself literally rolling in the hay with her brave knight. He'd shown up at her doorstep that afternoon wearing a leather apron instead of shining armor, carrying a hoofpick rather than a sword, and driving a horse and buggy instead of a riding a white steed.
"Justina, you are so pretty," he said as they tore each other's clothes off in the barn. "You feel so goot," he said in his German-tinged voice, burying his face in her generous bosom.
"Oh yes, Amos, suck them, suck my tits," she groaned. They fell to the hay beneath them and kicked off the pants that had gathered around their boots. Amos' beard scratched her ribcage and the hay pricked her bottom, but the impressive bulge in Amos' homemade underwear kept her distracted. Contrary to popular belief, not every woman is all that keen on a huge cock, but Justina was the exception. Maybe it was being around horses all the time.
"Vill you suck it?" he said as he finally unleashed the beast. Justina gasped. Laying Down the Law had nothing on Amos.
"Oh yes!" she said enthusiastically, lunging for it. Unlike the rest of Amos, it smelled of soap rather than horses, sweat and sauerkraut. She went up and down on his spicy summer sausage like a starving refugee. 'I could founder myself on this cock,' she thought, but before long, the burning in her loins could no longer go unattended.
"I'm going to ride you like Man of War," she told him as she pushed him back into the hay. He chuckled with anticipation as she climbed on top of him and lowered herself onto his raging kielbasa. Her breasts bounced up and down in a gelatinous fury as she pounded against him again and again.
'Ohhh," he moaned in ecstacy. "Ohh, Justina, vat a marvelous voman! Oh, don't stop, don't stop!"
"Oh don't worry, I'm going to ride you to the finish line!"
Just as she started to feel the first shudders come from his body he laid a thick finger down above his cock and started tickling her every time she met it. "Oh, oh, oh, oh," she said.
"Oh, I'm kommen, I'm kommen," he announced, and that did it for Justina as well.
"Oh my god, Amos, where did you learn to do that?" she panted afterwards, not caring about the straw sticking to her sweaty back or the fact that Ace in the Hole was taking a steamy piss in the stall next door.
"My vater alvays told us boys that du can't get the eggs vitout tickling the chicken," he said.
"Well, thank your father for me, Amos," Justina said, still trying to catch her breath. Basking in Amos' afterglow, she realized for the first time the sexual goldmine that was sitting just down the road in Homesteadville. For some reason she had never directed her vibe to the male members of the little town 15 miles away.
"You know, you're the first Amish guy I've ever made love with."
"Doesn't surprise me," he said. "Most English think ve are either married or that God doesn't let us have sex."
"And that's not true?"
"Ha!" he laughed. "Vell, it's true that ve are almost all married, but ve aren't so strict about that. It's good for everyone to air the feathers vonce in avhile. But how can anyone think God doesn't let us have sex? Look how many kids we've got!"
Justina decided not to ask Amos how many kids he had. "I think you're delicious," she said, kissing his hairy face. "Can you come back and see me again?"
"How vould I stay away, knowing you are here?" He pulled her face toward his and kissed her forehead. "I vill be shoeing the Yoders' mares on Thursday afternoon. I'll swing by on my vay home. Maybe you could make me a pot roast?"
Showing posts with label Sex and the Silos. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Sex and the Silos. Show all posts
Friday, February 09, 2007
Sunday, February 04, 2007
Sex and the Silos: Chapter 3
Chapter 3: Ohidoa City Truly is a Great Place to Live
When Ann told me about her day I completely understood where Joseph was coming from.
"I know, I know," Ann said. "Trust me, I know how important Xanax is!"
Like myself, Ruth and Justina, Ann also was on mood regulating medication. Ann was old school and was still on Prozac. Justina was using a cocktail of Celexa and Ativan, while Ruth was holding steady on Effexor. I'm currently on Lexapro maintenance, with clonazepam when necessary.
I've been a card-carrying member of the crazy club for about five years. Before that, it took me five years to figure out I actually had an illness and that it wasn't just how life is, another three to realize it was bad enough to need help, and the final year working up to making the appointment. It was important to me that my therapist know that I wasn't really sure I even needed the medication and that I wasn't one of "those people," you know, the real wackos. A couple years later, at my psychiatrist's now because my medication needs had become more complex, my doctor gently ended that fantasy. "This is probably something you will need to manage for the rest of the your life," he said sympathetically, so sympathetically I could almost picture myself at his vacation home in Hawaii.
Being on "happy pills" as they still call them around here, puts you in the company of at least 75 percent of the rest of the adult population of Ohidoa City, but only 10 percent will actually talk openly about it. Shame is one of our birthrights.
Later that night, as I thought about Ann and Joseph and the great Xanax incident of 2006, I wondered why we all seemed to need medication to simulate contentment and happiness. Were our lives really that bad? What would life be like if we couldn't chemically alter our brains to make it more tolerable?
I decided to start with an expert. My mother, like many native Ohidoan mothers, was a martyr who never passed up an opportunity to let us know exactly how we were failing at making her happy. She raised three kids while my father spent most of his time at work and the rest of it trying to stay out of her way. As far as I know, the only time she ever really took for herself were the three or four times a day when she would retreat into the bathroom to sneak a cigarette. She would emerge from the bathroom in a great cloud of Chantilly powder in an effort to disguise the evidence.
"I know I was depressed, but I didn't have a choice," my mother tells me as we sit down to chat over a cup of instant Folgers. Her use of the past tense amuses me. "What could I do? I had three kids to raise and there wasn't anyone there to take over."
"Did you ever think about seeing someone?"
"Hmmph," she snorts. "I didn't want to tell a stranger my personal business. What could they do? They couldn't make me happy. Besides, I always had your father to talk to."
"They can help give you some perspective and some tools to help you deal with your problems," I say. "It's never too late to go, you know. I think you could still get some benefit out of it."
"Oh, I'm okay now," she says quickly. "I've dealt with my problems. I've decided that I'm just not going to let things bother me so much anymore." Sure, she started crying three months ago when the Christmas turkey didn't cook, and rated it a "10" on the crisis scale, but really, she's fine.
So maybe the problem isn't that our lives are that much worse; maybe we just aren't as good at denial. Would we all be happier if we just pretended our problems didn't exist?
"I don't think so," Justina said as we walked out to feed her horses. "I mean, how can you really be happy if you don't deal with any of your problems?"
Justina's problem, for the moment, was an inability to get laid. She'd been going without for more than eight months, and it didn't help that the animals were definitely feeling spring coming on.
"But are we really dealing with it if we're taking medication to make it all better?"
"The medication helps us deal with it." She hefted a bucket of oats into the trough. "If I wasn't on meds, I would just be sitting around thinking about how unattractive I must be since I can't find anyone to go to bed with. But instead, I'm out here taking care of my horses, running my business...." She paused for a minute. "And thinking about how unattractive I must be since I can't find anyone to go to bed with me."
"C'mon, Justina. You aren't unattractive, there just isn't that much of a choice in Ohidoa. That's not your fault. If we lived in New York City you'd be getting laid all the time."
"Well, we don't, and I'm not," she said. "It really sucks. I am so horny Lynn! I'm jealous of my horses for God's sake! I mean, have you seen the schlong on Laying Down the Law? He's flaunting it at me, I can tell."
"There, there," I tell her as we walk back to the house. "It'll happen. Just try to be patient and put the vibe out there when you can."
"Yeah, right," she says, pouring two glasses of wine. "You know, my mom and dad used to have a cocktail before supper, wine with supper, and a nightcap after supper. They may not have had Prozac, but they were just as medicated as we are, if not more. Denial my ass--they just went through life shitfaced."
When Ann told me about her day I completely understood where Joseph was coming from.
"I know, I know," Ann said. "Trust me, I know how important Xanax is!"
Like myself, Ruth and Justina, Ann also was on mood regulating medication. Ann was old school and was still on Prozac. Justina was using a cocktail of Celexa and Ativan, while Ruth was holding steady on Effexor. I'm currently on Lexapro maintenance, with clonazepam when necessary.
I've been a card-carrying member of the crazy club for about five years. Before that, it took me five years to figure out I actually had an illness and that it wasn't just how life is, another three to realize it was bad enough to need help, and the final year working up to making the appointment. It was important to me that my therapist know that I wasn't really sure I even needed the medication and that I wasn't one of "those people," you know, the real wackos. A couple years later, at my psychiatrist's now because my medication needs had become more complex, my doctor gently ended that fantasy. "This is probably something you will need to manage for the rest of the your life," he said sympathetically, so sympathetically I could almost picture myself at his vacation home in Hawaii.
Being on "happy pills" as they still call them around here, puts you in the company of at least 75 percent of the rest of the adult population of Ohidoa City, but only 10 percent will actually talk openly about it. Shame is one of our birthrights.
Later that night, as I thought about Ann and Joseph and the great Xanax incident of 2006, I wondered why we all seemed to need medication to simulate contentment and happiness. Were our lives really that bad? What would life be like if we couldn't chemically alter our brains to make it more tolerable?
I decided to start with an expert. My mother, like many native Ohidoan mothers, was a martyr who never passed up an opportunity to let us know exactly how we were failing at making her happy. She raised three kids while my father spent most of his time at work and the rest of it trying to stay out of her way. As far as I know, the only time she ever really took for herself were the three or four times a day when she would retreat into the bathroom to sneak a cigarette. She would emerge from the bathroom in a great cloud of Chantilly powder in an effort to disguise the evidence.
"I know I was depressed, but I didn't have a choice," my mother tells me as we sit down to chat over a cup of instant Folgers. Her use of the past tense amuses me. "What could I do? I had three kids to raise and there wasn't anyone there to take over."
"Did you ever think about seeing someone?"
"Hmmph," she snorts. "I didn't want to tell a stranger my personal business. What could they do? They couldn't make me happy. Besides, I always had your father to talk to."
"They can help give you some perspective and some tools to help you deal with your problems," I say. "It's never too late to go, you know. I think you could still get some benefit out of it."
"Oh, I'm okay now," she says quickly. "I've dealt with my problems. I've decided that I'm just not going to let things bother me so much anymore." Sure, she started crying three months ago when the Christmas turkey didn't cook, and rated it a "10" on the crisis scale, but really, she's fine.
So maybe the problem isn't that our lives are that much worse; maybe we just aren't as good at denial. Would we all be happier if we just pretended our problems didn't exist?
"I don't think so," Justina said as we walked out to feed her horses. "I mean, how can you really be happy if you don't deal with any of your problems?"
Justina's problem, for the moment, was an inability to get laid. She'd been going without for more than eight months, and it didn't help that the animals were definitely feeling spring coming on.
"But are we really dealing with it if we're taking medication to make it all better?"
"The medication helps us deal with it." She hefted a bucket of oats into the trough. "If I wasn't on meds, I would just be sitting around thinking about how unattractive I must be since I can't find anyone to go to bed with. But instead, I'm out here taking care of my horses, running my business...." She paused for a minute. "And thinking about how unattractive I must be since I can't find anyone to go to bed with me."
"C'mon, Justina. You aren't unattractive, there just isn't that much of a choice in Ohidoa. That's not your fault. If we lived in New York City you'd be getting laid all the time."
"Well, we don't, and I'm not," she said. "It really sucks. I am so horny Lynn! I'm jealous of my horses for God's sake! I mean, have you seen the schlong on Laying Down the Law? He's flaunting it at me, I can tell."
"There, there," I tell her as we walk back to the house. "It'll happen. Just try to be patient and put the vibe out there when you can."
"Yeah, right," she says, pouring two glasses of wine. "You know, my mom and dad used to have a cocktail before supper, wine with supper, and a nightcap after supper. They may not have had Prozac, but they were just as medicated as we are, if not more. Denial my ass--they just went through life shitfaced."
Saturday, January 27, 2007
Sex and the Silos: Chapter 2
Chapter 2: Ann Has a Very Bad Day
As it so happened, while fate was pushing Ruth toward her own personal Americans With Disabilities Act, it was also placing Ann quite literally down in the dumps.
Ann was involved in a long-term relationship with a slightly neurotic and slightly more anxious eco-friendly metal head named Joseph. Most of the time, they enjoyed a comfortable relationship that included discussions about the downfall of society over cups of coffee at Barnes and Noble, attending various pagan functions, and smoking dope in the basement while listening to bands with the word “goat” in their names. Occasionally, however, Ann’s PMS and Joseph’s anxiety swirled together in a cocktail that turned them both into bad drunks.
Such was the case that Friday night, when Ann found herself in the Dumpster, searching with a flashlight for Joseph’s lost bottle of Xanax.
That morning, Ann had been nursing a pot hangover, pre-period cramps and a hormone headache. That same morning, Joseph happened to wake up late for work and couldn’t find any clean pants.
“I can’t believe I don’t have any clean pants,” he said, stomping briskly back and forth between the bedroom and the kitchen, as if his pants could be in the kitchen, or as if they might suddenly appear on his sixth trip through. “I washed a million pants yesterday,” he said. “I thought I set them right here”-- waving both of his hands in the general direction of the couch --”and now they’re gone. I can’t find anything when our house is clean,” he said.
“Could they be in the dryer?” Ann asked through her toothbrush. She wasn’t particularly concerned about whether or not Joseph wore clean pants to work but was hopeful that if he found them he might shut up about it. He had recently stopped taking his anti-anxiety medication because he didn’t want the chemicals in his system, but he -- and Ann--were finding it hard to make the transition to Joseph’s all natural state. “I suppose they could be,” he said, sighing heavily as he stomped toward the stairs. “Of all the days I can’t find my pants,” he said. “I’m supposed to be there in like seven minutes and I can’t find any fucking pants to wear,” he said. He stomped back down the stairs in a couple minutes wearing a wrinkly pair of black pants and went straight past her to the kitchen.
It was at this point that Ann’s day began unraveling.
“Have you seen my Xanax?” Joseph called from the kitchen.
“What?”
“Have you seen my Xanax,” he asked again, looking in the refrigerator where he kept his bottle, which held the last pill of his prescription. He’d been saving it for when he really needed it.
“I,” Ann said, then stopped. “I think I threw it away.” Joseph tipped his head in her direction.
“What?”
“I think I threw it away yesterday when I was cleaning the fridge,” she said. “I thought it was empty.”
He sighed. “I don’t usually keep empty bottles of pills in the refrigerator but whatever,” he said.
“I’m sorry,” she said again weakly.
“Whatever, it’s not that big a deal,” he said, making it clear that it was that big of a deal as he did his pouty stomp out the back door. Ann looked around the fridge a bit even though she could clearly remember the Xanax bottle. She’d tossed it right after the 80-proof orange juice and right before the quarter-jug of lumpy organic kefir. It really had been empty, Ann was sure of it, and was pondering the possibility that perhaps Joseph didn’t realize he hadn’t had any left as she went out to her porch and lit up a cigarette.
Out in the crisp September morning sun sat the ugliest couch she had ever seen, sitting smack-dab in the middle of her little front lawn.
“What...the...fuck,” she said as she saw the couch, old, stained, an orange and green floral nightmare festooned with women’s panties, silly string, condoms and several signs featuring the word ‘pussy.’ A car drove by.
When her cell phone rang, Ann was still reeling from the obscene Barcalounger in front of her house. Cigarette number three of the morning was perched in her right hand so she had to reach in front of the steering wheel with her left to dig for the phone. She heard Babs coughing on the other end of the phone.
Babs was a woman Ann had known for seven years. When Ann met Babs, Babs was working as a nurse at the Mental Health Center, was happily married and had had a little boy about 7 years old. She really had it together. Over the previous six years, however, Babs had become bored with the marriage, divorced her husband, stalked a coworker, started smoking pot during her lunch breaks and spent two years dating a hobo. Currently unemployed, she was dabbling in internet-facilitated prostitution.
“Ann!” she said breathlessly from the coughing. “Hey sweetie! How are you today?”
“Well...” Ann said, her voice cracking in the first sign of a thrice-a-year all-out PMS meltdown, “Well, I got up today and there was a couch on my front lawn,” she said. “You wouldn’t happen to know anything about this, would you?”
Babs, currently 43 years old, was known to play ‘jokes’ on people that involved toilet paper, tampons and lipstick. “A couch?” she said, then started laughing, which caused her to start another coughing fit. “Well, no, sweetie...” more laughing and coughing “...I don’t...” A final loud barking finally cleared Babs’ airway. “I just was calling to see how you were doing.”
Suspecting a lie but not having the energy to confront the sometimes downright frightening Babs, Ann’s voice finally broke and she cried into the phone, “I don’t know what I’m going to do with that couch! How am I going to get rid of it? I don’t have a truck! I just didn’t need this this morning! I have PMS, I’m crampy, I have a headache, I threw Joseph’s Xanax away, and I have a disgusting couch on my front lawn!” By this time she’d pulled over to the side of the road to light up cigarette number four and pull herself together.
The ever-compassionate Babs laughed and coughed some more and said, “It’s just a couch, sweetie, don’t be so upset! It’s really not healthy for you to get so worked up. Now just calm down.”
That afternoon, after a barely tolerable day, Ann was pulling into their alley when the dumpster caught her attention. She pulled over, got out, and looking around to see if anyone was watching, climbed up the side of it and peered in. There were only about 10 bags in there, and she thought she could identify one that might be theirs. “What a shitty day,” she thought as she climbed into the stink and gingerly opened the bag that looked familiar. It wasn’t theirs, but the fourth one she opened held a the carton of lumpy kefir. One by one, she tossed out the slimy trash, finally dumping it around her feet. The Xanax bottle rolled past and stopped at a pile of rancid spaghetti. The unmistakable plinking of one lonely pill rattled in her ears as she picked it up.
Clutching the bottle in her hand, Ann pulled the car down the alley and into the garage next to Joseph’s Volkswagen. She trudged slowly up the back sidewalk. The house, usually filled with the black noise of Old Goat, was uncharacteristically quiet. She looked out the front window to assess the couch situation and saw a truck pulling away with the horrid couch in the back, and Joseph stooped over the grass with a trash bag, throwing away the last pair of underwear.
He met her on the front stairs. A piece of silly string hung from his goatee and the trash bag hung at his side. Ann stepped toward him and took his hand.
“You have silly string in your beard,” she said.
“You smell like a trash can,” he said.
“I found this in the Dumpster.” She handed him the bottle and he opened it, spilling the little pill into his palm. She leaned her forehead against his shoulder. He dropped the trash bag and pushed her shoulders back. He kissed both of her eyelids, both of them a little salty, and then lifted her face up with his hands to kiss her.
Then he took the Xanax and placed it tenderly on her tongue, closing her jaw with softly with his fingertips. He smiled, took her hand and led her through the living room to the downstairs bathroom. He set her on the side of the tub and started drawing a bath, adding a few drops of rose oil as the water ran, and then undressed her, careful not to let the spaghetti goo on her shirt graze her hair as he pulled it over her head. He helped her into the tub, then lit a candle for her and moved toward the door.
“Thanks,” he said. She looked at him wondering what he was thanking her for, but before she could ask he answered. “For not pretending that you were right.” He closed the door softly behind him as she sank back into the water.
And this is why Ann and Joseph were still together after approximately 73 shared period prodromes and at least half as many panic attacks.
As it so happened, while fate was pushing Ruth toward her own personal Americans With Disabilities Act, it was also placing Ann quite literally down in the dumps.
Ann was involved in a long-term relationship with a slightly neurotic and slightly more anxious eco-friendly metal head named Joseph. Most of the time, they enjoyed a comfortable relationship that included discussions about the downfall of society over cups of coffee at Barnes and Noble, attending various pagan functions, and smoking dope in the basement while listening to bands with the word “goat” in their names. Occasionally, however, Ann’s PMS and Joseph’s anxiety swirled together in a cocktail that turned them both into bad drunks.
Such was the case that Friday night, when Ann found herself in the Dumpster, searching with a flashlight for Joseph’s lost bottle of Xanax.
That morning, Ann had been nursing a pot hangover, pre-period cramps and a hormone headache. That same morning, Joseph happened to wake up late for work and couldn’t find any clean pants.
“I can’t believe I don’t have any clean pants,” he said, stomping briskly back and forth between the bedroom and the kitchen, as if his pants could be in the kitchen, or as if they might suddenly appear on his sixth trip through. “I washed a million pants yesterday,” he said. “I thought I set them right here”-- waving both of his hands in the general direction of the couch --”and now they’re gone. I can’t find anything when our house is clean,” he said.
“Could they be in the dryer?” Ann asked through her toothbrush. She wasn’t particularly concerned about whether or not Joseph wore clean pants to work but was hopeful that if he found them he might shut up about it. He had recently stopped taking his anti-anxiety medication because he didn’t want the chemicals in his system, but he -- and Ann--were finding it hard to make the transition to Joseph’s all natural state. “I suppose they could be,” he said, sighing heavily as he stomped toward the stairs. “Of all the days I can’t find my pants,” he said. “I’m supposed to be there in like seven minutes and I can’t find any fucking pants to wear,” he said. He stomped back down the stairs in a couple minutes wearing a wrinkly pair of black pants and went straight past her to the kitchen.
It was at this point that Ann’s day began unraveling.
“Have you seen my Xanax?” Joseph called from the kitchen.
“What?”
“Have you seen my Xanax,” he asked again, looking in the refrigerator where he kept his bottle, which held the last pill of his prescription. He’d been saving it for when he really needed it.
“I,” Ann said, then stopped. “I think I threw it away.” Joseph tipped his head in her direction.
“What?”
“I think I threw it away yesterday when I was cleaning the fridge,” she said. “I thought it was empty.”
He sighed. “I don’t usually keep empty bottles of pills in the refrigerator but whatever,” he said.
“I’m sorry,” she said again weakly.
“Whatever, it’s not that big a deal,” he said, making it clear that it was that big of a deal as he did his pouty stomp out the back door. Ann looked around the fridge a bit even though she could clearly remember the Xanax bottle. She’d tossed it right after the 80-proof orange juice and right before the quarter-jug of lumpy organic kefir. It really had been empty, Ann was sure of it, and was pondering the possibility that perhaps Joseph didn’t realize he hadn’t had any left as she went out to her porch and lit up a cigarette.
Out in the crisp September morning sun sat the ugliest couch she had ever seen, sitting smack-dab in the middle of her little front lawn.
“What...the...fuck,” she said as she saw the couch, old, stained, an orange and green floral nightmare festooned with women’s panties, silly string, condoms and several signs featuring the word ‘pussy.’ A car drove by.
When her cell phone rang, Ann was still reeling from the obscene Barcalounger in front of her house. Cigarette number three of the morning was perched in her right hand so she had to reach in front of the steering wheel with her left to dig for the phone. She heard Babs coughing on the other end of the phone.
Babs was a woman Ann had known for seven years. When Ann met Babs, Babs was working as a nurse at the Mental Health Center, was happily married and had had a little boy about 7 years old. She really had it together. Over the previous six years, however, Babs had become bored with the marriage, divorced her husband, stalked a coworker, started smoking pot during her lunch breaks and spent two years dating a hobo. Currently unemployed, she was dabbling in internet-facilitated prostitution.
“Ann!” she said breathlessly from the coughing. “Hey sweetie! How are you today?”
“Well...” Ann said, her voice cracking in the first sign of a thrice-a-year all-out PMS meltdown, “Well, I got up today and there was a couch on my front lawn,” she said. “You wouldn’t happen to know anything about this, would you?”
Babs, currently 43 years old, was known to play ‘jokes’ on people that involved toilet paper, tampons and lipstick. “A couch?” she said, then started laughing, which caused her to start another coughing fit. “Well, no, sweetie...” more laughing and coughing “...I don’t...” A final loud barking finally cleared Babs’ airway. “I just was calling to see how you were doing.”
Suspecting a lie but not having the energy to confront the sometimes downright frightening Babs, Ann’s voice finally broke and she cried into the phone, “I don’t know what I’m going to do with that couch! How am I going to get rid of it? I don’t have a truck! I just didn’t need this this morning! I have PMS, I’m crampy, I have a headache, I threw Joseph’s Xanax away, and I have a disgusting couch on my front lawn!” By this time she’d pulled over to the side of the road to light up cigarette number four and pull herself together.
The ever-compassionate Babs laughed and coughed some more and said, “It’s just a couch, sweetie, don’t be so upset! It’s really not healthy for you to get so worked up. Now just calm down.”
That afternoon, after a barely tolerable day, Ann was pulling into their alley when the dumpster caught her attention. She pulled over, got out, and looking around to see if anyone was watching, climbed up the side of it and peered in. There were only about 10 bags in there, and she thought she could identify one that might be theirs. “What a shitty day,” she thought as she climbed into the stink and gingerly opened the bag that looked familiar. It wasn’t theirs, but the fourth one she opened held a the carton of lumpy kefir. One by one, she tossed out the slimy trash, finally dumping it around her feet. The Xanax bottle rolled past and stopped at a pile of rancid spaghetti. The unmistakable plinking of one lonely pill rattled in her ears as she picked it up.
Clutching the bottle in her hand, Ann pulled the car down the alley and into the garage next to Joseph’s Volkswagen. She trudged slowly up the back sidewalk. The house, usually filled with the black noise of Old Goat, was uncharacteristically quiet. She looked out the front window to assess the couch situation and saw a truck pulling away with the horrid couch in the back, and Joseph stooped over the grass with a trash bag, throwing away the last pair of underwear.
He met her on the front stairs. A piece of silly string hung from his goatee and the trash bag hung at his side. Ann stepped toward him and took his hand.
“You have silly string in your beard,” she said.
“You smell like a trash can,” he said.
“I found this in the Dumpster.” She handed him the bottle and he opened it, spilling the little pill into his palm. She leaned her forehead against his shoulder. He dropped the trash bag and pushed her shoulders back. He kissed both of her eyelids, both of them a little salty, and then lifted her face up with his hands to kiss her.
Then he took the Xanax and placed it tenderly on her tongue, closing her jaw with softly with his fingertips. He smiled, took her hand and led her through the living room to the downstairs bathroom. He set her on the side of the tub and started drawing a bath, adding a few drops of rose oil as the water ran, and then undressed her, careful not to let the spaghetti goo on her shirt graze her hair as he pulled it over her head. He helped her into the tub, then lit a candle for her and moved toward the door.
“Thanks,” he said. She looked at him wondering what he was thanking her for, but before she could ask he answered. “For not pretending that you were right.” He closed the door softly behind him as she sank back into the water.
And this is why Ann and Joseph were still together after approximately 73 shared period prodromes and at least half as many panic attacks.
Friday, January 05, 2007
Sex and the Silos Chapter 1
First, a disclaimer. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental. Furthermore, the characters, events and other scenarios depicted in this work of fiction do not represent the author's personal morals, values or beliefs. In other words, don't hate me if there are things in here that are not politically correct. In fact, there will be a lot of stuff in here that won't be politically correct, nor represent my own personal values. Otherwise it wouldn't be interesting, right?
Chapter 1: Ruth Lives Up To Her Promise
I don’t know what it was about her, but when Ruth came to breakfast at Panera Bread that morning I knew she was excited about something more than the cinnamon bread samples. She even skipped ordering her chai tea and bear claw to come join us at our usual table, the one in the back by the couch and the plug-in so that Justina, ever-attached to her computer, could plug in when necessary without draining her battery.
“You will not believe what happened to me last night,” Ruth said. “Okay, so I was in the middle of my parent-teacher conferences right, and it’s getting late and I’m waiting for my last conference—”
“Who was it for?” I asked.
“Well, it was for Dakota.”
“Dakota? The masturbator?”
“Yes, that’s the one. Anyway, her mom arrives first--they’re divorced--and sits down with me and we’re chit-chatting you know, not wanting to get into the down and dirty until the dad gets there. She’s telling me all about their divorce and how worried they’d been about how Dakota would handle it, and then the dad comes in.” She paused and nodded enthusiastically, the little-girl grin on her face begging us to ask for more.
“So then what?” asked Ann, who liked to get straight to the point of things.
“Well, he is really hot,” Ruth went on, “I mean hot like Matthew McConaughey hot. He had this kind of longish curly blond hair and this great smile and he smelled really good...I got nervous just looking at him. Then I realized I was going to have to talk to him about his daughter masturbating in class and I got even more nervous, wondering if I should use the word ‘masturbate’ or tell him she was “touching herself” or just allude to it with the old ‘inappropriate behavior’ cop-out and I can tell my face is getting red and I can feel my bowels starting to churn, oh my god, it was awful. I really need my tea,” she said, looking over at the counter.
“C’mon, finish the story and then get your tea,” I said.
“I’ll get your tea for you,” said Justina, who always liked to be of assistance.
“I want to hear the story,” I said.
“It’s really not a problem,” Justina continued. “It’ll only take a minute.” She gave me that look of sweetness combined with a genuine bewilderment as to why I couldn’t wait for Ruth to get her tea.
“Come on,” I said. “Obviously Ruth has some big news here, let’s hear it!”
“Okay,” Ruth started back up, “So we go through the usual pleasantries, then I pull out Dakota’s file and we start going over everything, her spelling, her math, her music....everything but the hands in her pants. Mom’s getting antsy because she has to go teach some Bible class or something and asks if there was anything else, so I went for it and told them.”
“How did you say it?” I asked. “What were the exact words you used?”
“Well, I said ‘I do have some concerns about some behaviors she’s exhibiting during film time.’ Mom looks puzzled and Hot Dad says, ‘What kind of behaviors?’ so I take a deep breath and just say, ‘Well, she’s been touching herself in her private areas.’”
“You didn’t really say that!” Ann says, laughing.
“Yes, I did, swear to god,” Ruth replies. “Anyway, the mom has this look of total shock and disgust on her face and says ‘Where would she have learned THAT?’ and looks over at Hot Dad. Hot Dad says, ‘Yeah, Jennifer, I’ve been teaching Dakota to masturbate. Jesus Christ.’ I explain that it’s pretty normal behavior, every kid figures it out on his or her own eventually and that we just have to find a way to keep her from doing it in inappropriate places. The mom glances at her watch and says something about working on it and then bails for the church thing. So it’s me and Hot Dad all alone in the classroom.”
“Oooh!” Justina said, her eyes sparkling. “Did you do it? Right there on the desk?”
Ruth rolls her eyes, tilts her head and purses her lips. “Do you really think I’d do it with a student’s dad during a parent-teacher conference?” She paused for a minute. “We waited until we’d had a few drinks at Flanigan’s,” she said lowly, leaning in for effect.
After the initial giggling and oh my gods were over with, Ruth leaned in again.
“Girls, I’ve done it,” Ruth says. “I’ve had sex with a man in a wheelchair.”
With only one cup of coffee behind us, we were momentarily stunned and confused. “Hot Dad’s in a wheelchair?” Ann asked with a hint of disbelief.
“Yep. He’s a full-fledged gimp!” Ruth said brightly.
Within the group, it was a well-known fact that Ruth was an equal-opportunity kind of woman. She had claimed, many times under duress from myself in particular, that physical disability or disfigurement would have no impact on whether or not she could be attracted to someone sexually.
"So...what happened to him? I mean, why is he in the chair?" I asked.
"He's a paraplegic," Ruth said matter-of-factly. "He was injured in a diving accident when he was 19."
"So what was it like?” Ann asked in that same ‘what the fuck’ voice.
“It was great! It was...pretty normal, really, but great!”
“How did you...” Ann moved her hands in a generalized simulation of groping and fondling. “...I mean...could he do it?”
“Well yeah, I’m sure he could do it,” Justina chimed in. “I had a stallion, remember Charlie? When he fell out of the trailer, his hindquarters were paralyzed but before we got him put down he still got hard-ons when the mares were around. Even when people are paralyzed they still have reflexes that can cause an erection, right?”
Ruth nodded. “I had no idea either. At first, when he asked me out for drinks, I figured it wouldn’t go any further than that so I wasn’t too concerned about it, but we kept talking and we were having a great time, and then he put his hand on my knee and this jolt just went through me and I knew he wanted to fuck me,” Ruth said. “I didn’t like, you know, want to say ‘what kind of sexual function do you have,’ you know what I mean? But I didn’t want to propose something that couldn’t happen either.”
“So how did you end up doing it?” Ann asked.
“Well, we went back to his house, which is really very nice,” Ruth said. “It’s got the most beautiful hardwood floors and a huge kitchen with this window that’s almost one entire wall. And his bathroom is amazing--it has this huge whirpool tub with a door on the bottom of it, kind of like a car door, so you can just open it and slide in, and a huge shower with a padded seat in it....”
“Yeah, yeah, get to the good stuff,” I interrupted her.
“So we go in and he wheels over to the kitchen and gets a bottle of wine and comes back to the living room where I’m sitting on the couch and pours me a glass. He looks at me and says, ‘I know this can be intimidating,’ and kind of motions toward his chair. ‘But trust me, I know what to do, and I have no problem showing you how.’”
“Ooooh!” Justina says again.
“So I said, great, I’m game!” Ruth said, and we all know that yes indeed, she really did say ‘I’m game.’ “He took my hand and pulled me over to him, and he leaned up and I leaned down and we kissed, and then we went to his bedroom and we did it.”
Ruth paused and smiled at us with pride. In Ohidoa City, things don't get much better than this, and Ruth knew it. A single girl in Ohidoa City usually had four choices: the white church-going sensitive sweater-wearer; the white tradesman; the white mid-level manager; or the white farmer. For a girl in Ohidoa, doing it with a farmer (or farm kid, as it were) was like getting your learner's permit--we'd all done it, usually by the age of 16, and truthfully it didn't take a whole lot of practice or talent. It was a hell of a lot easier than parallel parking, for sure.
Don't get me wrong, farmers have their merits (they have a lot of stamina, they're usually pretty open-minded and unflappable, and they also come with lots of fun stuff like outbuildings, hay lofts, and secluded homesteads on which you can frolic naked under the stars) but sometimes, well, sometimes you just need variety, and Ruth found it sitting in a chair right under her nose. The only way it could have been better is if Hot Dad was also black, European, and uncircumcised. Still and all, in Ohidoa City, hooking up with a paralyzed Matthew McConaughey lookalike was pretty damn impressive.
I cocked my head at Ruth. “You can’t just say ‘we did it,’” I say. “We need to know how, Ruth, you know that! Did he get a hard-on? Were you on the top or the bottom? Was it weird, I mean, how can he even tell what he’s doing down there?”
Ruth rolled her eyes but went on. “Okay, we got to the bedroom, he went to the bathroom for a minute, he came out and wheeled up to the bed and just lifted himself out of the chair and onto the bed with his arms. He’s got great arms.
Then he sort of scooched over to me, leaned on his elbow and started unbuttoning my dress and kissing me, you know, the normal stuff. We got undressed and just felt each other up basically —”
“Did he have a hard-on yet?” Ann asked, clearly fascinated.
“No, not yet, but I didn’t know what to expect so I wasn’t offended or anything. He really seemed to be enjoying himself so I was like, whatever happens happens, you know? It is what it is. So anyway, we go on like this for awhile, and then he says, ‘Get up on your knees,’ so I did it and he grabs one of my legs and just pulls it over his face and went at it. For 45 MINUTES. It was AWESOME! He never got tired, never got bored...he was totally into it the whole time. It was like he was totally in tune with my body--he’d stop when I got close and then start up again and kept me hanging for 45 MINUTES!” Ruth let out a wistful sigh. “Finally, he let me go and it was AWESOME.”
We all muse on this enviously, in silence.
“So then I said, ‘Now it’s your turn. What can I do for you?’”
“Awwww,” the rest of us say in unison.
“He said ‘take my cock in your mouth...’”
Justina giggled.
“It was still soft, but I did my best and pretty soon it started to firm up a little bit.”
“But could he feel it?” Ann asked.
“Well, I asked him afterwards, and he said he couldn’t really feel sensation like he used to, before the accident, but that seeing me down there was arousing and that his body just takes over. So anyway, I do this for awhile and he firms up and then he kind of pushes me back toward the bed and hoists himself up over my body and then we did it.”
“Did he come?” I ask.
“Well....I don’t really know, it was weird. He was really into it, you know, and we were really going at it, and then he asked me to lick his chest and when I did, he kind of did that grunting thing like men do when they come and then it was over.”
“Did you ask him if he came?” Ann asked.
“No, I didn’t want to make him feel bad if it didn’t happen, you know. But it certainly seemed like he had some sort of...release.”
“I cannot believe you fucked the masturbator’s paralyzed father,” I said, and we all laughed.
“I told you I would have sex with a gimp, Lynn,” Ruth said triumphantly. “It just so happened that I never had the opportunity until last night. And it wasn’t like a sympathy fuck or anything like that, this guy is HOT. We’re going out again tonight.”
Then she got up and headed over to the counter for her chai. We sat in stunned silence for awhile. I think we were all still thinking about those magical 45 minutes.
“Wow,” Ann said.
“Yeah,” I said.
“I think I could use some of that," Justina sighed.
Ruth returned with her tea. “So,” she said. “What did you guys do last night?”
* * *
Chapter 1: Ruth Lives Up To Her Promise
I don’t know what it was about her, but when Ruth came to breakfast at Panera Bread that morning I knew she was excited about something more than the cinnamon bread samples. She even skipped ordering her chai tea and bear claw to come join us at our usual table, the one in the back by the couch and the plug-in so that Justina, ever-attached to her computer, could plug in when necessary without draining her battery.
“You will not believe what happened to me last night,” Ruth said. “Okay, so I was in the middle of my parent-teacher conferences right, and it’s getting late and I’m waiting for my last conference—”
“Who was it for?” I asked.
“Well, it was for Dakota.”
“Dakota? The masturbator?”
“Yes, that’s the one. Anyway, her mom arrives first--they’re divorced--and sits down with me and we’re chit-chatting you know, not wanting to get into the down and dirty until the dad gets there. She’s telling me all about their divorce and how worried they’d been about how Dakota would handle it, and then the dad comes in.” She paused and nodded enthusiastically, the little-girl grin on her face begging us to ask for more.
“So then what?” asked Ann, who liked to get straight to the point of things.
“Well, he is really hot,” Ruth went on, “I mean hot like Matthew McConaughey hot. He had this kind of longish curly blond hair and this great smile and he smelled really good...I got nervous just looking at him. Then I realized I was going to have to talk to him about his daughter masturbating in class and I got even more nervous, wondering if I should use the word ‘masturbate’ or tell him she was “touching herself” or just allude to it with the old ‘inappropriate behavior’ cop-out and I can tell my face is getting red and I can feel my bowels starting to churn, oh my god, it was awful. I really need my tea,” she said, looking over at the counter.
“C’mon, finish the story and then get your tea,” I said.
“I’ll get your tea for you,” said Justina, who always liked to be of assistance.
“I want to hear the story,” I said.
“It’s really not a problem,” Justina continued. “It’ll only take a minute.” She gave me that look of sweetness combined with a genuine bewilderment as to why I couldn’t wait for Ruth to get her tea.
“Come on,” I said. “Obviously Ruth has some big news here, let’s hear it!”
“Okay,” Ruth started back up, “So we go through the usual pleasantries, then I pull out Dakota’s file and we start going over everything, her spelling, her math, her music....everything but the hands in her pants. Mom’s getting antsy because she has to go teach some Bible class or something and asks if there was anything else, so I went for it and told them.”
“How did you say it?” I asked. “What were the exact words you used?”
“Well, I said ‘I do have some concerns about some behaviors she’s exhibiting during film time.’ Mom looks puzzled and Hot Dad says, ‘What kind of behaviors?’ so I take a deep breath and just say, ‘Well, she’s been touching herself in her private areas.’”
“You didn’t really say that!” Ann says, laughing.
“Yes, I did, swear to god,” Ruth replies. “Anyway, the mom has this look of total shock and disgust on her face and says ‘Where would she have learned THAT?’ and looks over at Hot Dad. Hot Dad says, ‘Yeah, Jennifer, I’ve been teaching Dakota to masturbate. Jesus Christ.’ I explain that it’s pretty normal behavior, every kid figures it out on his or her own eventually and that we just have to find a way to keep her from doing it in inappropriate places. The mom glances at her watch and says something about working on it and then bails for the church thing. So it’s me and Hot Dad all alone in the classroom.”
“Oooh!” Justina said, her eyes sparkling. “Did you do it? Right there on the desk?”
Ruth rolls her eyes, tilts her head and purses her lips. “Do you really think I’d do it with a student’s dad during a parent-teacher conference?” She paused for a minute. “We waited until we’d had a few drinks at Flanigan’s,” she said lowly, leaning in for effect.
After the initial giggling and oh my gods were over with, Ruth leaned in again.
“Girls, I’ve done it,” Ruth says. “I’ve had sex with a man in a wheelchair.”
With only one cup of coffee behind us, we were momentarily stunned and confused. “Hot Dad’s in a wheelchair?” Ann asked with a hint of disbelief.
“Yep. He’s a full-fledged gimp!” Ruth said brightly.
Within the group, it was a well-known fact that Ruth was an equal-opportunity kind of woman. She had claimed, many times under duress from myself in particular, that physical disability or disfigurement would have no impact on whether or not she could be attracted to someone sexually.
"So...what happened to him? I mean, why is he in the chair?" I asked.
"He's a paraplegic," Ruth said matter-of-factly. "He was injured in a diving accident when he was 19."
"So what was it like?” Ann asked in that same ‘what the fuck’ voice.
“It was great! It was...pretty normal, really, but great!”
“How did you...” Ann moved her hands in a generalized simulation of groping and fondling. “...I mean...could he do it?”
“Well yeah, I’m sure he could do it,” Justina chimed in. “I had a stallion, remember Charlie? When he fell out of the trailer, his hindquarters were paralyzed but before we got him put down he still got hard-ons when the mares were around. Even when people are paralyzed they still have reflexes that can cause an erection, right?”
Ruth nodded. “I had no idea either. At first, when he asked me out for drinks, I figured it wouldn’t go any further than that so I wasn’t too concerned about it, but we kept talking and we were having a great time, and then he put his hand on my knee and this jolt just went through me and I knew he wanted to fuck me,” Ruth said. “I didn’t like, you know, want to say ‘what kind of sexual function do you have,’ you know what I mean? But I didn’t want to propose something that couldn’t happen either.”
“So how did you end up doing it?” Ann asked.
“Well, we went back to his house, which is really very nice,” Ruth said. “It’s got the most beautiful hardwood floors and a huge kitchen with this window that’s almost one entire wall. And his bathroom is amazing--it has this huge whirpool tub with a door on the bottom of it, kind of like a car door, so you can just open it and slide in, and a huge shower with a padded seat in it....”
“Yeah, yeah, get to the good stuff,” I interrupted her.
“So we go in and he wheels over to the kitchen and gets a bottle of wine and comes back to the living room where I’m sitting on the couch and pours me a glass. He looks at me and says, ‘I know this can be intimidating,’ and kind of motions toward his chair. ‘But trust me, I know what to do, and I have no problem showing you how.’”
“Ooooh!” Justina says again.
“So I said, great, I’m game!” Ruth said, and we all know that yes indeed, she really did say ‘I’m game.’ “He took my hand and pulled me over to him, and he leaned up and I leaned down and we kissed, and then we went to his bedroom and we did it.”
Ruth paused and smiled at us with pride. In Ohidoa City, things don't get much better than this, and Ruth knew it. A single girl in Ohidoa City usually had four choices: the white church-going sensitive sweater-wearer; the white tradesman; the white mid-level manager; or the white farmer. For a girl in Ohidoa, doing it with a farmer (or farm kid, as it were) was like getting your learner's permit--we'd all done it, usually by the age of 16, and truthfully it didn't take a whole lot of practice or talent. It was a hell of a lot easier than parallel parking, for sure.
Don't get me wrong, farmers have their merits (they have a lot of stamina, they're usually pretty open-minded and unflappable, and they also come with lots of fun stuff like outbuildings, hay lofts, and secluded homesteads on which you can frolic naked under the stars) but sometimes, well, sometimes you just need variety, and Ruth found it sitting in a chair right under her nose. The only way it could have been better is if Hot Dad was also black, European, and uncircumcised. Still and all, in Ohidoa City, hooking up with a paralyzed Matthew McConaughey lookalike was pretty damn impressive.
I cocked my head at Ruth. “You can’t just say ‘we did it,’” I say. “We need to know how, Ruth, you know that! Did he get a hard-on? Were you on the top or the bottom? Was it weird, I mean, how can he even tell what he’s doing down there?”
Ruth rolled her eyes but went on. “Okay, we got to the bedroom, he went to the bathroom for a minute, he came out and wheeled up to the bed and just lifted himself out of the chair and onto the bed with his arms. He’s got great arms.
Then he sort of scooched over to me, leaned on his elbow and started unbuttoning my dress and kissing me, you know, the normal stuff. We got undressed and just felt each other up basically —”
“Did he have a hard-on yet?” Ann asked, clearly fascinated.
“No, not yet, but I didn’t know what to expect so I wasn’t offended or anything. He really seemed to be enjoying himself so I was like, whatever happens happens, you know? It is what it is. So anyway, we go on like this for awhile, and then he says, ‘Get up on your knees,’ so I did it and he grabs one of my legs and just pulls it over his face and went at it. For 45 MINUTES. It was AWESOME! He never got tired, never got bored...he was totally into it the whole time. It was like he was totally in tune with my body--he’d stop when I got close and then start up again and kept me hanging for 45 MINUTES!” Ruth let out a wistful sigh. “Finally, he let me go and it was AWESOME.”
We all muse on this enviously, in silence.
“So then I said, ‘Now it’s your turn. What can I do for you?’”
“Awwww,” the rest of us say in unison.
“He said ‘take my cock in your mouth...’”
Justina giggled.
“It was still soft, but I did my best and pretty soon it started to firm up a little bit.”
“But could he feel it?” Ann asked.
“Well, I asked him afterwards, and he said he couldn’t really feel sensation like he used to, before the accident, but that seeing me down there was arousing and that his body just takes over. So anyway, I do this for awhile and he firms up and then he kind of pushes me back toward the bed and hoists himself up over my body and then we did it.”
“Did he come?” I ask.
“Well....I don’t really know, it was weird. He was really into it, you know, and we were really going at it, and then he asked me to lick his chest and when I did, he kind of did that grunting thing like men do when they come and then it was over.”
“Did you ask him if he came?” Ann asked.
“No, I didn’t want to make him feel bad if it didn’t happen, you know. But it certainly seemed like he had some sort of...release.”
“I cannot believe you fucked the masturbator’s paralyzed father,” I said, and we all laughed.
“I told you I would have sex with a gimp, Lynn,” Ruth said triumphantly. “It just so happened that I never had the opportunity until last night. And it wasn’t like a sympathy fuck or anything like that, this guy is HOT. We’re going out again tonight.”
Then she got up and headed over to the counter for her chai. We sat in stunned silence for awhile. I think we were all still thinking about those magical 45 minutes.
“Wow,” Ann said.
“Yeah,” I said.
“I think I could use some of that," Justina sighed.
Ruth returned with her tea. “So,” she said. “What did you guys do last night?”
* * *
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