"Oh! Is he okay?" Mom said.
I shrugged. "You know, Reuben--that's Pat's dog--performed the Heimlich on Pat the other night."
"What?"
"Reuben heard Pat breathing funny, there was a low whistle in his throat, and the dog jumped on him and got Pat to cough. Then Reuben checked his prostate. With his paw."
Mom frowned. "When are you going to get rid of your beard? You look like a deranged Ewok."
"Not until I get my own Christmas special."
Maybe I shouldn't let it grow up to my eyes...
"Anyway," I continued unsolicited, "Pat is thinking of moving to Miami. He's using my address now. His passport came in a mailer, but it seems I lost the birth certificate that was supposed to be with it. And he wants me to get him a phone. All in the name of Latin."
Mom's eyes narrowed. "I think he has a thing for you."
Mine widened. "Maybe he does."
"Does he... does he....?"
"Does he what?"
"Does he, I mean, is he able to have sex?"
"He's been talking about getting the right equipment. You know, for the boning experience."
"What does that mean?"
"Sorry, I was just quoting some of Dad's prose. I got his novel, and he wants me to edit it. Here's a necessary sampling.
They fell onto the bed. She was ready to ride. He entered the starting chute, and mounted that wild mustang's saddle. Bareback bucking was on, slow and easy, then up tempo, faster... faster.
That crazy-ass mare bucked with fury, she bit, arched her back and scratched his. Her hips thrust and he grabbed the filly's mane, hung tight, thrust for thrust. He gripped like he was pumping iron. Gyration for gyration...they went!
The Tony Lamas flailed his buttocks, he scarcely felt it, he was grinding to the promised land, soaking in sweat, gasping for air with heart pounding out the path to ecstasy. They came to... a neck and neck ending to release their iron grip on momentary bliss.
Wordless she rose, having satisfied a daily itch.
He sank, while watching her walk in nothing but boots to the bathroom.
Seeing her short skin tight skirt and infectious smile, fired his desire to perpetuate the species, he said, “what’s available?”
She eyed him, “you asking about me or a drink?”
He was going to ask when she got off work. “Jim Beam neat and . . . ,“ as she turned for the bottle he saw her tight waisted figure it prodded the boning experience in him but before he could say . . . “you! When are you off?,” dit - dit - dit - daaah rang, as she placed the glass in front of him with a I’m ready if you’re up for it.
Many women there seemed in the hunt to score too. He could just sense that they had begun after work to dawn their evening costume, which began with strapping on perfect breasts, slipping into tall stilettos with a short sleeveless bright colored mini-dress that fit like it had been spray painted on their work-out toned bodies. Tanned legs, courtesy of a tanning salon, were well exposed. After slipping into “combat gear,” they’d obviously spent enormous time with make-up and professionals coiffing their, the longer the better, hair. They were ready for a night of horizon dancing.
Mom started choking, gasping for air.
"Reuben!" I yelled. Just then Pat's dog came rushing in and grabbed Mom in the Heimlich. They went! Gyration for gyration.
I turned to the audience, releasing my iron grip on momentary bliss and dawning my evening costume of perfect breasts and my, the longer the better, hair. "I hope everyone had a good time reading my blog today."
*looks over length of post*
Aw hell.
Dit - dit - dit - daaaaaaaaah.
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