For me, there was only one place a man could go and get a first rate rubdown and pay a perfectly reasonable rate for a little "extra topping"—the Saucy Pear Spa and Sauna, down on Zang Street. If I were to become a rich man (which should happen in the next few years if my boss at The Round and Flat Cookie Company gives me that quarter raise I've been hoping for, then commences to suddenly die and mysteriously leave the business and all his personal holdings to me alone out of the sixteen doomed souls trapped there at the food court with me), I would spend at least three spring evenings a week at the Saucy Pear, and pass the other four by writing sonnets about the touchifying I've received therein. I've tried other massage parlors for a quick sexual fix, but in all my experiences, the dispositions of the women left something to be desired, in roughly the same way that the killing fields of Pol Pot left something to be desired. I mean, is it too much to ask that a woman offer me some little white falsehoods about the size of my executive producer as she strokes it, instead of checking her watch constantly and saying "I can't believe it's freaking May already?"
So on the day in question, I walked cheerfully into the Saucy Pear and sidled up to the front counter to greet Rose, a slim and kindly waif from the local university whom I'd been trying to coax into giving me a massage of her own on a strictly non-professional basis. So far, the rejections she'd offered me had stopped just short of including the phrase "Not in a billion years, retard", so I remained hopeful. Today, however, enthused as I was about the forthcoming erotic buffet, I cooled my heels a bit and simply told her I wanted the 'usual', a phrase which had absolutely no meaning but which made me feel very cosmopolitan, and not so much like the horny, semi-employed couch toad I really was.
"You'll be with Jenny today then, if that's okay," Rose said. Hell, it was more than okay. It was about as okay as Willy Wonka building me a great glass elevator in which I could soar through the sky while looking down at my brand new candy factory—THAT kind of okay. I had been with Jenny three or four times in the past year, and my hour with her invariably concluded with local air traffic controllers advising low-flying jets to be aware of sudden sperm formations which had suddenly erupted dangerously into the atmosphere.
Jenny came out into the lobby wearing fishnet stockings and red satin lingerie, flashing her two thousand-watt smile and taking my hand to lead me back to good old Room Twelve. Let me just take a moment here to describe Jenny. Her shoulder-length black hair was so shiny and flawless that I sometimes thought I could see my erection standing straight up in its reflection. Her eyes were the aqua blue of the water of the cleanest toilet bowl imaginable, and to merely touch her skin, which was as creamy as brand name yogurt, was to have a tantalizing brush with an electrical current that ran straight from my fingertips down through my longshoreman and out its tip in the form of strawberry-scented steam. While her mouth often uttered phrases like "Good morning" and "Nice weather we're having", her pouty ruby lips seemed to physically yearn to alter those meaningless syllables into proclamations of love, romance, and copious swallowing. And her frontnot—no, don't get me started on her frontnot. Seriously. No, I mean it, because I'll be here all day, I'm not kidding. Come on, let it go, already, I'm trying to tell a story here!
We exchanged some friendly words and I proceeded to disrobe and lay down on the massage table, the opulent evidence of my horniness already pointed toward Mars. Jenny rubbed some warm oil onto her hands and then the festival began. Leaning over me with her voluminous moon pies just inches from my face, she commenced to rub me down, first doing my chest, then my legs, then my feet, then my eenie weenie toesies. My McStewart was desperately trying to hail the next cab toward her sultry fingers but she of course took her sweet time before going anywhere near Citizen Kane. Fifteen, twenty minutes went by as we chatted about sports and politics and wondered aloud why it took mankind so many thousands of years to invent something so goddamned simple and obvious as the sandwich. She rubbed my butt, she rubbed my neck, she rubbed all my rubbilicious rubby places with the most gentle rubbiness imaginable. All the while I gaped open-mouthed at her big beams and the promising patch of dark hair visible through her filmy panties, which I had never been able to touch, and access to which was simply not possible for the lousy hundred bucks I could afford to plop down once every six to eight weeks.
Thirty minutes into the massage session, Jenny began her trademark salty talk, an arousal technique which was hardly necessary in my hardened state but which was always appreciated all the same.
"You have a very nice body," she began predictably, making sure her eyes were wandering the full length of Ambassador Willingham.
"Thanks, Jenny," I replied, closing my eyes temporarily to soak in the sweet lies she offered at no extra charge.
"I'll bet you have a lot of girlfriends, Cedric."
"Me? Oh, no, not really. Not too many. The usual, I guess. By which I mean, none. Zero. I had one until last September, but she broke up with me. I don't really even know what went wrong. She left me a note but all she wrote was that she couldn't stand the way I ate fried chicken anymore, and she took off."
"Wow, that's really amazing. How could any woman resist you? I mean, if you don't mind my saying so, your penis is so beautiful...."
"Well, thanks. You know, I work on it a lot."
"Is there anything else you'd like me to do for you today?" she asked. "I can touch you in any way you like."
"Well, now that you mention it, Jenny," I informed her, "I find myself in the need of some relief today of a handular nature. Think you're up to it?"
"Oh, I think so," she said, and cupped one divine palm on my keeblers while the other took my Los Angeles Dodger firmly and proudly in its angelic possession. The sensation of this could most accurately be described using the following nonsense syllables, presented here in no particular order: OOO AHH GAR WUH NIM HUH SEP BUH AAHHHH.
While she stroked my daydreaming sausage, Jenny began the second round of dirty talk, the substance of which I had always found a little bit unusual, but when a gorgeous girl with big vowels is kneading your keeblers and slowly coaxing an army of funfoam to the front lines for battle, you don't really care what the hell's coming out of her mouth, even if it's someone else's sex organ.
"Oh my, it's so huge, too," Jenny whispered in her infamous porn voice, which could draw semen from a wooden spoon. "I wish all the Overlords of Zorn had penises this big."
"Me too, baby, me too," I panted, already having to start thinking about controlling the tidal wave of spritz that had been spotted by meteorologists on shore radar and which was about to send a beachful of tourists scampering for their hotels. What was I going to think of today to keep from souping too soon? Was it going to be Kirk Gibson's legendary World Series homerun against the A's again, or maybe something in an Antietam re-creation, complete with images of dying Union soldiers and flying Confederate mud?
"Yeahhhhh," Jenny went on, her fingers squeezing, pulling, dancing, and yanking, "when we descend upon the earth and colonize things the way we need to, I hope they give me weekends off from the Enforced Human Slavery Command so I can occasionally ride a nice hard wangie like yours."
"That would be sweeeeeeet!" I said, my breath coming in stitches now. I opened my eyes just a tad, just enough to take in the exalted image of Jenny's bosom shaking gently as the motion of her hand sent pleasing ripples through her entire body. Yep, it was true, I could kinda, sorta see the edge of one nipple over the top of her bra, peeking out as she did her thing. I offered my mental sympathies to the contractor who would soon have to repair the ceiling above after I destroyed it with the bullet force of my orgasm.
"Sweet indeed, baby," Jenny concluded. "Ready to spritz for me? Ready to show me what you can do?"
"Let me just check my datebook, Jenny," I said, my eyes rolling into the back of my head as she pulled her panties down a tad to expose her pubic hair and just a hint of The Good Earth, which was all it took to send me gaily over the edge. "Is NOW okay for you?"
"Go for it, honey!" she cried. "Show the Zornian Council that when they violently conquer your planet on the thirty-first of May, they're gonna have one huge mess to clean up!"
"YIPPEEEEEEEEEEE!" I shouted, and released between ten to forty thousand gallons of sperm into the pleasant, Muzak-enhanced stillness of the massage room. My elephant jam seemed to literally hover in midair for a split second before bursting colorfully in all directions like a fireworks finale over the Washington Monument, which so tragically looked like a penis but could never know its joys and triumphs. Jenny watched it all in fine spirits and two minutes later I was back in my street clothes, a little fuzzy on the details of what she had been saying to me all along but not really minding.
"Time to sign the agreement, as usual," she advised me, and handed me a clipboard on which I scrawled my name with a still-trembling hand. I had always assumed I was scribbling my John Hancock on some sort of confidentiality agreement to the effect that nothing untoward had occurred in the room, etcetera, etcetera, and I'd never bothered to read it before. Who could make out words on paper when one's head was still spinning from such a legendary beef manicure? I handed the clipboard back to Jenny, gave her an innocent peck on the cheek and all the tip I could afford, and left the Saucy Pear a most happy fella, headed home for a long nap and two or three mental video replays of today's adventures.
As I entered my apartment, I noticed that I had something stuck to my shoe. I peeled a sheet of white paper off the sole, and cursed myself for probably looking like a jackass during the entire walk home. (Like most men, I entertained the bizarre notion that the slightest public faux pas, like mis-combed hair or an unzipped fly or a piece of paper stuck to my shoe, was all that kept women on the street from following me home to shnazz me.) I glanced briefly at the paper and saw that it was the thing that Jenny had me sign. It must have slipped onto the floor and attached itself to my shoe, the bottom of which had been well-lubricated over the years by layer after layer of floor crud from the pretzel place. I gasped like a girl scout exposed to her first sight of wangie when I read what lay on that damnable parchment:
THE UNDERSIGNED DOES AGREE THAT HE HAS BEEN OFFICIALLY INFORMED OF THE PLANS OF THE OVERLORDS OF ZORN TO DESCEND FROM SPACE AND VIOLENTLY CONQUER THE EARTH ON THE THIRTY-FIRST OF MAY, THUS FULFILLING THE FULL-DISCLOSURE ORDER SET FORTH BY THE COMPTROLLER OF THE UNIVERSE REGARDING HOSTILE ALIEN TAKEOVERS.
And there below that insane paragraph, I had stupidly signed my name—Cedric Queasyclamp!
Needless to say, I stormed right back to the Saucy Pear and demanded an instant repeat appointment with Jenny. Because I'm a nice guy and I don't like to cause trouble, I did wait in the lobby for an hour and a half or so while she finished attending to a visiting conventioneer from Georgia (lucky bastard—I mean about the attending, not that he was from Georgia), but the second that was over with and Jenny had taken me back and set me down on the table and rubbed me for a half hour until I richtered again, I brandished the piece of paper and told her the jig was up!
"What is this alien stuff?!" I demanded to know. "You never said anything to me about taking over the earth by force and enslaving us in primitive meat mines!"
"Lemon mines, actually," Jenny explained, "and for your information, I said plenty, thus living up completely to the silly terms of that damned Comptroller of the Universe. You were just too sexed up and panting to notice it, babe."
"That's not fair!" I cried. "You can't say anything of any meaning to a guy when you're lending him hand! You might as well rip off our ears and sell them as candy dishes when we're in that state!" I was so angry and so terrified for the future of the planet that I could barely focus any attention on the sight of her naked wetmelon, which she had generously exposed to me as a freebie for seeing her twice in one day.
"Exactly," Jenny said, smiling a little. "We Zornians aren't stupid, you know. I've been telling you, and every other guy who comes in here to get stroked and slurped, about our plans for eight months now, and getting them and you to sign that form so everything will be on the up-and-up when we take over. If just one of you had put your brains ahead of your peace pipes for two seconds, you could have stopped us, but now it's pretty much too late, sugar pie."
"And who else is in on this intergalactic hustle?" I demanded to know. "Is this whole establishment in on it? Are you all aliens?"
"Nope, it's just me and Rose who were sent ahead for now. She makes sure to send all the stupidest and horniest guys back to me. We just need to collect seventeen more signatures by the thirty-first and Earth will pretty much be ours."
"Okay, that was just plain hurtful," I pointed out. "If you're going to insult my intelligence, you could have at least had to decency to masturbate for me."
"Oh, I can do a lot more than that, sweetie," Jenny said, bringing my hands up to her pillowy mams and offering me a gentle squeeze. "Today's the twenty-eighth....if you agree not to reveal our little secret to anyone, just until the first fleet of attack ships arrives, I'm willing to offer a very special discount on any service you'd like."
I dropped my hands immediately. "This is one member of the superior human race you can't hoodwink, Honey," I said. "I'm all for a half price lay, but not at the expense of five and a half billion humans, and the entirety of our history on this planet!"
"Well, maybe I can do a little better than half price," Jenny said, and hopped up on the massage table. She spread her legs casually and propped them on my shoulders as she removed her red panties. As I might have suspected, seeing her golden pony naked before me was like looking down on the majestic Grand Canyon, the rolling hills of Ireland, and a full box of Ring Dings all in one moment. In an instant she had taken my rooster in her right hand and snuggled it delicately yet with purpose against the entrance to Virginia's Woolf. "How does seventy-two hours of free spelunking sound to you, dollface?" she asked me.
"Like a satanic deal with a monstrous alien force poised to destroy all that civilization has worked to build for centuries!" I said, and to drive my point home I pushed my San Diego Padre forward into her tight wet juicer, hoping she'd really get clued in to the firmness of my resolve. Then, to make sure she knew damn sure who was boss and that I was not some human schlump to be toyed with, I ripped off her bra and took her love dimes into my mouth as I dotted her secret i's, squeezing those deep space tomatoes in the way I had fantasized for months.
I'm pretty sure Jenny knew by the way I eventually raunch-launched in her mouth that the human race whose intelligence the Zornians so looked down upon was much sharper than they thought. Having proved the essential superiority of the earthling brain, I saw no reason to start showing off by revealing Jenny's secret mission to anyone outside the room. And because I really am a total sweetheart, I even signed seventeen more of her legal releases, using various names and handwriting styles, so her little charade could be brought to a quicker end. Her work here completed, she suddenly had some free time on her hands, which I told her she was going to spend back at my parents' basement as my hot-bodied alien poodie-puppet. She agreed on the condition that I do a few hours of manual labor each day during the invasion, just reloading the Zornian death rays and making sure people died in an orderly fashion, as well as giving her some serious oral attention during all of my breaks. She was going to teach me to eat snuzzer like a real Jupiterian Glukopold, she said. The thing is, Earth was probably going to blow itself up anyway pretty soon, right? So if it's three days from now instead of three hundred years, what's the dif? The point is, I showed Jenny a thing or two about who could be swindled and who couldn't on this planet.
Um, didn't I?
Each year's competition also launches its winner to sexual prominence. In 2001, Germany's brilliant Ingrid and Ungrid Himmelgraut gadoogled their way to nearly perfect scores and a four-year deal to create their own Amsterdam live sex revue, as well as star in a series of commercials for Burger King's new taco fries. Modern Wangie magazine here offers the following power ranking preview of this year's lucky and ambitious competitors, so you can get the early jump on the inside scoop, buzz-wise:
10. RUSSIA— Ilsa Androvna and Ilyich Varsa
Rumor has it that Ilsa and Ilyich, this year's truest underdogs, have been looking to replace iron-fisted coach Boris "The Sickle" Popov, whose vocal criticism of Ilyich's premature ejaculation in last year's qualifying round made unpleasant waves. But three coaches in seven years haven't been able to correct Ilyich's habit of popping too early, and not even his infamously brutal training technique—for up to eight hours each day, he rapidly swaps his eighth wonder between Ilsa's mouth and a bucket of ice-cold Baltic seawater—could stop him from erupting inside Ilsa only eighty-eight seconds into their routine last May. The sight of his sad Soviet sperm leaking down his enraged partner's thigh was one of the year's most disappointing erotic sights, as was Popov's attempt to shoot them both with a crossbow for once again destroying his dream before a crowd of 9,373 at Madison Square Garden.
9. INDIA — Brahda and Narahda Pettalan
Critics claim that the Pettalans' insistence on attempting woman-on-top anal intercourse keeps them from making it to the final round year after year. This intricate maneuver has only been completed successfully twice in competitive sex since 1996, and the second success was clouded by accusations that the Norwegian couple involved had used an outside lubricant—the death knell of international rules violations. Brahda and Narahda's usual routine is just that—routine, a nine-minute progression from kissing to fingering to oral sex to slow and rythmic yoidling, all set to Bryan Adams' reliable "Everything I Do (I Do For You)", and it seems the couple can think of no other way to wow the judges at the end than to get Narahda's thing up Brahda's admittedly spectacular pluto. But the triple-axle of sex continues to elude them, resulting in last October's semi-final collapse at The Mercedes-Benz Horizontal Challenge when it seemed Narahda had no clue just where his penis was headed.
8. CANADA — Jessie McDonough and Timmy Gilford
Canada's beloved young couple, who seem to represent all that is wholesome and innocent about British Columbia's majestic heartland, shnazzed each other so beautifully in last year's finals that two judges were seen to have tears in their eyes. It was only the fact that Jessie so obviously did not reach smiley-face that cost them their long-yearned-for crown. Indeed, it seems that in recent competitions, the couple's admittedly stunning grace while shnazzing only results in an orgasm for Jessie about seventy percent of the time. Some believe that it will take more than a feather touch and a caring tongue from Gilford to get the desired highest mountain from Jessie in the future, and she has confided to friends that she wishes "Timmy would just ease up with the delicacy once in a while and shnazz my Canadian brains out". Gilford remains committed, however, to the old school theory that sex should be a poetic display of love, and even when ramming his partner doggie-style to the tune of U2's "Desire"—quite a bold maneuver for the both of them, considering their angelic image—he seems oddly Zen-like. They have an outside shot at the title this year if Jessie can get off convincingly in the judge's eyes.
7. MEXICO — Anna Cruz and Enrique Romo
The up-and-down odyssey of Anna Cruz continues to be a hot topic of discussion in the world of competitive sex. This stunning beauty whose breathtakingly flawless choodle and incredible oral technique scored her three championships in the early nineties continues to hook up with one inadequate partner after another. This year her resplendent snuzzer, a neatly-trimmed tableau of vivid, dainty colors usually only seen in the most awesome of Mexican sunsets, was recently immortalized on her home country's third class stamp, but it has been treated most rudely in competition by Enrique Romo's careless, jabbing member. As if former partner Javier Rodrigo's irritating and unprofessional grins and smiles during Anna's oral overture weren't bad enough in 1999, Romo's amateurish, noisy slurps at Anna's gorgeous oats are guaranteed to cost her another championship—if he can even get past the oral smoothly and penetrate that celebrated homewrecker on the first try.
6. ITALY — Donna Monleoni and Marco DonLeone
No matter how beautiful is the sight of DonLeone's nine-inch wicket sending forth a never-ending rainbow stream of zither mix directly into Monleoni's rosy, supple mouth at the conclusion of their thirteen-minute routine, it cannot hide the fact that the couple doesn't quite possess bodies as pretty as what those bodies can do on the professional bed. DonLeone has been struggling with his weight since 1997 (his family runs a chain of four-star Italian restaurants as well as a candy factory and an easy-chair wholesaler), and Monleoni doesn't seem to realize that judges are paid to notice such things as her careless makeup jobs and slightly pudgy thighs. Still, this couple has no equal when it comes to great beginnings and grand finales. Their routine last year opened with Donna swirling Marco's sausage lovingly and frenetically in her raven-black tassles before she slurped it down like a Flintstones vitamin to the haunting strains of the love theme from Children of a Lesser God. It all ended with the crowd gasping at Marco's dead ejaculatory aim, showcased while the music switched inspiringly to Celine Dion's "A New Day". As Donna rubbed what little syrup she didn't swallow over her large vowels, it seemed like the couple might just walk away with their first championship cup—but Marco's inability to hide his growing gut as he got up off the bed simply cost them too many points. If only they spent as much time working out as they did devising new ways for Donna to wear her liquid necklaces, they might have a better chance at shnazzing for the big prize.
5. FRANCE — Lynelle and Yves Monette
The French sure can yoidle, as evidenced by the sweaty hardcore action of the Monettes. Lynelle's mad bouncing dance on her husband's wangie leaves no question that she loves every minute of competition, and few women are as overtly sultry when they Vesuvius. It's a wonder sometimes that her head doesn't fly off with all her bucking and flailing. The Monettes are also famous for perspiring unashamedly and often licking each other's sweat as they go at it, their thirsty oral display accompanied by the best of modern French electronic music. It's great sex, and when they're onstage there's not a single soft member in the audience, but is it art? Last year they literally tore up the bed, and Yves' handlers labored for more than two minutes to dislodge a pillowcase from his left ear after the routine was complete. But the couple only received a third place medal for their efforts, suggesting that ecstatic grunts and throaty screams do not make up for the myriad tiny flaws that plague the Monettes' routine, from Lynelle's tendency to grind her crotch way too hard into hubby's face during their sixty-nining (which resulted in a bizarre near-suffocation during their performance at 2001's Super Bowl halftime show), to Yves' troubling inability to time his outstroke to the throbbing techno beats that blare deafeningly over their feverish shnazzing. Here's hoping this husband and wife are not too exhausted to accept a nice big check this year.
4. IRELAND — Mia O'Leary and Seamus Hearn
She's a busty red-haired beauty of nineteen, raised on the windy heath of Glaston-Upon-Glastonshire; he's a rough-hewn fisherman from Shobbler's Cob who's a full foot shorter and ten years older than she. Their routine begins with him serenading her from afar with his lovely accordion-only version of "The Long and Winding Road", and ends with his trout-slicked hands gripping her Irish wetmelon as soups lustily inside of it. In one moment, Mia is a shy virgin princess in a flowing green gown bending over to listen to the blissful song of an imaginary fawn, and fifteen minutes later, she's a writhing wangieslut bending over to take her squeeze's throbbing oscar. Their act celebrates both the delicate eroticism of sexual union and its coarser oh-yeah-shnazz-me-harder-please-Santa aspects, and it's always quite a show, a sort of Riverdance spectacular, and just like Riverdance, the dancers often leave the stage walking funny and toweling choodle juice off their foreheads. Don't be surprised if this year, Mia and Seamus' Irish eyes are smiling as they stand naked, panting, and a little bruised in front of an ecstatic nation.
3. CHINA — Po Deng Xiao and Long Nang
Imprisoned for eleven years on a Manchurian labor farm for speaking out against human rights abuses in their homeland, Po Deng Xiao and Long Nang were the first to use their sexual routine to call attention to the continued atrocities committed daily against Chinese citizens by their oppressors, thus removing every bit of the entertainment value in watching attractive people do it.
2. POLAND — Mirsk Kotosk and Jeromisk Walesich
Forgive us for punning on the incredibly obvious, but Warsaw's Jeromisk Walesich sports one serious Pole. The longest member in international competition goes face to face with one of the hottest yum-caves in the world. Watch for Mirsk Kotosk's big, soft, succulent beams to cradle Walesich's slick, almost comically rigid flute for a good three minutes at the beginning of their new routine centered around boob-shnazzing and balletic rear-entry action. The terrifically erotic sounds of this couple's humping have been captured on a new CD which has become the third best-selling album in Poland. No one's golden pony gets as wet and wild as Mirsk's, and you can hear it from the seventh row lapping hungrily at that enormous wangie like a baby koala drinking from a Serengeti tide pool after a six-week drought. Hopefully the noises of pure lust will be enough to distract the fans and judges from noticing that the two competitors so obviously despise each other. Their ever-growing hatred tends to manifest itself in subtle revenge games as they go at it, so watch for Jeromisk to soup in Mirsk's eye for the third straight time in formal competition if Mirsk again hides a thumbtack in her mouth before she fellates him.
1. AMERICA — Judy Shipshank and Rod Mendelbaum
This could be America's year if popular porn stars Judy and Rod can come out of nowhere, so to speak, after three grueling years of rehearsing in private. Their routine is said to incorporate everything from a haunting sexual interpretation of Jean-Paul Sartre's No Exit to an emotionally moving silent tribute to the fallen victims of the Loch Ness Monster which involves Judy dribbling Rod's funfoam from her tongue into his ears. Legendary coach Asia Dundee, herself a two-time sex champion whose impeccably timed four-foot leaps onto her partners' shafts are still unrivalled today, emerged from retirement to help craft the work of the American upstarts. Videotapes shot surreptitiously of Judy and Rod in rehearsal at Fenway Park caused many in the media to touch themselves with open glee, and some say Judy's gumdrop has been transformed through constant workouts into a glowing undersea pearl that hypnotizes all mortals who look upon it and which can trigger an orgasm at the slightest change in a room's air conditioning. Exaggeration, perhaps, but few doubt that the red, white and blue will finally place in the top three for the first time since 1977, when Americans took the grand prize thanks to co-winner Lincoln Roosevelt Washington's remarkable recovery from a premature spritz to spill a second time within three minutes, a competitive record tied in 1981 by famous science fiction author Arthur C. Clarke.
Hoames and I were sitting comfortably in his study on the ninth of October, 1887, basking in the glow of the satisfying resolution of the recent Puzzlement of What Happened to the Guy Who Beat Up the Other Guy (with no thanks due to that confounded Inspector Lestraub!), and generally enjoying our peace and quiet when the housekeeper alerted us to the presence of a visitor. Hoames put down his violin (he had given up learning how to play the vexing thing some months before, and spent most of his time just gnawing absently on the third and fourth strings) and sprang to his feet.
"Perhaps another adventure has come our way, Watkins!" he said enthusiastically, his boundless energy always a sight to behold.
"I almost hope not, dear Hoames," I mused. "I'm still recovering from the Perplexing Case of the Man Who Purloined Seven Hundred Dollars from Someone on the Street at Gunpoint for Financial Benefit and Was Seen by Eleven Witnesses and Captured Immediately."
"Be that as it may, my mind needs a new challenge," Hoames retorted. "We can't sit around in this accursed study every Sunday afternoon. The invention of professional football lies another thirty years hence, and I shall go off my nut if I have to spend one more noontide listening to another one of your blasted light bulb jokes!"
We looked up to behold our visitor, and I must say we were both quite stunned at this particular apparition. It was none other than Lady Dippingham of Upton-Upon-Snootshire, young wife of the noted entrepreneur Lord Dippingham, the man who had made a vast fortune by introducing casino gambling to the Vatican.
"Good day, sirs," she said shyly, ornamented in a smart red dress and hat. "I hope I am not intruding."
"Not at all, Lady Dippingham," Hoames assured her, taking her dainty hand in his own. "Won't you take tea?"
"Please, call me Elsadonnaprunellamadeline," she said, taking a seat.
"To what do we owe this honor, Lady Dippingham?" I asked.
The bashful young lady, who was no more than twenty years young at her wedding the previous December, hung her head. "I have a matter of the utmost urgency and confidentiality to discuss, I'm afraid. It relates to the theft of a certain article in my and my husband's possession. The Very Nice Gemstone has been stolen!"
Hoames and I gasped simultaneously. (Truth be known, my gasp was faked, since I had no idea what the hell the Very Nice Gemstone was.)
"Good Madam," Hoames said, leaning forward, "do you speak of the famed Very Nice Gemstone brought over from Morocco and purchased by your husband at Sotheby's in October of 1874?"
"Indeed I do, sir," Mrs. Dippingham said, her face a study of sorrow. "Since its acquisition, it has rested safely in its case within my bed chamber. But last night, it vanished without a trace while I read quietly in bed—simply vanished from one moment to the next!"
"Fascinating," Hoames whispered, sitting at the edge of his seat.
"Pardon me, Hoames," I interjected, "but could you enlighten me as to the Gemstone's history?"
"For Christ's sake, Watkins, pick up a newspaper once in a while," Hoames said crossly. "The Very Nice Gemstone was handcrafted for King Eltonjohn of Siam seven hundred years ago as a fertility blessing. It seems the King was chronically unable to impregnate his queen for certain reasons of....." Here he narrowed his eyes, trying to recall the whole story.
"Reasons of flaming homosexuality!" I suddenly remembered in one burst. "Yes, the King was a prancing, shimmying nancy-boy, according to legend."
"Indeed, you're correct, sir," Lady Dippingham added. "The King was gay as a blueberry scone, and the jewel was made with the belief that whoever wore it would be able to more easily achieve and maintain an......ah....." The poor child's face had become the color of spring roses in Trafalgar Square.
"There there, lass, there's no need to go on," I said, patting her immaculately pearly hand. "We can easily discuss this predicament without resorting to talk of wangies, sausages, and rock hard McStewarts."
"Watkins, enough!" Hoames chided me. "Tell me, Lady Dippingham, is your husband aware of the theft?"
"No sir," she said. "He returns from a purchasing trip in Corfu this very evening, and I wish so much he never had to find out the jewel is gone. Though it's insured, Charles values it for....other reasons."
"Other reasons?" Hoames said, producing his famous meerschaum pipe, lighting it up casually, and puffing on it serenely after a typically cataclysmic six-minute introductory bout of deafening hacking coughs.
"Yes, Mr. Hoames," Lady Dippingham went on. "As you know, my husband is a septagenarian. At his rather advanced age, he sometimes has difficulty of his own when he ventures to....to....." She trailed off again.
"I understand fully," Hoames said. "The invention of Viagra lies some one hundred years hence, and it can be difficult for a man of seasoned years to perform certain husbandly duties without the aid of magic amulets."
"Not that I mind, Mr. Hoames. You see, I've never been much for....that sort of thing. They taught us at the convent that it was a cruel and unpleasant business, and indeed I have found it so."
Hoames rose to his feet apace. "Lady Dippingham, Watkins and I will solve this mystery with as much aplomb as we can muster. I think our first course of action is to take a carriage to your residence and examine the crime scene. Come, let us away!"
There were tears of gratitude in Lady Dippingham's eyes as she stood. "Oh, thank you, Mr. Hoames. I shall meet you at 617 Chutney Street in one hour!"
Fifteen minutes later, Hoames and I were traversing our way through the cobblestone streets of London, anxious to begin our sleuthing. Having not completed our luncheon, we brought along a large watermelon for sustenance and passed it back and forth between us.
"Lovely girl," I noted to Hoames as we dined.
"Indeed," he concurred, scooping up another handful of melon with his bare hands and mashing it into his jaws. "The couple is still very much the talk of the West End. Lord Dippingham, a crusty and icy man of finance, and his blushing bride, an innocent girl of manners and delicacy. You know, you have a seed on your cheek."
"I must say I rather envy Dippingham," I said. "I could not help but notice Lady Dippingham's striking bosom."
"Striking is an understatement, my friend," Hoames said, digging both hands into ever more of the soft, pink, wet fruit. Gazing at that bounteous meat, my mind turned irrevocably to the fact that I had not myself sampled feminine pleasures since I ended my engagement with Miss Gunkenloaf in June on grounds that she was really, really, really goddamned stupid. "It has been some time, Watkins," Hoames continued, "since my cunning detective's eyes examined such a triumphant chest—perhaps not since meeting your own embittered ex-fiancee, who, though being really, really, really goddamned stupid, possessed a most wondrous pair of bubbins."
"Yeah," I said, staring out the window. "Man, life sucks."
"That's really good, Watkins," Hoames said crossly. "There's the Victorian era dignity I so value in a sleuthing assistant. 'Life sucks'. How quaint. Jesus H. Christ!"
Within moments we found ourselves at the gate in front of 617 Chutney Street. We were ushered up a set of winding stairs by a sullen midget butler, and Lady Dippingham met us at the peak.
"This way, gentlemen," she said, leading the way. She had removed the hat she had greeted us with an hour before, revealing her lovely long black hair and soulful blue eyes. What a pleasure it was to attend a young lady to her bedchamber, even in the context of a professional inquiry!
The bedroom was large and cozily lit with several bright oil lamps. "Here, sirs, is where the Very Nice Gemstone was kept," she said, pointing out a small glass case just beside the large four-post bed. The door to the case was still ajar.
"Describe, please," Hoames began, "the jewel in question."
"Well," said Lady Dippingham, "it is a ruby pendant hanging from a silver chain, and cut in a circular O-shape. Sadly, it can be removed from the chain easily and is small enough to fit in any villain's pocket!" The despair rang loudly in her lilting voice.
"I see," Hoames said surveying the room. "What time did the disappearance occur?"
"At about eleven o'clock last night. I was on top of the bed, in my nightclothes, doing the Sunday Times brainteaser. I happened to look over at the case—and the door was open and the Gemstone was gone!"
"Hmmmm," Hoames muttered, restricting himself to only four Ms so as not to further worry the dear woman. "And the doors and windows were sealed tight?"
"Indeed, Mr. Hoames. Oh, I'm ever so in despair!" With that, she covered her eyes and sat on the foot of the bed. I sat also to console her, putting one arm around her tiny shoulders. The gentle squeezing of them pronounced her soft cleavage more impressively, providing an opportune eyeful of bliss.
Hoames noticed the newspaper on the night-table. Lifting it, he turned to Lady Dippingham with a frown on his face. "I'm afraid, Lady Dippingham, that my inquiries will go much more smoothly if you refrain from lying to me!"
Lady Dippingham looked at him, eyes wide. "But whatever can you mean, Mr. Hoames?"
"You said you were alone here last night....but as usual, the Sunday Times brainteaser illuminates as well as educates!" Holding the newspaper out to her, he pointed firmly. "This brainteaser has been filled in with two different sets of penmanship—one female, and one very obviously male!"
I took the newspaper and checked his deductions myself. It was true! Criminy!
"Also, Lady Dippingham," Hoames ventured further, "may I point out to you that a 'four-legged equine animal that might win a derby' is not, as your puzzlemate apparently believed, a starfish!"
Lady Dippingham hung her head in shame. "I'm sorry I lied, Mr. Hoames. But you can understand, I am trying to protect my honor!"
"Then it was not your husband who shared the joy of the puzzle with you, eh?" Hoames questioned.
"No sir....it was not."
This confession made me rise off the bed in shock. "Lady Dippingham!" I exclaimed. "Do you mean to tell us that the man who also foolishly wrote 'Miami' as the answer to the clue 'a country made up of Irish people' is ....do you mean to say he is...."
"Oh, just a friend, and that is all!" she cried, and flopped backwards on the coverlet. "But gentlemen, you must think me the lowest sort of creature! I, who possess a husband so rich and worldly, have taken another's company!"
"And this man joined you last night in your bedchamber for an evening of puzzle solving?" Hoames demanded to know.
"Yes," said Miss Dippingham. "It was nothing more than friendly companionship. The boy is merely nineteen, a common laborer who works in the bread mines. I thought I might.....show him some kindness...."
Hoames paced the room, taking in every little detail with his hawk's eyes. He produced his meerschaum pipe again, and in his grave intensity, accidentally put the wrong end in his mouth.
"Lady Dippingham," he said sternly, "obviously you take us for fools. If nothing untoward occurred between you and this 'friend', how do you explain....this?!" He suddenly yanked back the bedcovers to reveal a series of curious indentations in the top sheet. The most prominent was a deep depression flanked on both sides by two small circular ones.
"What do you make of it, Hoames?" I asked, spellbound.
"Quite simple, my dear Watkins," he noted. "In her anxiety to cover up any traces of her evening visitor, our Lady Dippingham forgot to smooth out the sheet. If you examine the center indentation carefully, you will see it corresponds roughly to a pair of stout buttocks. The smaller indentations on either side describe the place where a pair of knees rested!"
"Which implies that a woman rested atop a man in a most indiscreet position!" I finished, overwhelmed by Hoames' logical acumen.
Lady Dippingham closed her eyes. "Yes...it is true. Again you have seen through my defenses. Gentlemen, I have taken a lover....and I could not be more deeply ashamed!"
"Whew, lucky guess," Hoames announced. "I really had no idea what these indentations are. I just figured it was worth a shot."
"Brilliant, Hoames!" I exclaimed. (Most readers of our adventures do not realize that the vast majority of Hoames' deductions were the result of either wildly fortunate guesses or illegal eavesdropping.)
"You must forgive me, gentlemen, for my offenses against God," said Lady Dippingham, rising and gazing out the window. "I was inaccurate when I described conjugal activity as unpleasant. The truth is, I have been unable to satisfy my appalling lusts ever since I became married. I am an unnatural, damnable creature!"
"There there," I offered, again wrapping an arm around the good lady, thirty percent of which was honest concern for her comfort, and the other hundred percent more or less a ruse to gaze at the stunning downslope of her ample cleavage.
"Be that as it may, we have a crime to solve," said Hoames. "This commoner you brought into your bed—we will assume for the moment that he stole the jewel, no?"
"But Mr. Hoames, sir," Lady Dippingham stuttered, "it is quite impossible. You see, I know for a fact that Matthias left this room not only empty-handed—but unclothed as well."
"The devil you say!" I said loudly, mostly because it's a phrase I just can't enough of.
"I do say indeed," she went on. "I heard footsteps out in the hallway at midnight, when we were lying together. Terrified that my husband had returned early, Matthias leapt up from the bed and jumped out of the window onto the street below, then ran for all he was worth, naked through the streets of Bickamby-Below-Bumpenshaven!"
"And you are certain the jewel was not on his person?"
"Quite. But when I looked at the case once again, the jewel was gone!"
"I see," Hoames mused. "Lady Dippingham, I have a theory as to what happened to the Gemstone—but it cannot be confirmed until you go over every detail of exactly what happened between the two of you last night. The more information you give me, the quicker we can resolve this mystery and restore your diamond before your husband arrives!"
"Well," Lady Dippingham began, "at seven o'clock I saw Matthias through my window. He was just an anonymous youth walking home from the mines, but I desired his company instantly, and let him know by gracefully dropping a symbolic green silk kerchief from my balcony, letting it catch the evening breeze in an understated gesture of fondness. But figuring such subtle symbolism might be beyond his grasp, I also wrote the words 'I NEED A RANDY POKE' on the kerchief to speed things up."
"My lady!" I exclaimed. "May I ask, wherever did you learn such an expression? The invention of Cinemax is nigh eighty years away!"
"Most people think a convent is a pious and restricting place, Mr. Watkins," she explained, "but in reality, we spent most of the day fingering each other, writing dirty limericks, and betting on professional wrestling."
"Please go on with your tale," Hoames urged.
"The boy came up, introduced himself as Matthias, and proceeded to strip me naked," Lady Dippingham continued. "Within moments, I felt his hot firebrand in my mouth, and I proceeded to denigrate myself in all sorts of terrible ways."
Hoames and I sat down in chairs simultaneously to conceal our predictable physical reactions to the woman's words. While handmade woolen slacks are ideal for solving dastardly mysteries on cool autumn days, they serve most poorly when attempting to hide male excitement of an elongatory nature.
"Matthias was here for several hours, and we spent each other entirely," Lady Dippingham told us. "In every conceivable position, everywhere in the room. He even tried to introduce my midget butler into the fray, and while I was admittedly enthralled by the suggestion, I felt that discretion forbade it."
"I see," Hoames mused. "Now tell me, by chance, did Matthias' performance ever wane during this time, even for a moment?"
"Well," Lady Dippingham said, "I'm afraid I may have overtaxed the sweet lad a bit. After his third exultant deposit of seed, I leapt upon him again a might too quickly, and his final erection of the evening was most wobbly and unstable....but only for a minute or two."
"Exactly as I suspected!" Hoames said. "Only for a minute or two....and then, perchance, did he see fit to turn you over and proceed with rear-entry relations for the duration?"
"Why yes!" the adulterer before us exclaimed. "And just moments after the culmination of a most enchanting boning, he was forced to spring up and leave me!"
"Indeed," said Hoames. "Lady Dippingham, you will be happy to know that I believe that not only was the Very Nice Gemstone not stolen, but that it is here with us in this very room even as we speak!"
"Why, Hoames," I protested, "I fear you must be mad!"
"Mad as a hatter, dear Watkins, but of this thing I am certain. You see, it was the revelation of Matthias' difficulty with momentary limpness that has made me believe he used the Very Nice Gemstone for its original purpose—to help maintain the male erection. But it was not his neck with which he adorned the amulet—it was...."
"His floppingpole!" Lady Dippingham finished for him. "Could it be?"
"The amulet is the ideal size and shape to use as what the disgustingly lurid Americans refer to as a Ring of Caring. I believe that your fair face, good Lady, was smooshed conveniently into your satin pillow when he removed the Gemstone from its case, unlatched the chain, and applied it to his javelin in order to remain as hard as you desired. And after his final sighs were complete, the resumption of his pizzler to its soft pre-arousal state caused the Gemstone to be loosed. When he leapt up to dart out of the room, it undoubtedly remained in its new sheath, Lady Dippingham—your once-virginal honeycup!"
She gasped for about the five thousandth time that afternoon. "You really suppose the Gemstone resides within my gentleglove?"
"I do!" said Hoames. "The only question that plagues us is, what is the most effective and pleasurable means to lance the amulet and bring it back to civilization?"
I don't have to tell you, dear Reader, that the solution which eventually entered Hoames' mind was most unprecedented. Just moments later, Lady Dippingham had slid her undergarments off in preparation to receive my colleague's maypole into her splendorgarden for the purposes of rescuing the Very Nice Gemstone from its current happy home. This was to be both a clever application of sound engineering principles and a most relaxing post-church diversion!
"Now, Lady Dippingham," Hoames informed our host, standing beside her bed and spreading her alabaster legs with chivalrous gentleness, "I assure you that this act of intercourse is strictly proffered as a means to an end, for the purposes of settling this unsavory issue and making sure a valuable totem is not lost. Please do not take my erection as inappropriate flattery or lewd enthusiasm; it is merely a biological reaction to certain innate male properties of the craniothalamus."
"I understand, Mr. Hoames," replied Lady Dippingham, lying on her back and reaching up to fondle what was to soon become her lilycavern's newest short-term tenant. "In return, kindly do not misperceive the rapidly escalating moisture within my blossombox as a sign of excitement and lust. It is hot, slippery, and eager only due to my sense of relief that your cunning mind has solved the case so quickly and efficiently!"
Sherbob smoothly inserted his tootentipper into the smiling Lady, and within approximately eleven seconds his eyes crossed in a perplexed fashion like those of the character Yosemite Sam in the as-yet uncreated Bugs Bunny cartoons.
"I do apologize, madam," he said, sweating profusely. "I have released my spend before I was able to spear the Gemstone."
"That is quite all right," Lady Dippingham replied, breathless. "I fear the selfish writhing of my hips in orgasm may have deflected your baldlord from its intended course. Perhaps a slightly longer tool will more easily achieve the intended effect?"
"Watkins," Hoames said, buttoning his trousers, "perhaps you can be of some assistance in this matter?"
I stepped forward and produced for the lady's inspection what I believed might be a more efficient and more durable device with which to draw the matter to a close.
"Mister Watkins!" exclaimed Lady Dippingham with a starry-eyed sigh. "It is a wonder your Miss Gunkenloaf survived even a fortnight after your breakup without the attentions of this particular manservant!"
"Well, she was really, really, really goddamned stupid," I told her. "Madam, would you mind if I undid your bodice to motivate myself to full potential?"
"Anything you say, baby!" Miss Dippingham said cheerfully, and with the freeing of her magnificent huge psalms to public inspection, I felt myself approach a state more than adequate to explore her inner reaches. I drew the tip of my moistened candleprod across her stiffening lickables for the sheer experience of it, then proceeded with my investigations.
We were led to a most happy conclusion within mere minutes. Certain angles of entry were found to be more conducive to detecting the Very Nice Gemstone than others, and thus it was my pleasure to service Lady Dippingham not only in the staid missionary position, but with her thrusting merrily down on top of me. Finally, she was Dippinghammed in a most hearty manner as she jovially bent over on all fours, releasing delighted but decidedly weird cries of "HOW'S YOUR BROCCOLI, BITCH?!" every seven seconds or so. In the end, I withdrew my ardent soldier to find that the Gemstone had blessedly hitched a ride upon it, and all was quite well—or so we thought!
It was Lady Dippingham who brought about the next unforeseen disaster. Anxious to clamp her ruby lips upon me and swallow the summerjuice that had begun to leap from my diggle like a team of Russian acrobats at the Bolshoi, she inadvertently sucked the Gemstone right down her cream-loving throat!
"Oopsie," she announced, wiping her mouth and grinning sheepishly.
"Lady Dippingham," Hoames pronounced, "I'll tell you what I told Marie Curie: you are one hot, nasty slut."
The case was finally resolved as were about half of Hoames' famous cases in those days—with the two of us frantically making a cardboard replica of a priceless gemstone in order to fool some chick's husband that nothing was awry. All the stress was most certainly worth it, however, for the few fleeting minutes we experienced amidst the glories of Lady Dippingham's unquenchable young softberry. Oh, that Sunday was not perhaps as awesome as the whole Hound of the Flaskervilles mystery—damn, did we get our pipes cleaned that weekend! But when you're stuck living in Victorian England with little to do but wait for the invention of pizza and Jenny McCarthy, any distraction is a welcome distraction.
"Tonight we shall drink, and drink well!" the Prince of Darkness cackled in a thick Transylvanian accent (which was by no means easy for him, since he was actually from Jacksonville). "Within this house resides the toothsome high schooler Mary Fay Gripshaw, whom I have long desired to make one of my many brides!"
Dracula's most recent addition to the vampire family, twenty-four year old Chet Cakeway, looked up at the Count in awe. "Sounds good, Master," he said. He had been bitten by the Count the evening before, between the fourth and fifth frames of his shoe store's Friday night bowl-off against those jerks from the South Street 7-11. He was looking forward to the life of a vampire and already found it far more preferable than working for a living. The only disadvantage he could see was that he would have to sleep during all the daylight hours, and being a huge Eagles fan, that could spell trouble on Sunday afternoons.
On the second floor of the Gripshaw abode, a bedroom light went out. Dracula rubbed his hands together. "It is time for the king of vampires to attack," he said lustily. "Let's go. You're wearing tennis shoes, right?"
"Right," said Chet.
"Now, I'm going to change into a bat and fly to her window. You sneak in the back door, go upstairs, and let me in from above. Do you understand Count Dracula's fiendish instructions?"
"I guess," Chet said. "Except a crowbar cost like fifteen bucks at Home Depot and all I had was seven because I thought we were getting paid this week but then I remembered pay week was last week, so I just brought a screwdriver to get in the door."
"Whatever, whatever," said Dracula, and with that, he mutated into an ugly yet eerily graceful bat before Chet's eyes, lighting upwards into the night sky!
Chet went around the back of the house and pried open the back door. He snuck up the steps and put his ear up to the door of one of the two bedrooms on this level. He heard faint sounds of grunting and panting, and he could make out the voices of a man and woman.
"Don't even think about putting it in there, Pete, not there!" the woman was saying, trying to keep her voice down. "Not until you get the Corolla fixed like you said you would!"
"Oh hell," the man replied, groaning. "If I promise to take it in on Wednesday, will you at least let me go halfway?"
Chet crept away from that door and pushed open the entrance to the other bedroom. Within lay barely-legal Mary Fay Gripshaw, co-captain of the Beevit High cheerleading squad and assistant treasurer-elect of the French Club, soundly asleep. Posters of The Backstreet Boys and the cast of Friends adorned her walls. When Chet laid eyes upon her, he drew in a surprised breath. She was stunningly beautiful, her blonde hair cascading over her pillow as he had always believed hair could cascade given the right mood lighting. Her translucent nightie outlined her nubile body to stunning effect.
Dracula was tapping on her windowpane. "Open up already," he complained. Chet moved across the room and let him in. There was an awkward moment when Chet shut the window on the Count's cape, causing Dracula to be jerked roughly backward when he tried to move toward the bed.
"Sorry about that," Chet said. "Hey, at least now I know another good thing about becoming a vampire. Just look at that hot boot!"
"Show respect for Dracula's future bride!" Dracula hissed, swirling his cape threateningly over the lower half of his face. He swirled it a bit too far and knocked over a candle shaped like Homer Simpson which sat on Mary Fay's bureau. "Now, you shall watch and learn. You are about to receive an education in the black art of vampirism!"
Dracula and Chet moved silently to Mary Fay's bedside. She shifted in her bed a little, the movement drawing the nightie more tautly over her large beams, upon which her nipples were faintly visible.
"Man oh man," Chet whispered.
"Indeed," Dracula said, and crouched down. "And now...to drink!" With that, he exposed his fangs and allowed them to descend hungrily toward the innocent's neck. Poor Mary Fay, unaware of the terror that hovered above her, could do nothing to resist as the vampire pierced the soft flesh of her throat and drank.
"Ewwwwww," Chet noted.
Dracula drank until he was sated, which took several minutes, during which Mary Fay, from the depths of her unconsciousness, moaned and actually drew Dracula closer. Her nightgown rode most of the way up to her hips, and Chet was afforded quite a view of the smooth skin of the girl's fleshy thighs.
"Damn," he said as Dracula completed his task and rose to his feet again.
"Now she is a vampire!" Dracula whispered. "She will do anything I say, kneel to my every bidding!"
Mary Fay opened her eyes, still sleepy and confused, but instinctively looking into Dracula's own and asking him, "What do you command, Master?"
"My child," Dracula told her, "you will go out into the world night after night and create an army of vampires. You shall begin this very evening. Now arise, and while I and my protege Chet go east to the ocean, you shall go west, toward the Otis Town Fashion Mall, and feast on human blood all the way. Good night!" And with that, Dracula spun around intently and began to step toward the window, accidentally slamming his hand against Mary Fay's armoire, which was about twice as painful as it looked.
"That's it?" Chet asked, confused. "That's all you're going to ask her to do?"
"She will faithfully fulfill her duties as a vampire," Dracula told him. "It is as I command!"
"But she'll do anything, dude," Chet said, gawking at Mary Fay's slinky body and freshly washed hair, which continued to cascade most impressively. "She's, like, your willing bride."
"What are you getting at?' Dracula asked, irritated.
Chet shrugged. "Nothing, man, I'm just saying....she's an eighteen-year-old girl, right? You're just going to suck her blood and leave without, like, taking advantage of the situation?"
Dracula peered at Mary Fay, hypnotizing her. "My puny student is correct," he said softly. "Mary Fay Gripshaw....before you venture out into the dark night to spread the disease of vampirism to an unsuspecting world, you shall make us a tray of peanut butter cookies, from scratch!"
"Yes, Master," Mary Kay replied sleepily. "I shall do as you wish."
Chet rolled his eyes. "No, man, I'm talking about, like, sex."
Dracula's eyes widened so much that one of his contacts fell out. "How dare you corrupt the meaning of vampirism with such childish desires of the flesh!" he spat. "You have much to learn, protege!"
"Wouldn't the meaning of vampirism still be uncorrupted if you just, like, felt her mams a little?" Chet asked, honestly befuddled. "I mean, she's totally hot. You are normal, aren't you?"
"Of course," Dracula snapped, resenting the implication and getting really ticked off that this was about the fourteenth time he'd heard it in the past six months. "But this is unthinkable. Now, let us be off, foolish one."
Mary Kay sat up in bed, coming partially out of her undead trance. "That doesn't sound too bad, actually," she said.
"Hush, child," Dracula said to her. "You know not of what you speak."
"Well, I am your bride," she said poutily. "What kind of man would you be if you didn't consummate the marriage?"
Dracula put one hand to his forehead in vexation. "Look, the word 'bride' is just a term we use, all right? Don't take it so literally. Christ!"
"Come on, Count," Mary Fay said, brushing the hair away and lowering the shoulders of her nightie to expose the upper mounds of her bosom. "Be a man, let's get a little motion going on."
"There you go!" Chet said excitedly.
"You are but a girl of eighteen years!" Dracula exclaimed to Mary Fay, re-adjusting the shoulders of her nightgown to cover her cleavage fully. "You know nothing of vampirism, and you know nothing of the sacred joining of human bodies!"
"Oh, my ass," Mary Fay protested. "I've shnazzed three guys already. I'll bet their wangies were bigger than yours is."
"Enough!" Dracula exclaimed. "You have both offended Dracula, and if there is any further pointless gabbing, I shall leave both of you to fend for yourselves without my invaluable tutelage!"
While he was protesting, Mary Fay was busy unzipping his pants and fishing one hand around inside. "Oh, well, maybe I was wrong," she said. "You're pretty well hung after all." She pulled Dracula's flute through the fly of his trousers and gave it a few friendly tugs.
"Oh, you are so doomed, dude," Chet commented to the Count.
Mary Kay opened her mouth and wrapped her teenybopper lips around the Count's foghorn, moving her head back and forth enthusiastically.
"This is a monstrous affront to the vampire's code, which I myself helped to create at the Vampire's Constitutional Congress of 1641!" Dracula persisted even as he got harder and harder inside Mary Fay's mouth.
"Check out this monstrous front, baby," Mary Kay said, temporarily getting some air and pulling her nightgown entirely off. Her blinkers were even a little bigger than Chet had even thought. "Now, you,> sweetie, there's no reason you can't be eating my thelma while Drac and I do our thing. How sharp are your fangs?"
"Not too sharp at all yet!" Chet said happily, getting down on his knees.
"Too bad, actually," Mary Kay said, licking the pre-pop off the Count's rooster. The Count, meanwhile, stood rooted in place, seeming greatly displeased at the goings-on but deciding that since the night was pretty much ruined anyway and his credibility had been shot to hell for the moment, he might as well get something out of the situation. For the first time since the onset of Transylvania's Great Depression (which had pretty much begun thirteen hundred years before and showed no signs of letting up anytime soon), he allowed his undead oscar out for a bit of exercise.
Meanwhile, Chet buried his tongue between Mary Fay's legs and inhaled her sweet pepperminty scent, a pleasant preamble to the young, effervescent taste of her rapidly moistening oats. He could not have been happier than he hadn't been made into a Frankenstein!
Five hours later, in the earliest moments before the crack of dawn, the lights of Mary Fay's bedroom were suddenly flipped on, revealing to her worried mother a most shocking scene. Roused from a deep sleep to check on strange noises coming from behind her daughter's door, she discovered her beloved Mary Fay, the world's most famous vampire, and some goofy nerd in a Phish t-shirt engaged in a three-way more twisted than anything she had ever seen on the Fox network. Mary Fay was right in the middle of trying to fit one of her seven dildoes up Count Dracula's butt when she heard her mother scream.
Dracula changed into a bat in the blink of an eye and soared out the window instantly, wondering how the hell he was going to keep this one out of Monster Watch Weekly. Chet was a little slower to rise, his ears having been smooshed between Mary Fay's thighs for the entire night and blissfully unaware of all sound other than the moist squishing of Miss Congeniality. He got one pantleg on and bolted past her mother down the stairs and out of the house, intent on finding a phone book tomorrow to look up the address of one Sally McBibble, a first class hottie from his own high school days who he figured must still live around here somewhere.
"Well, Mary Fay," her mother said, arms folded and indignant, "how many times are we going to have a repeat of this little scene?"
"Oh, leave me alone already, Mom," Mary Fay replied, rolling her eyes.
"Don't you take that attitude with me, young lady," Mrs. Gripshaw said. "If you're going to insist on dragging whatever sorry vampire wangie you can get your hands on into this house, the polite thing to do would be to tell these losers that you already are one. Now for God's sake, the sun will be up any minute, and your father and I are in no mood to be turned into dust because of your antics. So close those blinds and get some sleep!"
And holy crap, this was all before the werewolf and the mummy decided to swing by!
So much for being married!
I found myself at age thirty-two an unencumbered man once again, a little older, a little wiser, but still very much steadfast in my desire to seek out every available nubile female in town and leave them all walking funny. Then there was my whole Martha Stewart thing, which I realized was a bit of a longshot, but damn, did I want to slide America's Most Wanted into that pilaf-preparing tootsie.
I proceeded to strike out miserably with the opposite sex at every bar, dance club, and bowling alley lounge within two hundred miles. Moves which had once guaranteed me the phone numbers and e-mails of pretty girls suddenly got me nothing more than curious stares. Strategies which had once assured me of getting to at least third base now resulted in weak pop-ups behind home plate. I was totally out of the game. I swear to God, I was very nearly rejected by the motionless image of redheaded twins on the cover of Swank. I finally understood what Eugene Levy must go through every day of his life.
What I needed was a baptism by fire, a sure thing to get the lava flowing again. That was when I thought about Lila.
Lila, whose lithe frame had undulated around me so many moons ago like a giggly anaconda devouring its horny prey. Lila, whose blonde hair had been like thousands of soft fingers stroking every erogenous zone on my body, including two or three science hadn't even discovered yet. Lila, to whom the concept of wild sex demanded nothing less than a top-of-the-line steel trapeze, a full eleven-man soccer team, and six trips to the pharmacy for more heating pads and ChapStick. Lila, who had once coaxed a fountain of sperm from me merely by writing the word NOW on a Post-It note and pasting it to my sweaty forehead. I needed to find her fast before the world of sex passed me by in its cherry red Ferrari and chucked an old Pepsi bottle at my head as it did.
I tried everything to track down that magical pixie who could renew my outlook on life and grant my wangie as many wishes as it needed. I combed the internet personals for any sign of her, I interrogated friends, I hired a private detective to track her down. I even placed a fraudulent claim with the Missing Persons Network to get her face plastered on a milk carton. Unfortunately, the only photo I had of Lila depicted her riding me in the back of a Meals on Wheels van we had seen on the street while shopping for scarves, and it was sadly deemed unsuitable for public distribution.
Finally, a vision came to me in a dream. In it, I was floating naked over St. Louis, gazing down at a post-apocalyptic world ruled by gigantic super-intelligent Sunkist oranges. Willie Nelson tried to shoot me down in his zebra-striped fighter jet, but I was too wily for him and together with Yosemite Sam I eluded danger and went on to own the world's largest licorice plantation. Then Lila appeared, whispering, "Oh, stop already. I'm living at Harmony Hills."
Harmony Hills, I thought to myself as I showered the next morning. Now we were really through the looking glass. Harmony Hills was a place enshrouded in mystery, like Stonehenge or the John Tesh estate. It was said to be everything from a maximum security convent to a nudist colony for zombie midgets to a marijuana patch so vast it could mellow out the entire state of Israel. I drove down I-34 in my used Kia Sephia (Doris got the Honda in the divorce, that icky tramp), and soon breasted a hill which revealed the quote unquote splendor of Harmony Hills. The sign on the gate read NO TRESPASSING NO VISITORS NO PHOTOGRAPHING THIS SIGN NO LOOKING IN THIS DIRECTION MILK DELIVERIES IN REAR. A man who'd had satisfying sex sometime in the past five years would have turned around right there and then and contented himself with just a few more months of masturbating to the Tanya Harding wedding night video. But not I. I had not been so determined to enter someplace since Sally Triplett from eleventh grade civics class had told me that I absolutely could not do anything more than finger her as we watched The Aristocats together.
I parked my car out of sight and crept through the dense woods toward the perimeter fence. When I reached the twelve foot electrified monster, I scrambled up a nearby tree and dangled from several high branches before dropping down inside the property, tumbling to the ground and rolling as soon as I hit to avoid several broken bones.
(Okay, there was no perimeter fence. I walked through six feet of ankle-high grass and was pretty much at the front door of the main building. Leave me alone, I'm trying to entertain.)
The central mansion was roughly the size of the Superdome, and had all the welcoming atmosphere of Lenin's tomb. I spotted an open window on the ground floor and crept in through it, the only time I had penetrated a truly hostile fortress since I eased myself into Cassie Simpkins from twelfth grade biology class in the back seat of my Pacer even as she cried out that God would punish us forever. (And hey, it turned out that He did!)
I found myself in a vast hallway leading to an endless array of rooms. The decor of the mansion's interior stunned me to my very roots.
On every wall were framed paintings and photographs showing acts of sexual congress plucked from the imaginations of some seriously perverted dudes and dudesses. I walked along looking left and right at naked bodies entwined deliciously in the national pastime, my mouth agape and my erection practically leading me down the hall. Here was a 4 x 6 painting of two people shnazzing shamelessly on a tropical beach. Here was an even larger photograph of a brunette goddess winking at the camera as she laid a soft tongue on the tip of something that could only be described as, well, the opposite of soft. Along came a painting that at first I had trouble making sense of, until I realized I was looking at not one, not two, but fourteen women sixty-nining in a bed that seemed to go on for miles. Thirteen of them were really, really good-looking, and the fourteenth just needed to part her hair on the other side.
I had struck paydirt of the highest order! An entire enclosed society of perverts who were obviously secreted away somewhere engaged in an orgy on the grandest scale ever conceived! Surely they'd have a need for a technical advisor! What lay around the next corner? I wondered. Diamond-studded fishbowls full of condoms? Complimentary sex towels in all colors of the rainbow strung on a laundry line made from satin G-strings? Perhaps even a living nativity of the Kama Sutra involving half the population of Vermont?
What lay around the next corner was Lila herself!
There she was, silently mopping the marble floor of the main ballroom, where there was no balling going on as such, just a whole lot of empty. The ceiling featured what I'm sure was the largest pornographic drawing in the celebrated history of the visual arts. It was kind of like the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, yet subtly different because this focused a little more on poolside doggie-style sex.
I gasped when I recognized Lila. She was wearing a floor-length dark blue prison dress, her hair was tied up in a schoolmarmish bun, she wore no makeup, and the polka dot toenail polish she'd sported long ago (an incredible turn-on for no understandable reason) had been replaced by, well, just toenails.
"Lila!" I cried. "What have they done to you?"
She turned, smiled, and stopped mopping momentarily. "Hey, you," she said. "Welcome to Harmony Hills. So glad you've decided to join us."
"Join you in what, exactly?" I asked.
"Why, freedom from sex," she said mildly. "Harmony Hills is a shelter for those who find too much sexual gratification in this world. People come here when they are absolutely overloaded with pleasure and wish to free themselves from the destructive grip of too much blissful lovemaking."
"Did you just use the term 'lovemaking'?!" I asked her, wondering if I was still in a dream. "Who taught you that hideous word?!"
"When I came here three years ago," Lila went on, "I was engaging in intercourse seven or eight times a day with total abandon, so happy that I nearly missed the whole point of living. Here, I was taught how to be miserable and frustrated. Finally, I have meaning."
"But what about all the eye-popping hardcore stuff on the walls?!" I asked, baffled.
"That's there to desensitize us," Lila said. "After so much time wandering these halls and seeing so much sin wherever I looked, I felt nothing at all about sex. Now I spend my days worrying about world economic issues, obsessing over my health, and generally feeling tense and uncomfortable. Soon I'll truly be a fully-rounded human."
Three men appeared behind Lila, dressed in similar institutional garb. They smiled sexlessly at me.
"This is Elbis, Thurman, and Rodney C.," Lila explained. "They and all the other men here engaged me in sexual union when I first arrived, over and over and over again, in every room in the mansion in every conceivable position, using every conceivable toy, until I was totally sated."
"She was quite lovely when she came here," said Thurman, a geek if ever I saw one. "Now her inner loveliness has finally emerged."
"Inner loveliness, right," I said. "She looks like a pancake with hooters!"
"Ah, we used such insensitive words before we came to Harmony Hills," piped Rodney C. "Sad days those were indeed. Won't you now accept us as brothers and sisters and live out the rest of your days amongst our glorious eunuch family?"
"Sure thing, freak show," I said, nodding cheerfully. "I just need to go to my car and get my toothbrush. See ya." With that, I turned and strode out with purpose and dignity, turning my nose up at these hopelessly misguided fools. (Okay, actually I ran like a sissified girlyman, my arms pinwheeling like a Hanna Barbera cartoon character. I thought the Harmony Hills freaks might be one of those cults that couldn't let you live once you knew their secret. There was no such drama as I dashed out of the house, and in fact, Elbis called after me to help myself to some mints from the dish beside the front door.) It was three hours later when my genius re-asserted itself and I realized I had to go back to Harmony Hills one more time, to unleash my brilliant plan on the monsters who had taken my Lila.
After I finished watching the eleven o'clock and eleven-thirty episodes of Family Feud on the Game Show Network (Damn you, Doris, what did you make me into?), I crept back onto the Harmony Hills Estate. I snuck unseen to the main dormitory and found Lila's name on the directory—there were three L. Von Sniftermelons listed, so I had to take a lucky guess—then I snuck up the stairs and knocked gently on her door.
She opened it in a nightgown about as sexy as one of those anti-radiation suits the Russian dudes wore at Chernobyl. She seemed surprised to see me.
"Lila," I said, clasping my hands together and sinking to my knees, "I see now that I need help too. After I left here, I had impure thoughts about every woman I saw, including the ones on a commercial for the Special Olympics. Won't you show me the golden way of No-Sex Zen?"
"Oh, of course I will!" Lila said happily. "This will be great. We can even be lunchline buddies when spring rolls around!"
"Super!" I exclaimed. "But let us not look to the future when so much work needs to be done this very night to save my soul! I need to rid my heart of the foul demon Sex by whatever brutal means available!"
"Hmmm," Lila said, pondering. "I seem to remember you and I having a great deal of intercourse some years ago....and you did not seem to tire of it."
"Indeed, Sister Lila," I agreed. "I was one sick monkey."
"I think it will take some very intense immersion therapy to cure you," she said. "Three, possibly even four weeks of constant union."
I clutched my head and looked to the ceiling in agony. "I fear the immersion!" I cried, "Yet I must do what must be done."
Lila picked up the phone. "I'll call Thurman. He'll arrange for several partners in the morning. The Burrit sisters are usually available—they're a little overweight, but the extra pounds have made their scars less noticeable somehow."
"But Lila," I said, "it was always you I lusted for most. Until I am cleansed of the desire for your body in particular, all the other therapy will be quite useless, no?"
"Mmmm, interesting point," Lila said musingly.
"And for that cleansing to take hold for good, don't you agree that you and I should engage in union for two to three weeks straight?"
"Wellll....." Lila said, scratching her head, "I do want to help..."
"Please, Lila," I said. "I need you to reach out to a suffering spirit."
She sighed. "All right. If it will help you see the light." With that, she excused herself and went into the bathroom for a few minutes. The first stage of my plan had gone off without a hitch. Now, if I could somehow reach deep down and summon the ability to please Lila's neglected bits, I was confident I could get her out of here. Stages two through seven would involve a slow re-introduction for Lila to the joys of gadoogling, and future stages would hopefully culminate in our execution of a sexual maneuver known in the equatorial continents as 'The Left-Handed Mummy', a drawing of which I had spotted in the dorm lobby three floors below and which would have sent millions of lonely male eBay bidders scrambling for their Visa cards.
I was in for yet another shock. When Lila emerged from the bathroom, I was greeted with an erotic vision that eclipsed any I had previously known. She had covered her ruby lips in bright red lipstick, allowed her blonde hair to cascade loose over her shoulders, and changed into a see-through black negligee and high heels.
"Jesus, Lila!" I said. "How come you have such hot clothing lying around?"
"Oh, this," she said, bored. "I figured your stunted male psyche, having been conditioned from an early age to become aroused at the sight of a woman in come-hither attire, would demand such vapid sexual trappings to become excited."
"I see," I said slyly. "What are the other trappings to which I have become enslaved, do you suppose?"
"Oh, dirty talk is another evil we here at Harmony Hills have overcome. For instance, I suppose if I said I wanted you to shnazz my brains out with your long, stiff sausage, and that my scrumptious thelma was getting wet just thinking of having you slide it in there while you nibble on my perfect breasts, you'd display the typical sad Pavlovian response of all males."
Pavlov was doing his thing, all right. I unzipped the fly of my jeans and lowered them a little to allow some precious oxygen into the busting front seam.
"My urge as a backward male to dominate you is asserting itself already, Lila. I think I'm right on track. Sometime in the next five seconds I want to reduce you to a servile object and have you fellate me, then, when you beg me to allow you to swallow my Hot Whip, I'll wish to mount you from behind and shnazz like precocious puppies in a public park."
"Precisely," Lila said, nodding in an intellectual manner as she reached a velvet hand out to free my seeing eye dog. "Your openness to this therapy is definitely going to hasten the process of you becoming a true soul." With that, she sank to her knees, lowered the shoulder straps of her negligee, and guided Herr Director to the softest spot between her blinkers. She made it draw a little wet circle there, my pre-pop glistening in the lamplight. She rubbed the head of my foghorn against one lickable, then the other, and finally took it into her mouth, displaying that she had lost none of her old oral expertise despite the fact that her mind had apparently hopped the soonest flight to Denver for a couple of weeks of skiing and Bible study.
I won't bore you with the details of our encounter—you're not reading this for some transient sexual thrill. Suffice it to say that I gave my all to please Lila, whose disinterested yawns were insultingly frequent. I gadoogled her just the way she liked, me standing beside the bed and her laying on it, her legs held high in the air by my trembling hands, slow going in and quick on the outstroke. She seemed only bored. I snacked on Vitamin P for a solid hour, thinking I had her sailing over the edge of ecstasy when I heard a satisfied grunt, but when I peered up at her face I saw that she was only reading the Sunday paper's Style section and had seen there was a sweater vest sale at Sears. I even attempted Lila's old favorite stunt, a trick she tastefully called The Last Supper, but the only milk we could find on such short notice was two percent, there was not a single swizzle stick to be found on the estate, and my car battery was sorely undercharged. After three hours of non-stop shnazzing, my orgasm was so intense I swear it made me two inches shorter.
"That's an excellent start," Lila said as I lay on the floor like a dying carp. "Why don't you take five minutes to towel off, and we'll begin again."
I felt like Max Von Sydow taking a breather in The Exorcist, wanting only to find the nearest Iraqi bar and down a few shots of Pakakakakaki before sleeping for the next twenty years. "Lila," I said, "I've really had enough for one night. Get me in the morning after the breakfast buffet, okay?"
"Oh no," she said sternly, hauling me up. "We've to got to get every ounce of union out of you for good. Now you have exactly three hundred seconds till your wangie has to be hard enough to take a stroll down Baltic Avenue, so get moving!"
Well, my friends, it went on like that for two weeks. Day and night, Lila's choodle was either pressed firm against my face or wrapped snugly around my pretzel rod as I held on for dear life. Eating, sleeping, and water intake were afterthoughts in Lila's unforgiving regimen. Before coming to Harmony Hills, the most orgasms I had ever experienced in one day was five. Lila had to sign an abacus out from the east storage room to keep track of mine now. Let me tell you, by the tenth orgasm of the day, the other parts of your body start asking you some serious questions. You know you're in foreign territory when you're less concerned about keeping the new delivery of love-latteì from hitting your sweetie in the eye than in what that bizarre moaning sound in your appendix could be. By orgasm fifteen, the visions set in. I distinctly remember carnalizing Lila from behind against her balcony railing at three in the morning of some unknown weekday, then pulling out to spray on her back, only to witness what little silkymilky I had left float mystically into the sky where it was scooped out of the air by tiny green Amish coppersmiths who tried to sell me some discount phone cards. I believe my nineteenth orgasm of July the seventeenth occurred when, in my coital delirium, I began to hump the fire extinguisher mounted next to Lila's door.
Finally, on the first day of August, my body had had enough. I possessed no feeling anymore between my stomach and my knees. I looked down in bed to see Lila pointlessly licking the tip of my St. Louis Ram. It was no use. I was done forever. I had about as much interest in sex as Michael Gilfarb has in moving to Three Rivers if Janey takes the job with Exxon. (Mental note: references to people only I know tend not to be quite as interesting to the reader.)
And I saw the light, dear audience. The Clockwork Orange treatment had evacuated my mind of all thoughts erotic and perverted. Lila and I spent our final afternoon poring over nudie picture after nudie picture on the internet, staring at all manner of gadoogle-themed images to zero effect. In the old days, the very sight of the word "thigh" on a computer screen would reduce me to a blubbering, overly aggressive mass of testosterone, but no more. I now subscribed only to the purely reproductive aspects of sexual intercourse. When I looked at Lila, I now saw the honest, decent human being whose favorite book was A Room With a View and who had cried for two weeks when her beloved hamster Claudius Maximus had injured his wee paw when a peanut M & M rolled over on it, and the shallow memory of the wanton succubus whose lips could suck the paint off a yield sign disappeared into the ether of my sordid past.
Lila and I married and had sex two more times—joylessly I assure you, and only to create two fine bouncing baby girls, Hestarene and Mollipoddle. We live safely enclosed within the walls of Harmony Hills, spending our days painting graphic images of couples whose cheerful shnazzing only belies the emptiness within them. The population of Harmony Hills has increased four hundred percent in the past two years, and there's talk of our great leader, Zorn, leasing Giants Stadium to stem some of the overflow. I urge you, dear friend, to go back to the beginning of this trilogy and read it again and again, so as to slowly sap your dreams of sexual misdeeds. Think of Lila's saga as a gentle erotic lathe gradually grinding down all of your impulses to lick, suck, shnazz, finger, stroke, and probe. By the twentieth reading or so, I feel confident you'll be ready to join us and start a brand new life, even more confident than I am that you'll stop midway through, close this book, and think to yourself, "Good God, who wrote this crap?"
THIS TRILOGY IS HEREBY DEDICATED TO THE BRAVE YOUNG GIRLS OF ARMSTRONG SENIOR HIGH CLASS OF 1988, SO MANY OF WHOM, I SEEM TO RECALL, POSSESSED SERIOUSLY SMOKIN' RACKS.
1) TALKING ABOUT SEX
Talking about sex with your partner is widely recognized as one of the worst substitutes there are for actually shnazzing. While sharing your feelings, desires, fears, wants, and fantasies can be a mature way to open new doors in your sex life, it often takes more courage to open up than it does to simply walk in the door at the end of the day and announce, "Wife or lover, I am horny." Experts estimate that in the time it takes to stage an honest exchange of sexual desires (fifteen to twenty minutes per year, in some cases!), a man could flail about wildly on a clitoris with his tongue and probably get lucky and somehow cause an actual orgasm, which leads to instant, not delayed, gratification for her and a greater willingness to please her man in turn. Remember, "talk" is what led to such disasters as the Louisiana Purchase and Pepsi Blue.
2) SETTING THE MOOD
While men wouldn't mind going at it with their girl in a filthy apartment or even the bottom of a used test tube, most women prefer to make love in an atmosphere of soft lighting, soft music, and cleanliness. If you're having a girl over to have sex, try to make an effort to remove at least some of the evidence of the evening's earlier sex you had with someone else. Don't just give your bedroom bureau a once-over with a rag and some Pledge; go all out and wipe the spungo off the handles if you can, and if you were videotaping your sex an hour before with Girl A, it's usually expected that you pop in a fresh tape afterwards so Girl B will feel she's a little bit special.
You might want to consider preparing dinner for your partner before moving into the bedroom. Try making something light and low in fat to make sure both your systems are ready to rock come showtime. Vegetable lasagna or a nice chicken stir-fry should work well, while traditional male favorites, like the twelve egg Omelet Dog or fried southern porkbean with chili bacon sausage sauce, should be avoided. It's okay to order takeout from a nice Chinese restaurant or an upscale French bistro, but a woman should be allowed to physically eat her meal in the dining room or kitchen instead of having to consume it right next to the front door merely because you're so hard you can't wait another minute to light the Olympic torch, as it were.
Remember above all else to close the blinds before you have sex to make your sweetie feel more relaxed. If making love while confined in a futuristic human zoo, wait till full dark and try to move partially inside your feed-cave.
3) FOREPLAY
Recent studies have suggested that a woman's thelma makes up only two to three percent of her total body area, contradicting the findings of virtually every porno film ever made. A woman has many erogenous zones, and you must not confine yourself merely to her choodle. Doing little things like licking her choodle or gently rubbing her choodle are also appreciated, while putting your penis in her choodle and humping her sweet choodle can also lead to pleasurable sensations in her hot choodle.
4) BRINGING YOUR PARTNER TO ORGASM
It may ease a man's mind to find out that the word "orgasm" has more than one definition, and it doesn't necessarily have to mean some mindblowing, screeching climax for your lover. "Climax" can mean an intense tingling that builds in waves and satisfies her, or it can just mean a mildly heightened, perfectly calm feeling of sensory pleasure. It can also be taken to mean the slightest rise in physical response from your lover, or even an occasional sound that suggests everything is somewhat tolerable and she is willing to continue with what you're doing for the time being, or a cozy descent into a passive half-sleep for her while you go about your business. All these things fall under the definition of orgasm for a female, so perk up; it's not as hard to get her off as you might think!
5) AFTERWARDS
When a man is finished with sex and all the lotions and mustards have been put away, he tends to want to either go right to sleep or leave the county entirely. This is understandable, but a decent excuse for not sticking around to cuddle is expected. Early meetings or emergency surgery are tried and true fibs which are usually tolerated by women. Telling her you just remembered you left your car on fire, or that you have to quickly get back to the year 1914 to warn Archduke Ferdinand about his impending assassination, is not quite going to cut it plausibility-wise. When all else fails, it can't hurt to be honest with your lover about your desire to spend some time alone. The key here is knowing when to cut off your sentence at just the right moment. Saying "Darling, I really enjoyed the lovemaking, but I'd like to be alone for a bit" is all right; saying "Darling, I really enjoyed the lovemaking, but I'd like to be alone for a bit because I tend to get kidnapped a lot and held for ransom by agents of the Mossad and I'm worried they might think you're with me and my bank won't insure two people" is going to defeat the purpose of sharing your true feelings. And try to keep the first part of this sentence as intact as possible. "Darling, I really enjoyed the lovemaking" is far preferable to "Darling, I really enjoyed getting a piece of pony" or "Babe, I'm all sugared out on your fat oats".
6) KEEPING THE SPARK ALIVE
There are so many ways to keep a woman sexually happy it's not even funny. One of the best ways is to make her feel completely comfortable with telling you that she'd really like to do somebody else for a while. When she is someone else's girlfriend, be supportive and wish her well in doing this other man. And if things with the other man don't fan the flames of passion quite enough for her, and she decides to move on to find yet another wangie that isn't yours to jazz on, let her know that you still support her one hundred percent and continue to hope that her ongoing quest to find great long-term shnazzing goes well. This both eases the pressure on you to be a perfect lover and makes her feel she has a real friend as she searches for true sexual happiness.
7) SELECTING AN APPROPRIATE WEDDING GIFT FOR YOUR EX-LOVER AND HER NEW HUSBAND
It is good form to always consult the happy couple's bridal registry when selecting a gift. If nothing on their registry seems appropriate or affordable, an offering of cash, presented in a tasteful envelope bearing the names of both spouses, is acceptable.
THE PRECEDING PAGES WERE DISCOVERED ON NOVEMBER 18, 2003, IN THE PARENTS' BASEMENT OF CEDRIC QUEASYCLAMP. THE ZORNIAN TAKEOVER OF EARTH WAS THWARTED WHEN IT WAS DISCOVERED BY AGENTS OF THE FEDERAL BUREAU OF EXTRATERRESTRIAL AND BIGFOOT INVESTIGATIONS THAT THE ZORNIAN POPULATION OF THE UNIVERSE TOTALLED SIX ALIENS, AND THAT THEIR ACCESS TO ATTACK SHIPS AND DEATH RAYS WAS LIMITED, TO SAY THE LEAST. THE MASSEUSE NAMED 'JENNY' WAS DEPORTED TO THE MASSAGE PLANET SPESTERUS-17, AND CEDRIC IS STILL EMPLOYED AT THE ROUND AND FLAT COOKIE COMPANY, WHERE HE WAS RECENTLY PASSED OVER FOR A QUARTER RAISE.
Competitive Sex Preview
Sex enthusiasts nationwide are bracing this week for eroticism's biggest annual charity event outside of April's Million Masturbator March and October's Cunnilingus Across America. This year's "Olympics of Sex", the Silver Sperm Invitational, promises to draw more than ten thousand people to the OfficeMax Arena in downtown Detroit, each of whom will pay up to two hundred dollars for a ticket to watch the most beautiful and coitally talented couples in the world shnazz in direct competition. Last year's Invitational raised over two million dollars for the Clumpman Fund, an organization dedicated to ensuring that underprivileged citizens in third world countries can gain proper access to nude photos of Helen Hunt.
ODDS OF WINNING: 100 to 1
PREVIOUS BEST SHOWING: 41st
ODDS OF WINNING: 90 to 1
PREVIOUS BEST SHOWING: 28th
ODDS OF WINNING: 72 to 1
PREVIOUS BEST SHOWING: 3rd
ODDS OF WINNING: 32 to 1
BEST PREVIOUS SHOWING: 1st
ODDS OF WINNING: 16 to 1
BEST PREVIOUS SHOWING: 2nd
ODDS OF WINNING: 1 in 12
BEST PREVIOUS SHOWING: 3rd
ODDS OF WINNING: 1 in 8
BEST PREVIOUS SHOWING: 15th
ODDS OF WINNING: 1 in 4
BEST PREVIOUS SHOWING: 7th
ODDS OF WINNING: 1 in 3
BEST PREVIOUS SHOWING: 2nd
ODDS OF WINNING: 3 to 2
PREVIOUS BEST SHOWING: never competed
All Is Satisfactory, Hoames!
I vouchsafe that of all the challenging cases the venerable Mr. Hoames has assayed to solve in the past years, the curious mystery of the Very Nice Gemstone was by far the most pleasurable. It is not often that Hoames and I can step from 228C Butcher Street on a crisp afternoon and return within hours with a case fully solved, and with some most unusual side benefits attached, as I will heretofore explain.
At Least Cover Yourself With Your Cape
Count Dracula laughed knowingly as he stood with his new young protege at the top of the driveway of 1746 Maple Pie Avenue, peering through the midnight darkness at the windows of the Gripshaw house.
Lila, Part Three: The Freeing of the Pervs
It had been more than four years since I'd seen Lila when my divorce was finalized. In that time, I had gone from a wild and carefree sex maniac whose goals and ambitions were seemingly limitless to a jaded and defeated shlub thanks to the efforts of one Doris Kapecknick, who made marriage into something akin to Martin Sheen's boat ride down the Nung river in Apocalypse Now. When I married Doris, she was a bright, attractive, aspiring sculptress. The second that two karats her finger, she was transformed into a minivan-wanting, short-hair-cutting, Everybody-Loves-Raymond-watching whiner whose idea of eroticism was accidentally saying the F-word when she stubbed her toe during one of her ever more disturbing morning weight checks. Her ceaseless cooings about motherhood finally drove me to the breaking point, and one night after watching her eat an entire pound cake over the course of "a special night" of Will and Grace, I proposed a simple ultimatum: either relax your absurdly antiquated views about anal sex or forget about spawning tikes with yours truly.
How to Be a Good Lover
Though my closest brush with the act of sexual intercourse in the past forty-eight months has been shaking the hand of the adult film star Cherry Von Pineapple at a pornographic bookstore as she signed copies of the newest volume of her eight-part autobiography (That Doesn't SOUND Like Something Jesus Would Want Me to Do, Fendoot Press, $12.95), I feel that I, an author of erotic tales, have much to offer young men who are seeking guidance in improving their sexual relations with their wives, girlfriends, or regular paid escorts. Thus, I offer this simple guide to the dos, don'ts, and you-should-castrate-yourself-with-a-pizza-cutter-for-even-thinking-thats of physical intimacy, otherwise knowing as lovemaking, "doing it", or "saluting the velvet Lincoln."