Goody Two Shoes (18 page)

It’s a clear fact that his formerly full rubber penis is now waving in the wind lifelessly.  We all stare at it trying to figure out the best remedy.

By this time my Parish Priest, who is a young man fresh from studies in Rome, is laughing nearly as hysterically as Terry.  He stands away from the van and, “Tell ya’ll what.  I’ll give each of you a ten dollar bill right now to blow him up by mouth?”

Now it’s my turn to stand astounded.  Did he really just say that?  This man who represents everything I’ve let rule my life for the past Forty eight years?  I can’t believe my own ears, “What did you say, Father?”

He bolsters, “I said, I will give ten dollars to whoever blows him up by mouth.”

“Father Riley!” I protest, still unable to believe he’d just said that.

He holds up his hand, “Mrs. Townsend, I’m twenty eight years old.  Yes, I’ve made commitments, but I’ll take my penance for this one.  Tell ya what, if you let me take a picture or two I’ll throw in an extra Hail Mary for each of you.”  But he’s laughing so hysterically, and that’s when it occurs to me that this ain’t my Momma’s religion anymore.  All the rules that I’ve clung to for safety in this too modern world are tumbling down around me like Lincoln Logs.  And that is the moment that religion becomes real to me.  Horrific scenes from Revelations painted on ancient walls tumble down around me.  People are just people!  Even my Parish Priest.  Still unbelievable, is a human being currently negotiating his sins.

But Terry is finished with her hysteria and she grabs blow up man and pulls the rubber plug from his nipple with her teeth.  In a stunning act of bravery she runs her tongue around the shriveled plastic hole before she forces the air from her lungs into the doll.  After four long breaths she gasps and put her finger over the open air hole.  “Okay, your turn!”  She continues gasping as she passes the doll to me.

I eye the nipple carefully again, this time without my reading glasses.  With a laugh and certainty that this is going to be on Facebook within the hour, I lower my lips to the rubber man’s nipple and start blowing.  The plastic man’s penis bounces wildly in reaction.

“Look!  Mrs. Townsend got a rise out of him,” my Priest chokes with tears rolling down his face.

Two breaths later I pass the nearly grown black man over to Bonnie.  “Bon-bon, will you finish this off for me?” I say with a playful tease as if we are having a sex orgy in the middle of the gas station parking lot.

Bonnie isn’t one to play around with getting a job done.  In a second, Mr. Blow Up Man is hard as a rock; she quickly plugs his nipple and pushes it into the doll himself.  “There!” she exclaims proudly, holding up the perfectly filled plastic black doll.  She turns to my Priest, “Ten bucks.”  She says plainly, holding her hand out.

He puts four three ten dollar bills in her hand and laughs, “Great to see you all again.”  He motions to turn away.

“Leaving already, Father?” Now Bonnie’s taunting him, she’s looking at him in a completely different light and is considering him fair game.

But Father Riley grins, “Yeah, I gotta drop these pics onto Instragram then drive all the way downtown to find someone to hear my confession before dinner time!”

Yep, just as I suspected, we’re all constantly negotiating our religion.  I’m not going to say I’m ready to ditch all the rules, but honestly people, some of them are looking dumber and dumber. 
Times are a changing,’
Vagina speaks up.

Find a way to make a man justify his wife cheating on him!  Fucking magic.

Jonathon

The Tramp Stamp Club

By Quinn Carmichael

My Invitation

By now you must think that Ellen and Jonathon are conspiring to shock the hell out of me whenever I come here.  That may very well be true, but I’m leaning towards the happy accident version.  Truth be told, their antics have taught me a few things about their alternate lifestyle.  For instance, ‘don’t judge a book by its cover,’ as in the cases of Hawthorne and living room Bonnie.  As a matter of fact, sometimes it’s the most demure looking folks that carry the biggest burdens.

But also I’ve learned that making people function normally is a job I don’t envy.  I hazard to guess that these same folks, the ‘Members,’ probably spent countless dollars on doctors, mental and physical, trying to figure out why they couldn’t achieve happiness.  I bet that all of them have medical payments lingering around like college loans.  Yet fate somehow dropped them on the doorstep of Ellen and Jonathon, and it became their responsibility to solve the mysteries of the poor misguided minds.  I wonder if there’s a questionnaire, with questions like:  How do you feel about bondage?  How do you feel about cupping?  And all the other BDSM things I’ll never quite understand.

But the single most important thing I’ve learned during these meetings is that I love my wife.  During each of my meetings here something has happened that made me think,
Damn I wish she was here to see this!  I’d love to see the look on her face if she could see this!

Of course you’re laughing now, as am I, because we all know my wife would already have a fifty page documented list of the things she finds offensive in this house.  She’d never be able to look past the instant shock of the situation to find its meaning.  Nevertheless, it’s her I think of as I’m driving downtown, past the ratio of seven women to every man at the College of Charleston.  I think of her because she’s
not
like those girls.

At this point, I think quite possibly there could be a foreign spaceship just outside of sight that creates young girls for us with a mold.  Unfortunately, they offer little in the way of options.  Every single one of them is nearly identical, and I think that screwing one of them should be enough to satisfy a man’s curiosity.  They just don’t dare to be different any more.  Remember
that
slogan?  Anyway, as I see them hunched over their iPhones I may notice a firm, tight ass, and all that does is make me want my wife all the more.  I can do nothing but think of her these days; she’s on my mind twenty-four-seven.  The first time I met Ellen I remember thinking that I wish my wife would be more like this beautiful woman sitting across from me.  Now I wish that Ellen could be more like my wife.  Perhaps mixing them together would do the trick, and I laugh at my own vision.

I both laugh and cry.  I laugh because my wife would never consider wearing anything revealing.  She would never take a leap to find out what she might enjoy.  But she’s not a total prude.  She just has strict standards as to how she believes our lives should be run.  Those rules seem to get tighter as the years go by.  The older we get, the more rules apply.  It’s never made sense to me.  I shrug, because I’m a guy and that’s what we do.  And I do cry as well, because in my fantasies, my wife is doing all these raunchy things, and she likes it

Do I fully understand the reasoning behind Ellen’s assistance to the young man tied to the chair?  Probably not.  I know I wouldn’t mind trying it once or twice.  So what am I saying here?  That I might like to join this illustrious Club?  I falter at the thought.  Maybe I would.

“What’s so heavy on your mind this afternoon, Quinn?” Jonathon asks, handing me a fresh Bourbon.

“I was wondering if you just let men into the Club, without their wives, and vice versa of course.”

“Are you considering joining us?”

I cough and choke a bit, “I might be.”

“The answer is no.  A man or woman can start their training before their spouse, but we only accept partners.  The only case we have is Bonnie.  Remember her?”

I nod.

“Her husband passed away a few years ago, but she stayed with us.  Do you not think your wife would join?  I know you mentioned she’s quite religious.”

“I don’t think her religion bears the weight alone; she’s all hung up on ‘the way things
should
be done.’”

Jonathon laughs, “And who came up with the rules for all these things?  I mean who decides what to banish?  I’m guessing it isn’t her.”

With a nod, “Stuff her Momma told her, old Southern traditions, you name it.  I’m not even really sure how we gather all the crap in our heads, but she got a double dose of guilt.  I swear the woman feels guilty if a bug dies on the windshield.”

“Oooh, those are hard to break.  Don’t get me wrong, we can get through it.

“Speaking of women, unless we want to get tied to a chair, we better get on with the meeting.  Ellen will have our hides.  I appreciate you talking with me about it though, and I am trying the idea of the Club on for size.”

“That reminds me, she told me to give you this.”  He places a tiny memory card on the table between us.  As for the other, let me know when you decide.  We’d love to have you and your wife join us.  It sounds like we can help.  As a matter of fact, since you’re thinking it over, let me tell you about how my training started.”

And he does.

Elise

Jonathon heard the rap on the front door of his downtown condominium at exactly nine.  Checking the clock on the mantel, he was aware that Hawthorne was exactly on time this evening.  For the past two hours Jonathon had wrung his hands nervously, his palms were now red from the friction.  He’d tried to eat but his throat was dry as a bone.  Nothing would go down except the Irish whiskey his father had sent him this afternoon.  Jonathon’s secretary brought it into his office complete with a crystal highball glass bearing the crest of The Sand Dunes Club.  The kind woman had poured Jonathon’s glass and set it in front of his face, staring at him until she saw it drain down his throat.  Possibly she knew of his plight today.  She had worked in her father’s office for the past thirty years.  It was entirely possible that she knew everything.

Jonathon sat his glass down and grabbed his jacket.  Opening the door, he greeted Robbie Hawthorne who was unceremoniously dressed in a black suit, “Armani?” Jonathon posed as his initial greeting.

Hawthorne nodded plainly.  Well you can’t blame a man for wanting to look good.  Suddenly he felt drab and average.  Maybe he’d head to Berlin’s tomorrow for some new duds?  He had the urge to fix himself up a bit.  He closed the door, locked it, and walked in stride behind Robbie down the hallway.  The car was waiting in the drive in front of Jonathon’s high rise condominium building near the Charleston Market.  The condo had been a concession for him.  He’d preferred a small home West of the Ashley that his realtor had shown him, but his parents insisted that he reside downtown, close to them, close to the office.  It’d ended up being too much of a negotiation of his time, so his parents finished it by buying the condo lock, stock and barrel as his graduation gift.  Who wouldn’t take a free downtown condo? 
Come on, everyone would.

Hawthorne guided the black limousine through the narrow streets silently.  Jonathon had thought of a million questions he would have liked to ask him, but Robbie had closed the glass window between them.  Instead, he sat in the back seat and twiddled his thumbs anxiously for the short ride.

The car pulled to a stop in front of the home of Elise and Alan Reynolds.  Hawthorne nodded, glancing in the rear view mirror as if to say, this is as far as I go.  Now get out.  Jonathon hadn’t gotten a warm fuzzy from Hawthorne since Ellen’s Garden Party the day of the funeral.  He shrugged, maybe the ‘Samurai,’ which is what Robbie was nicknamed on the Wofford football team, had a crush on sweet Ellen too?  It probably wasn’t proper to be considering Ellen moments before her sister tied him to a pole, but nonetheless she was always on his mind.

Alan Reynolds led Jonathon into his private study on the first floor of their palatial home on State Street, and handed him bourbon in a tall glass.  The home didn’t seem large from the street, but once inside, one could see that it stretched the entire city block in one narrow shot.  It made his condo seem like a closet and the décor was right on.

“Any questions?” Alan asked as he leaned casually against an Eighteenth century armoire.

“Well yeah, I do actually,” Jonathon began.  “What do you think about me fucking your wife, because I don’t want any bad feelings?”

Alan choked on a throat full of bourbon and a visible flinch was apparent.  He cleared his throat but remained casual, “Look man, my job as her husband is to provide for her and the children, to protect her from danger, and of course to love and respect her.  The woman’s got talent I tell you; it’s a gift.  This is the way I see it, if I had a million dollars and I only needed half.  Wouldn’t it be cool to share that with my friends?  Just fucking give it to them without another thought.  That way we could
all
be rich.”

Jonathon sat in silence trying to rationalize the Democratic information, “So you see this as charity, thus justified?”