How's Your Romance?: Concluding the "Buddies" Cycle (24 page)

Sheriff Slade was addicted to cream. It happened like this: he and Lady Clairetta Boothroy were dating, but Lady Clairetta was so dainty she wouldn’t give up her charms unless the sheriff brought some cute young dude along. They would all have tea and play strip poker till the boy had lost his pants. Then Lady Clairetta accidentally knocked over the jam pot and had to lick the mess off the boy’s cock and balls.

“Goodness, how tasty,” she would say, cleaning him up so thoroughly.

But this time the boy was Johnny Mambo, hero of the seven seas. Sheriff Slade got suspicious as Lady Clairetta lapped away. Could she be getting high? He noticed her blissful state as she cooed, “It’s sexlicious.” That sheriff was so nosy. He pushed Lady Clairetta to the side just as Johnny Mambo let fly with jizz thick as cake frosting, all on the sheriff’s face.

“Let me clean you up, darling,” said Lady Clairetta, but the sheriff’s tongue was going all about, and now he got high, too.

“Johnny Mambo feels good like that,” said the sheriff.

And that’s how he got hooked. All he cared about was getting high on Smooth Boy cream. What if a cowboy was new in town? Sheriff Slade would interview him.

“I’ll ask the questions around here,” he would snarl, feeling the cowboy’s skin through his clothes. Sheriff Slade would say, “Where are you from?” while examining that cowpoke’s tight little waist. “Hmm.” Sheriff Slade would say, “What firm are you with?” while pressing that lad’s shirt against the pec line. “Hmm.” Sheriff Slade would say, “You better stop that rustling” while stroking the boy’s soft hair and falling in love.

The boy would say, “I wish to rustle you, Sheriff. Yes, I do.”

So they’d go to Fuckin’ Tree Hill, and Sheriff Slade would get high. They would speak the forked tongue of love in the position known as “family style,” so the sheriff could smooch the boy as he loved him to and fro.

“Take me home, rufftuff!” the boy would cry.

The sheriff could be strict at times. “I’ll teach you to rustle cows!” he would husk out.

“You don’t have to teach me,” the boy would reply. “I already know.” Then he would shoot cream, wailing, “Here goes nothing, Sheriff!”

It was a good life, except the sheriff wasn’t doing his job. Anarchy was everywhere. But this was just the right atmosphere for Pajammy and Corndogger. Pajammy was a merry sort. He would make a party all the go when he said, “Let’s have a gang bang. I’ll be Little Frisky!” That meant he would serve as the guest of honor.

Corndogger had secret ways. When the sheriff’s new deputy, Flex Dumhed, came to town, all the ladies started flirting under their parasols. They loved the way Flex would make the Friday evening sarsaparilla sociable memorable by dropping his pants and imitating a puppy. Then the ladies would take turns house-breaking him, and feeding him treats hidden in their quim. Flex would yip in delight.

So that’s when Corndogger knew it was time to apply the Acme Patented Cockalizer. He and Pajammy laid a trap, painting a sign reading, “Undergear Sale, 95% off.” Flex fell for it, following rickety stairs down to a deserted cellar where our heroes were waiting. When Flex came in, they jumped him and tied him up. Then they got his clothes off with a razor blade.

“No!” Flex Dumhed was heard to cry. “No!” For he had listened to the tales.

The Acme Patented Cockalizer looked like buckskin shorts with side-fastenings and a low waist. It was very sporty. Except once you turned it on, whoever was wearing it would be thingamajigged through his genitals to the very center of his experience. It was joy and torture at once. But Corndogger did not hesitate, so resolved was he to make an example of Flex Dumhed.

Pajammy was setting the dials. “Medium?” he asked Corndogger. “High?”

“Set it to Killbliss,” said Corndogger, from the depths of his cold heart.

They turned it on and watched Flex shouting and flopping around. Were they touched by pity? No. For this was the Wild West, where compassion is weakness. Corndogger folded his arms, calmly watching Flex in his luscious agony while Pajammy performed a samba.

Then Sheriff Slade and his deputies broke in.

“Turn it off!” Flex cried.

Corndogger and Pajammy drew their trusty seltzer bottles and began the fight, but they were outnumbered and arrested. When the sheriff shut off the Acme Patented Cockalizer, Flex cried, “Turn it on!” He was so confused.

“This is what comes of playing the ladies’ man and becoming decadent in the Old West,” said the sheriff. In the hoosegow, Pajammy and Corndogger had only one guard, an older cowboy named Pierce Mayplow. He was stern but kindly. Oh, it was so lonely for him in that jailhouse, he said. The sheriff and his deputies were always out checking for dress-code violations in the saloon or playing strip poker, and Pierce never got to join in.

“We’ll play strip poker with you, Pierce,” said Pajammy in his most winning tone.

Pierce was wary. He said, “Wall, I guess you little scapers is up to no good with ol’ Pierce.”

“We’ll even give you a handicap, Pierce,” said Corndogger, stripping off his shirt and string tie. And Pajammy removed his famous derby.

“Strip poker, eh?” said Pierce, moving a little closer to the cell with his iron ring of keys. “It shore is mighty temptin’.” But then he stopped, unsure. So Pajammy said, “You were always my secret hero, Pierce.”

Pierce came into the cell, and they played a few hands, till all three were naked. Pierce’s dick was so heavy that the floor sagged under him. Pajammy was appreciative. “You’ve sure got a lot of love to give, Pierce,” he said.

Corndogger held back as Pajammy showed respect for Pierce in the time-honored manner.

“Yeah, you like ol’ Pierce, huh?” said Pierce.

“Can I feel your tightness, Pierce?” said Corndogger, coming around to stand behind the cowboy. Pierce was in a buckaroo’s dreamland from Pajammy’s sucking, so he didn’t answer. Corndogger slipped a finger inside.

“What’s that feeling in the rear?” gurgled Pierce in a faraway voice.

Pajammy was blowing Pierce, and Corndogger was rubbing his fingers together inside Pierce.

“Yar,” said Pierce. “Yar. Yar.”

“This is called ‘the cricket,’ Pierce,” said Corndogger. “See how I cricket you?”

“Yar. Yar. Yar.”

“Feel good, Pierce?” Corndogger asked. “Because I can tell that you’re fuck-tight especially for me.”

Pierce’s voice went way high, and he came so big that it was an earthquake that wrecked the jailhouse. A bit later, Sheriff Slade and some of his deputies came down the street to find Pierce sitting on the cell bunk wearing Pajammy’s derby and a look of vacant thrill. The walls and roof of the jail were lying around in pieces, and Pajammy and Corndogger were nowhere to be seen.

Disgusted, Sheriff Slade yelled, “Call out the posse! We’ll hunt them vipers down!”

Pausing in my reading, I asked the authors, “Where did all this invention come from? I thought you were going to write ‘My Sister’s Boy Friend’ or something.”

“Peter Keene helped us with ideas,” Cosgrove replied. “Also Lionel and Carlo.”

“I made up the names,” said J.

“Tom-Tom gave us pointers for the sequence with Pierce, who is quite my favorite character. Tom-Tom is surprising, you know. When you first meet him, you might think he was like I used to be, all confused and without a proper place in the world. But I’m surprising, too.”

“There are a lot of misspellings,” I told them. “And someone’s idea of punctuation is very curious.”

“Every seven words,” said Cosgrove, “in goes a comma.”

“I’ll spruce up the tech before publication,” I said. “How much do you want for this?”

“I will definitely need a CD trip,” said Cosgrove. “I’m running low on my French Romantics.”

“I want bought for me a really nice sweater for Vince,” said J. “All he ever wears in the cold are sweatshirts. It’s his birthday soon, and he should have something classy, because he takes care of his mom so thoughtfully.”

“Have you met her?” I asked.

“No, but we’re always on the phone, it seems. I fill her in on what happened on
Passions
when she has to miss it for Widows Anonymous.”

“What’s that?” Cosgrove asked.

J. shrugged. “Oh, I just call it that. It’s one of those support groups.”

Cosgrove gave me a cup of coffee, and I went on with the reading:

Pajammy and Corndogger were busy escaping. They didn’t have far to go, for right before them was The Quimby School for Young Gentlemen, Marmaduke Quimby, Headmaster. But the school was really run by Carboy. By day? A scholarly eleventh-grader. By night? A revolutionary who yearned to overthrow Marmarduke Quimby’s regime with acts of secret defiance. These would be such as panty raids on the tenth-graders and making risqué improvements on the science projects set up for the Knowledge Fair.

“Risqué?” I echoed.

“Lionel,” said Cosgrove.

When Pajammy and Corndogger matriculated, headmaster Marmaduke Quimby gave them a personal inspection before they could be students.

“Such fine specimens for The Quimby School!” cried that Marmaduke Quimby. “Strip, that I may weigh thee! Only the most excellent young boys may be set on my scale. Oh, but they mustn’t be rash, or severe measures shall be taken. Yes, young boys need plenty of birching. It’s my way of expressing affection. Yes. Oh, such lovely specimens. Which one shall I eat out—uh, weigh first?”

“Oh,” said Pajammy, “most worthy headmaster! Please do strike but that pose once again!”

“What pose?” asked Marmaduke. He tried a few to be helpful.

“Somehow he reminds us unconditionally of that model of rugged virtue for young and old, The Noble Boxer. Does he not, my lord Corndogger?”

“He does.”

“I do?”

“That magnetic forehead! See how the chin juts!”

“Consider the superb fan,” Pajammy added, feeling Marmaduke’s bottom under his coat.

“You flatterbox!” Marmaduke cried. “But I tell you I love it.”

“If you’d remove your things, sir,” Corndogger smoothly intoned. “Yes, right down to the skin. Is he not a rare sample of manhood, Count Pajammy?”

“Rare, indeed,” Pajammy replied, producing from his travel bag a set of Everlast boxer’s shorts and gloves.

“And see,” said Corndogger, beckoning to Pajammy to join him facing the naked Marmaduke. “The sex patch, as modest as a young girl’s.”

“Lionel?” I guessed.

“Peter Keene,” said Cosgrove.

“I think his additions are dopey,” said J. “They’re like Shakespeare in a Three Stooges short.”

“But it’s nice when everyone wants to help you out,” said Cosgrove. “That’s how you know that people care about you.”

J. shrugged. “I have Vince now,” he said. “It’s a different case.”

Soon Marmaduke was suitably attired, and the gloves were secured very, very tightly on the fists. Corndogger coaxed him into the pose of The Noble Boxer, while Pajammy, unseen, dipped once more into his bag. In his secret way, he pulled out the Acme Patented Cockalizer, and stood ready behind Marmaduke.

“Like this?” Marmaduke asked, putting up his fists in an antique pose.

“Just like that,” cried Corndogger, leaping forward to pull down the Everlast shorts as Pajammy attached the Acme Patented Cockalizer from behind.

“Don’t forget the side-straps!” Corndogger shouted.

“The setting, Corndogger?” Pajammy asked.

“Set it to Valentine’s Day Super-Climax!”

And Marmaduke Quimby went bouncing and quacking around the floor in tortured ecstasy as Pajammy and Corndogger made their escape. They met Carboy in the school chapel. He told them of the plot to take over the school, and they told him how they had neutralized the headmaster. Only one enemy stood in their way now—the Slutty Professor. He was engaged in performing drastic experiments of an erotic quality on the faculty and boys in the school.

The three new comrades must take him down. “He
shall
be overthrown!” they vowed.

Disguised as new members of the faculty, Pajammy and Corndogger entered the laboratory of the Slutty Professor. They were just in time: looking over a pile of dirty beakers and used petri dishes, they spied on the Slutty Professor’s latest project. It was a test of the effect of sexual stimuli on the human memory. Yes: there was the Slutty Professor, in his white coat. It was stained with rotten egg and tomato, thrown by despairing students. The two people in the experiment were a teacher named Mr. Twiddle and the captain of the football team, Race Treevor. Both were nude in this peculiar school.

“The subject will repeat the following semiotic cluster,” said the Slutty Professor, consulting his clipboard. He read out groups of letters and numbers, and Mr. Twiddle repeated these correctly.

“Now Race will fuck you and we’ll see the effect.”

Race fucked Mr. Twiddle stand-up style. He was quite rough. He said, “This will be revenge for that C-you gave me on my paper on the decline of the Marais from Paris’ aristocratic
quartier
to a slum during the Revolution because of the flight of the nobility.”

“Oh, come on,” I said.

“That was Tom-Tom,” said Cosgrove. “You know how he loves French stuff.”

“I say it’s stupid,” said J.

“Virgil, would you like another cocoa?” said Cosgrove. His use of J.’s former name so shocked him and me both that there was silence for a good thirty seconds. Finally, J. shook his head. It was a transaction of some kind, but who knew what. I returned to the text:

As Race pumped harder, Mr. Twiddle breathed out, “This is like Donkey Kong!”

“You can try my layaway plan,” Race sneered.

The Slutty Professor announced, “The subject will repeat the following clusters: EG3Y9 X6AE4 7L5ZM.”

“AEIOU!” Mr. Twiddle cried, as Race banged away at him. “Lemeneno P! Hee-haw! Hee-Haw!”

“Dear me,” said the Slutty Professor. “That isn’t even close.”

“Get ready,” Corndogger whispered to Pajammy in their spy niche. “Now!” They crashed into view with their seltzer bottles gushing, and no one was safe.

So that’s how they cleaned up the school. Carboy and his revolutionary gang were so grateful they arranged to travel with Pajammy and Corndogger to Psycho City to defeat the sheriff. But first, our two heroes had to be initiated into the gang, in a touching ceremony in the nude.