So I’m lying flat on my back in the middle of Atlantic Boulevard, the main highway between Jacksonville, Florida, and the beach, reflecting on how I have wasted the better part of the past year working the overnight shift at a convenience store without a single day off.

I might also have spared a thought for a pair of nasty looking strippers who flashed their big tits at me when they came in that night to buy cigarettes. But that doesn’t sound quite as sociologically profound.

This was many moons and a couple of wives ago, when I was eighteen and flat broke. Scraping together first year college tuition meant taking a fifteen month break between high school and higher learning. The only work I could find that promised plenty of overtime was a shitty minimum wage job that a third grade dropout could have landed: holding down the eleven to seven shift at a convenience store.

I was feeling completely fucked, in every sense but the one that counted. That’s because my financially better off high school sweetheart already had started her freshman year, four states away. Intellectually, I knew Holly was being faithful. But I also knew that the object of my erection was surrounded by thousands of horny, manipulative, smooth talking college pricks who would want the same thing from her that I did.

As I checked in dead of night deliveries from bakery trucks, I imagined Holly serving up her own sweet muffin at off campus keggers, letting every hungry frat boy have a slice. Would she spare a thought for me when those blue blooded bastards’ boners were buried in her beautiful butt, her pretty pussy and her marvelous mouth? Doubtful.

While I brewed another endless night’s third pot of bitter coffee, I pictured Holly sipping jug wine with a goateed professor whose hand was roving down her unbuttoned blouse. He would make Frasier like references to Kierkegaard and Kant, talk about the summer he spent “finding himself” in Europe and confide how mature he found her for her age. Then he would whip out his purple headed teaching staff and ride her sweaty student body until more than the morning came.

On rare occasions when a police cruiser rolled past my isolated place of employ to see if I had acquired any job related gunshot wounds, I imagined Holly double teamed by campus security cops who had devised fascinating new uses for their nightsticks.

Even one of my best friends, who was enrolled at the same college as Holly, was not above suspicion. I imagined him easing his way into her heart and her panties, winner her over with wit, charm and the reality that he was close enough to kiss while I was far enough away to kiss off.

In other words, I imagined my precious, innocent angel fucking and sucking every stiff dicked guy she met. She had grown up in one of those conservative churchgoing households that routinely produce girls who go cock crazy as soon as they move away from home. And she thought a guy like me was a good catch, proving she was way too trusting and gullible for this world.

It was enough to make a guy go lie in the middle of a major highway, perpendicular to the divider line, half in the eastbound lane, half in the west.

So I was bitter, bummed out and bored. The kinds of characters I encountered on the job every night were not exactly the sort who made a fellow feel glad to be alive, either.

Take those strippers who’d flashed me. They had okay tits, big and round and not too ridiculously fake. But both were the cynical, hard eyed type, at least five years past what should be their profession’s mandatory retirement age. If I had liked my dick a bit less, I could have gotten either of them to blow me in the back room for a ten spot. Maybe both at once. They probably had done a lot worse than suck off sorry ass, sleep deprived saps at second rate stop and shops.

Another customer who made a lasting depression on me was a red faced inebriate who left a sloppy, passed out blonde in his convertible. Nobody else was in the store when he approached my counter. Not meeting my eyes, he quietly inquired, “Do you sell photo elastics?”

I had no idea what he was talking about. “Excuse me?”

He rubbed a hand across his mouth in exasperation. “You know,” he said. “Photo elastics.”

I really was not trying to fuck with him. “You mean camera supplies?”

He glared at me like I was an asshole. “No, man, I mean rubbers!” Apparently he had been going for the word “prophylactics.” God only knows why he didn’t just say “condoms.” Drunks are funny that way.

I had to tell him we did not stock those particular items. I hope he found a place that did, because I could tell he would fuck his slutty companion with or without a “photo elastic.” I saw him years later, tenderly telling his oldest child, “You were conceived the night Daddy had the misfortune to stop at the only goddamned convenience store in the entire fucking universe that didn’t sell scumbags!”

Then there was the morning a pair of Manson look alike, leather clad bikers stopped by, around three. They seemed to linger a bit longer than necessary, wandering among the rows, making my sphincter draw up tighter than a nun’s cunt at Easter. Finally, one of them eased toward the register.

“That guy across the street looks like he’s casing your place,” the bearded biker said. “If he pulls any shit, don’t worry. We’ll be watching your back.” Then he casually opened his vest. In a sheath clipped to his studded belt was a gleaming knife that looked big enough to fell a small tree.

My guardian Hells Angels seemed almost disappointed when the suspect drove off without incident a few minutes later. As a token of my gratitude, I sold them an illegal, after hours six pack. Or maybe they just took it.

Most nights were not so eventful. Hours could pass without a single customer breaking the monotony. It is remotely possible that a guy in such a situation might saunter to the Health & Beauty aisle, open a Vaseline jar and skim off an undetectable smear of the contents, then replace the lid. He might grab a porn mag, sit behind the counter and yank his out of sight crank. Anyone who spied his visible upper body through the plate glass windows might wonder what he was staring at, or why his eyes suddenly rolled up as his face went through brief but alarming contortions.

Fortunately, no one ever caught that hypothetical jerkoff in the act of sampling his store’s merchandise.

Considering the line of work I entered in later life— writing flagrant filth for those same sorts of magazines— it seems amazing that I remained as faithful to faraway Holly as I hoped she was being to me. I did not stray, even though I was at my biological sexual peak. Ain’t young love grand?

I should have rekindled a romance with Valerie, the skinny Fiona Apple look alike I dated before things got serious with Holly. What a mouth! I remembered the time my foot slipped off the brake while we were making out at a red light, causing me to rear end the car in front of us. How did I resist calling her up and trying to get her big, beautiful, bee stung lips around my woefully neglected cock?

Or Donna, the bohemian retro hippie with turned up nose, gamine haircut and sexy gymnast’s body. Why did I not try to get her to do naked splits on my face? Who would have known?

Hell, even those strippers would have been good for a little temporary blue balls relief. The cost of their services would not have made that much of a dent in my college funds.

Instead, I grew more frustrated by the day. Which may explain why it seemed a fine idea to “lie down on the job” across a major highway one night. Sometimes, you take your safe sex thrills where you find them.

There never was much traffic on Atlantic Boulevard between three and four in the morning. I waited until nothing was coming as far as the eye could see (quite a distance in flat as a pancake Florida), walked to the middle of the divider line, stretched out flat on the asphalt, clasped my hands behind my head and stared at the stars.

I wish I could report experiencing a cosmic epiphany. The truth is, I felt kind of stupid. After a few seconds, I got up, brushed off my smock and headed back inside. Four states away, Holly probably was getting cornholed by the dean of students in the middle of the quad while members of the marching band impatiently waited their turn and the school mascot bulldog bayed mournfully at the moon.

As for me, there was that violated jar of Vaseline waiting on the shelf, and a new issue of Forum in the wire rack behind the counter.

So I’m pushing a three wheels good cart down the frozen food aisle when I suddenly realize that I can read every other Tuesday afternoon shopper’s thoughts. I can’t make out everything, only the dirtiest, nastiest, most erotic bits. The good stuff, in other words.

Maybe this disconcerting ability is an aftereffect of last weekend’s flu. Or perhaps I inhaled too deeply whilst lingering over the mushroom bins in the produce section. Maybe I simply have a looming column deadline and an overripe imagination. Take your pick.

All I know is that the smutty stuff coming in on my mental radar is so hot, I pull out a pen and start jotting notes on a box of Blueberry Morning.

Fortunately, nearly everyone else in the store is female. The few men who do weekday grocery shopping are mostly semi bums like yours truly. But the women range from young mothers to trophy wives to comely college students to live in girlfriends with part time jobs. Plus most of the cashiers. I feel kind of skeevy playing Peeping Tom with these women’s sexual secrets. But not skeevy enough to resist.

I feel a wave of images emanating from a twenty year old brunette beauty. She is pushing a shopping cart with a sleeping infant in its front seat. Although the new mom is slender and petite, in a pair of skintight jeans and a man’s white cotton shirt, her breasts are wonderfully large.

She is thinking of how sensual and womanly she felt when she was pregnant. I go deeper. I find what she believes is the magical, special night when she got knocked up.

She and her husband are in a cozy room in a bed and breakfast outside Carmel. They are naked in bed, tipsy from the bottle of merlot they polished off at dinner. She is enthusiastically sucking his dick, rewarding her man for taking her on this romantic getaway. She is doing such a good job with her lips and tongue that he is groaning with pleasure.

“Don’t come yet,” she says, squeezing the base of his stalk. “I want you to come inside me tonight.” She straddles his body and lowers her tight, thick lipped pussy onto his upright dick. She slides up and down that impressively long shaft, slowly at first but then faster, feeling her breasts bounce and swing. She leans over to rub her tits against his face. He sucks her stiff nipples, then nibbles on them, making her whole body tingle. She puts her mouth near one of his ears and whispers, “Let’s make a baby tonight.”

She feels his cock jerk and spurt, filling her womb with his hot seed. She rolls sideways, pulling him on top. “I don’t want to lose a drop,” she says. “Stay in me until you get hard again. I want more of your come. I want you to fuck me all night long.”

As she pushes her cart past me, I get the feeling this frisky, fertile little fox will find herself in the family way again real soon.

I tune in a pair of blondes walking together, an assertive Amazon and a more timid specimen. Both wear businesslike jackets and skirts. The mousy one carries a hand basket (two make your own salads, a bottle of no fat dressing, two Diet Cokes) and is very deferential toward her companion.

I probe. They are real estate agents. The meek, small breasted one, Janine, wants her voluptuous companion, Lorna, to seduce her. More specifically, she wants to worship Lorna, to be allowed to get between Lorna’s shapely legs and lick her pussy until she comes.

Janine married young and regrets it. Lately, she has wondered if being with another woman might be more sexually satisfying than letting Larry keep climbing on top of her twice a week. Her most treasured fantasy is that Lorna will be overcome with lust one night while they work late. Lorna would lock the office door and stand very close to her. “I’ve seen the way you look at me,” she would say.

Janine would be simultaneously mortified and thrilled. “I don’t know what you mean.”

Lorna would begin slowly hiking up her skirt. “I’ll tell you exactly what I mean. I think you’re a little bit lezzie. I think you would love to put your pretty mouth on my cunt. You want to suck my pussy, don’t you?”

By then, Lorna’s hem would be high enough to reveal the suspenders of her black garter belt. No panties. Her pubic bush would be full and lush, as golden blonde as the hair on her head. It would come to a wet curl between her creamy thighs. And it would smell enticingly musky.

Janine would salivate as she stared at Lorna’s exposed crotch. “You’ve got me all wrong,” she would protest. She just wanted to get lovely Lorna to let her worship her.

Lorna would hold her pussy lips apart. Her clitoris would be a slick pink pearl at the top of her slit. “Why don’t you get on your knees and eat me?” she would say. “Right now, I mean. This may be your only chance.”

Janine would drop to the floor, helpless with love. She would seal her mouth to Lorna’s sex. Her tongue would trace its salmon color folds, tease Lorna’s bulging clit, dip inside her wet opening. She would reach between her legs and rub herself while she ate Lorna’s fragrant, milky cunt. She would make herself come at the same time she made Lorna climax. Then Lorna would help Janine get tremblingly to her feet, so they could enjoy a passionate French kiss.

Is there a chance of Janine’s fantasy becoming reality? I jump heads to check out Lorna’s libido. Sadly, it appears Janine is waiting in vain for a come hither and make me come look. That’s because Lorna is not only 100 percent hetero, she is planning to seduce Janine’s husband.

Lorna is not especially attracted to Larry. But she noticed him sneaking looks at her tits during the last office party, and knows she could get him to cheat. She loves the feeling she gets bedding other women’s husbands.

I pick up memories of slutty Lorna in motels, cars, supply closets, even the bedrooms of for sale houses listed with her agency. She is opening her hungry mouth, parting her long legs and spreading the round cheeks of her ass for business associates, clients, home inspectors, escrow agents, pool cleaners, deliverymen and yard workers. I see so many thrusting, throbbing cocks inside Lorna’s head that it looks like an undulating colony of pink and brown sea anemones in there.

I am sweating and stiff as I back out of her brain. I quickly jump into the head of a skinny college girl buying cat food. She is remembering cat food. She is remembering how nasty it felt to let her boyfriend eat her pussy an hour after she fucked his best friend.

I skip over to a just out of high school cashier. I see her the previous night in a kinky silver studded getup. Her puffy nipples protrude from the round cutouts of her black leather bra. Her waist is cinched tight by a matching corset. Her pussy is shaved hairless. She is dancing quite lewdly in a luxury hotel room for a masturbating fifty year old man, shaking her tits and fingering her cunt and bending way over to show him her flexing anus.

This double duty cutie apparently checks people out all day, but has guys pay to check her out at night.

I walk around a corner to the health and beauty aisle. I spot a tousled haired, bare legged sweetheart in a yellow sundress and sandals. She is staring perplexedly at a selection of “personal lubricants.” I invite myself inside her head. Her boyfriend wants to fuck her in the ass. He says he is certain she will enjoy anal sex if she gives it a try. She has been putting him off, mainly because she is still a virgin “back there.”

She can’t imagine how Benjy’s big, hard dick could possibly fit inside her tiny butthole. She has used her fingers on herself in the shower, first slipping one inside her asshole and then two at a time. It always feels good. She is incredibly sensitive in that area. But she knows she will need an awful lot of lube to take Benjy’s cock that way.

The alluring image of this angel faced innocent exploring her shitter in the shower makes me shoot off. My stiff schlong spasms and spurts, soaking my shorts. At the same time, I hear the girl silently wonder, “Does Benjy really, sincerely want to fuck my cherry butt, or is he just testing me?”

As I woozily stroll past, I lean toward her. “Trust me,” I slur, “Benjy really wants it.” I give her a friendly leer.

Her eyes go wide. She screams, “Goddamned mind reader!” Then she whips a can of Mace from her purse and sprays it in my eyes. I stumble backward over a “Wet Floor” sign. My head slams into the terrazzo floor.

I regain consciousness to find a circle of female shoppers glowering down at me. I have a spreading come stain on my pants, drool is running down my chin, and my mind reading powers have vanished. But I realize that I don’t really need them to tell what these ladies are thinking.

So I’m sitting through the second hour of an indescribably stupid horror flick when the foxy female lead finally decides to slip into a hot tub. “About damned time,” I think, eagerly anticipating two or three tantalizing tit shots that might take away some of my torpor. If this scarefest follows the usual T&A template, the busty darling soon will peel of her bikini and expose her main assets. The movie was Valentine, a brain dead piece of crap that will have vanished from multiplexes and memory long before this column sees print. The bathing beauty in question: dick stiffening Denise Richards, formerly a stacked and packed Starship Trooper and a brainy, big boobed Bond girl. But she is most fondly remembered by anyone with a penis as the slutty star of Wild Things. In that campy romp, she obliged a grateful nation by appearing in a topless three way make out scene.

When I saw delicious Denise step alone into Valentine‘s hot tub, I knew only one thing could happen. She would lean back and close her eyes in sensual relaxation. Then she would experience a sudden impulse to remove her bikini top, baring her heaven sent hooters.

So imagine my outraged disappointment when the movie’s serial killer showed up right away with a power drill, instead of allowing dear Denise a decent interval to engage in some solo toplessness. Where was her fleeting, erotic, absentminded caress of her oversized boobs? Why didn’t her hand disappear beneath the bubbles to finger her out of sight clit while she bit her puffy bottom lip and whimpered through a quiet climax?

Man, did I feel cheated. So did the power drill in my pants.

It occurred to me, and not for the first time, that any movie can be improved by two simple methods: Actresses should strip down and spread wide, and actors should jump on and plunge in. Even beloved cinematic classics would be better if they had included the kind of scenes that inspire viewers to yank and diddle themselves. Want proof?

Wonderful‘s the Word

Could there be a sweeter, more innocent American fable than It’s a Wonderful Life with Jimmy Stewart? Well, just imagine how much more enjoyable it would have been with a little extra, and more explicit, footage.

When George and Mary stroll home from the dance and pause on the sidewalk, a porch sitting onlooker shouts to George, “Go on and kiss her!” In the nonexistent, wholly fictional, alternate universe version of the film, George gives the man a sly wink, then mutters, “I’ll do a goddamned sight more than kiss her, you nosy bastard.”

“Oh yeah?” Mary teases, swinging the belt of her robe. “Think you’re man enough to give me what I need, stud?”

“I sure do, you hot tailed bitch!” George steps toward Mary, who playfully runs away. But his foot is on the hem of the terrycloth robe. It comes completely off her otherwise naked body as she ducks out of sight.

“Hot damn!” he says, staring at the robe, drooling like a lusty madman. “Hey, where the fuck did you go?”

“Behind the bush. Get your skinny ass over here and slip me some bone, you Bailey Building and Loan bastard!”

The camera follows George around the hydrangea. Mary is on her back in the grass, gloriously nude in the moonlight. Her perky nipples are stiff. Her legs are splayed to expose her lightly furred cunt. She has a tattoo on the right cheek of her ass that says “Buffalo Gal” — which we can’t see from this angle, but trust me, it’s there.

“Still want to book a tramp steamer and head to China?” Mary coyly inquires, holding her cunt lips open with her fingertips.

“Nah,” George replies, unbuttoning his fly and uncoiling his throbbing monster. “I’d rather hook a tramp, ream her and hump her vagina.”

He falls on his small town sweetheart and they go at it like a pair of crazed monkeys. George eventually pulls out to shoot a load of lovin’ in her adoring face.

Shaking sweat from his eyes, George looks directly into the camera and leers. “Jesus H. Fuck, this really is a wonderful life!”

Fuck Me, My Dear

Who could forget the passionately romantic Gone With the Wind scene in which resolute Rhett Butler carries spitfire Scarlett O’Hara upstairs for what promises to be a world class shagging? In the real world version of that movie, the scene frustratingly fades to black.

But imagine Rhett tossing his beautiful, bitchy bride onto their antebellum bed. He brazenly rips open her bodice, baring her beautiful breasts. He is pleasantly astonished to see that she has applied bright red rouge to her jutting nipples.

“Hot diggity!” Rhett intones. “I thought Belle Watling was the only gal in town with painted titties!”

“That old whore’s got nothing on me,” Scarlett sneers. “Check this out.” She tears off her petticoats and pantalettes, lies back on the bed and pulls up her knees. Her crotch is one hundred percent hairless, shaved as pink and smooth as a Virginia ham.

Rhett practically devours her thick lipped cunt, spearing his tongue in and out of her juicy, perfumed pussy. Scarlett pulls her knees closer to her heaving chest, exposing her other opening. “How about getting off Magnolia Boulevard and taking a trip up my dirt road?” she coos.

Rhett, ever the gentleman, valiantly complies. He slides his tongue across the Mason Dixon line separating Scarlett’s nasty twat from her tangy tailhole. She shudders with pleasure as he laps, probes and sucks her tight Tara tush.

He stops eating her crack long enough to strip. She rolls over in bed and gets up on all fours, wiggling her alabaster white ass. Then he is behind her, holding her firm cheeks apart, pressing his uncircumcised cockhead against her saliva wet sphincter. She groans with fulfillment as he slides inside. After an hour or so of bucking, fucking and mucking, he shoots off a gallon of grits in her guts.

Scarlett fingers her pussy as she watches him wash off his prick in a nightstand basin. “Any chance of the South rising again tonight?” she purrs.

Rhett replies with a rebel yell that wakes half of Charleston.

An Offer He Couldn’t Refuse

The hottest thing in The Godfather wasn’t Sonny Corleone’s standup screw during the wedding reception, but the two second tit shot of Michael’s chaste Sicilian bride Apollonia.

Still, manly Mafia maven meat beaters deserved more. In a perfect world, after Apollonia flipped down her nightgown’s spaghetti straps, she would have wriggled naked out of that silky sheath and bounded from the bed. Then she would launch into an unexpected bump and grind routine by candlelight. While Michael watched in stupefied delight, the wife he thought was an innocent village girl would shake her money maker like a raunchy Vegas stripper.

She would clutch his head between her small but perfect breasts. She would shove her bushy pussy in his face. She would spin around and grab her ankles, giving him an up close look at her crinkled brown asshole.

By this time, Michael’s dick would be stiffer than his family’s business rivals. Apollonia would descend on his pulsing member with her mouth. She would be crazy for his cock, licking and slurping it, taking its entire length down her throat without gagging.

Michael would want to fuck her so much that his entire body would tremble with desire. But the determined girl simply would not stop blowing him. Even after he comes twice, she still refuses to take her hungry mouth from his made man meat.

At that point, Michael growls in frustration to no one in particular: “Every time I try to get out, she keeps sucking me back in!”

Glad He Ate Her

Moving to more recent fare, the sexual tension between the smoldering warrior Maximus and the positively aching for it noblewoman Lucilla never found release in Gladiator. They parried and thrusted verbally, but never partied and thrusted physically.

The perfect opportunity for a hard core interlude came when Lucilla visited Maximus alone in the slave quarters. Maximus abruptly ended that sexless t te t te by yelling, “Guard! The lady has finished with me.”

Imagine how much more satisfying the scene would have been if Lucilla had shouted, “Pay no attention, guard. I will decide when I have finished with this one.” A sleazy, funk bass groove would begin percolating on the soundtrack. Lucilla would drop to her knees and fish Maximus’s mighty manstaff from beneath his tattered tunic. She rubs its swollen head over her face before putting it in her mouth. Her eyes are half closed with lust. And then she proceeds to give him a suckjob worthy of the gods.

Maximus tries remaining rigidly impassive, balling his huge hands into fists and clenching his teeth. Finally, however, he gives a moan of surrender. “Oh, hell,” he sighs. “When in Rome . . . ”

Still standing, he flips Lucilla’s entire body upside down without removing his pike hard pole from her mouth. Lucilla’s luxurious skirts fall away from her bare crotch. She wraps her soft thighs around his head. Maximus mouths her pussy like a hungry Colosseum tiger, bringing her to a screaming series of orgasms, before filling her mouth with his hot seed.

On her feet again, an exhausted Lucilla says, “How did you like that, mister thinks he’s too good for the emperor’s sister?”

Maximus, drained to the point of collapse, gives her a silly, fuck drunk grin and a weak thumbs up.

I could go on and on. Titanic with tits. Casablanca with come shots. Double Indemnity with double penetrations. Star Wars with space whores. Picture Citizen Kane sporting with a hundred hot holed hookers in an X rated Xanadu. Imagine if The 400 Blows actually featured that many.

Considering what Hollywood can do with computer animation these days, future DVD editions could feature all of these outrageous “inserts” and, as they say, more.

Sure, copyright and other issues might take years to sort out. But I ask you: Wouldn’t all the legal wrangling be worth it for the chance to see Elvis cornhole Ann Margret on a craps table in Viva Las Vegas?

So a Hollywood honey I know is saying such despicable things that I have to ask myself one question: “Why the hell do I find her so incredibly hot?”

Every guy is acquainted with at least one irresistible girl whose mind set is totally at odds with his own. His principles tell him to ignore her kiss me face, her suck me tits, her grab me ass and her stuff me pussy. But the “kook alert” warning flag his brain sends up can’t compete with something else she makes go up.

In my case, the heartbreaker I hanker for is a D girl (Lotus land speak for “development girl” ) named Donna. D girls are usually just out of college nuggets hired for next to nothing to pass first judgment on scripts submitted to movie production companies. They almost never have written (much less sold) screenplays themselves. Yet screenplays must receive their stamp of approval in order to move up the line to people who might actually buy them. Think of a whorehouse hiring a virgin as its hiring screener, and you’ve got the right idea.

Donna is undeniably delicious. She shows off her amazing “ski slope” tits— the all natural kind that curve up at the nips, with nicely rounded undersides— in lacy camisoles under see through blouses, or leotard tops that hug those jugs like a coat of paint, or polo shirts without bras.

A one act play Donna wrote was staged at an amateur theater once by a friend. She says her favorite thing about that experience was a contract clause stipulating that not a word she had written could be altered. Changing topics, she complains that a veteran, Oscar winning screenwriter had the nerve to resent her for saying he should use her extensive notes to completely rewrite his latest script.

I ask if she doesn’t see the irony in that. (My intense desire to tongue slalom down her mammillary ski jumps keeps me form saying “hypocrisy.” ) She laughs off the question by saying that screenplays always need to fit certain formulas. (Anybody out there still wonder why most movies suck?)

As a writer, I should have called her a damnable philistine and a fool. But those tits . . . those magnificent, mouthwatering tits! Which was more important, standing up for artistic integrity or jug fucking those jutting, jiggling juggernauts? Let’s face it, the only “formula” I cared about was: “Boy meets girl, boy eats girl, boy sticks meat in girl, boy has double meat cheeseburger later.”

Here are some other examples of women men know they should have nothing to do with but can’t resist doing anyway.

The Other Party Girl

The blonde in the black tankini walks toward the health club pool. The bottom half of her swimsuit is so tiny, she must be shaved bare. Around back, the skimpy triangle covering her ass is wedged in her crack.

You have to meet her. You introduce yourself, then scramble for something else to say. She looks smart, so you ask if she is following the election campaign.

“Absolutely,” she says, lifting her arms to sweep her hair behind her ears. This causes her oversized tits to swing from side to side, making your cock throb. She adds that her top priority is making sure a certain candidate is soundly defeated, because she loathes everything he stands for.

You try not to appear shocked. You have worked in that candidate’s office for three years. You went from house to house campaigning for him all summer. You missed your own mother’s funeral because you were stuffing envelopes for one of his mass mailings.

You glance down, stunned, trying to collect your thoughts. You stare at the bisected bulge the blonde’s obviously shaved pussy makes in her swimsuit. You imagine running your tongue up and down that hairless groove, then fingering it while you suck her tits, then plunging your cock balls deep inside that slick, satiny slot.

You look her in the eyes and say, “Yeah, anybody who’d vote for that scumbag should be hung for treason. Say, want to get a Frappuccino later?”

Like they say, politics makes strange bedfellows.

Right There in Black and White

Your blind date has a face like a supermodel, with midnight black hair and ivory white skin. The prospect of her succulent red lips wrapped around your stiff dick keeps you hard all through dinner.

The two of you encounter a surly panhandler on the sidewalk outside the restaurant. He yells that you are a pair of “cheap motherfuckers” when you pass him by. You ignore his rant and keep walking. Your date whispers, “Those people are so disgusting.” Then she calls the bum a word most frequently heard in rap videos and Klan rallies.

You should put her in her place. Hell, your own dad is black, even though you are so light skinned that no one can tell. If you keep quiet, you will be perpetuating the problem. On the other hand, your chances of slipping this bigoted beauty some bone will decrease drastically if you speak up. You decide this really is not the time to go all “one world” on her.

Later, maybe you fuck her extra hard with your half black cock, because you know what you know. She doesn’t seem to mind. She has her legs wrapped around your waist and her tongue in your mouth and is groaning like a slut.

You wonder whether telling her your secret later, after she has been thoroughly and satisfyingly screwed, might change her narrow minded attitude. At that point, maybe your big dick will have sufficiently inoculated her to cure her sickness. Then again, maybe she would round up a lynch mob. Things could go either way.

You fell her cunt gripping your white chocolate cock, squeezing it as she climaxes. That’s when you decide she might need a few more dick injections— like maybe a few hundred or so— before you bring up the subject.

After all, they say the best way to accomplish real change is by working from within.

Call of the Wild

Christy is resolutely anti fur, pickets circuses every weekend and calls her cat a “companion animal.” She also is totally vegan. You are cool with that, so long as she keeps swallowing your salami.

She smells and tastes better than any other girl you ever have been with. She says that’s because non vegetarians are full of animal flesh toxins and chemical growth hormones. Her pussy’s flavor is so sweet that you could tongue fuck her for hours, with occasional side trips to her daisy fresh asshole. You can’t resist licking the delicate sweat from her armpits when you fuck her.

One day during group discussion in your college ethics course, she claims that running over and killing a cat would make her feel worse than killing a person. “Humans should know better than to stand in the road,” she explains.

You consider pointing out that she is nuts. Then you casually bring your hand to your face. You finger fucked her creamy cunt that morning. You can still smell its barely there aroma.

You keep your mouth shut. However, you make a mental note to do all of the driving when you are out together.

Oh God, I’m Coming

You are lying on a grassy hillside under the stars with Marianne. You can’t believe she asked you, of all people, to help her supervise this bible school camping trip. The last time you were in church was when you were eleven years old.

Still, any excuse to be with Marianne is fine with you. You have wanted to get in her pants since high school. Unfortunately, she seemed to get more devout by the day, which pretty much killed any possibility of fornication.

Now that all the kids are asleep in the valley and the two of you are alone, though, the time seems ripe to make another attempt.

“Marianne, do you really believe in all that sin and damnation nonsense?”

“I sure do,” she earnestly replies. You roll your eyes.

“But aren’t we all sinners at heart?”

“Some of us more than others.”

“And aren’t all sins forgiven? Sins of the flesh, I mean?”

She rolls onto her side and faces you in the semidarkness. “Listen, do you want to fuck me?” she asks.

You are so shocked, you can’t answer at first. Then you blurt, “Yeah, definitely!” You reach for her belt.

“Hold on. You have to pray for forgiveness with me when we’re done. And you have to promise never to make any more smart ass comments about religion.”

“Okay, yeah, sure!”

Neither of you speaks as you undo her khaki shorts. You pull them and her white cotton panties down her bare legs. Her golden pubic hair glistens in the moonlight. You push her thighs apart and put your mouth on her soft, pink pussy. You can taste her getting wet.

Marianne sighs, “Put it in me now. I want you to fuck me.”

This is too good, too fantastic! She is unbelievably tight, but once you are inside her body, you feel her natural juices lubricating your cock. She gasps and groans as you fuck her. You are so turned on, you can’t help yourself. You pull free of her cunt and gush your load onto her smooth belly.

Panting, you get on your knees beside Marianne, clasp your hands and bow your head. A deal is a deal.

“Not yet,” Marianne sighs, reaching over to stroke your slick cock. “I said when we’re done. And we won’t be done for a while yet.”

Getting back between her legs, you realize that you are quite sincerely thanking God.

So I’m telling my pretty server at this

four star restaurant that I will have the escargot appetizer when our exchange is interrupted by a diner bellowing at the next ta ble, “What the fuck? Me and my bitch were here way before that cock sucker. How come we’re still wait ing for one of you cunts to wait on us?”

All eyes turn to him. In his thread bare brown blazer, stained tie and relaxed fit jeans, this braying bumpkin seems to have just fallen off the proverbial turnip truck. How he gained entry to this elegant bistro is a mystery.

His very blonde date appears similarly out of place. She looks remarkably cheap, easy, even trashy. She has an insolent ly attractive face, a lewdly proportioned figure and a general air of slovenly lasciviousness’”the sort of wet mouthed tart one sees on Navy posters that warn against women one should avoid in seedy ports of call.

In other words, she looks pretty god damned good from where I’m sitting.

This nasty knockout is in her early twenties, with creamy skin and a “fuck you” curl to her upper lip. Her narrow shoulders make her swollen tits look huge. She has the teased hair of an eighties video vixen and the garish makeup of a trailer park beautician.

Blondie’s attire is as flagrantly inappropriate as her companion’s. While the other women in the room are in tastefully conservative evening wear, she is squeezed into the sort of slinky,

slit sided stripper ensemble that the school slut would wear to a senior prom at Whorehouse High.

The front of her strapless red dress is cut so low, I see the top ridges of her puffy nipple halos. Her succulent tits are propped up on display like family size holiday hams. The deep cleft of her cleavage cries out to be filled with a thrusting, jug fucking cock.

One of her tiny hands holds a water glass. Her silver nail polish is chipped. I see a tinge of green around her wrist, residue from the fake gold ID bracelet that identifies her as “Bernice.” Oh, to have those slender fingers wrapped around my rigid rod! Oh, to see those pillowy lips pleasuring my purpling prong! Oh, to gather those godlike ga zongas round my gushing glory! Oh!

Back in the real world, my server’s mouth is hanging open in reaction to the man’s rude outburst. The pianist at the baby grand has stopped playing. Across the room, the ma tre d’ appears to be suffering a heart attack.

I know what I must do. Cherrywood walking stick in hand, I stride to the lout’s table and inquire, “May I sit?”

He and buxom Bernice look at me in confused contempt. I take that for a yes.

“You obviously need help with the social graces,” I comment, fixing him with a stare that says he would be wise to heed my counsel.

“Fuck you, queerbait,” he grunts.

In a flash, I slam the leaded tip of my stick into the top arch of his shoe and rap his forehead soundly with the stick’s filigreed silver handle. Before he can react, I slide the sloppy knot of his tie up so far into his sunburned neck that he sputters for breath.

An appreciative gasp goes up from the restaurant’s other patrons, followed by some tastefully subdued applause. I resist the urge to bow.

Furious, the man loosens his tie and is about to lunge. His jiggling date’”the beautiful backwoods bimbo Ber nice’”places a hand on his shoulder.

“Hold on, Richie,” she says with a slight drawl. “Maybe you should give a listen. This guy looks like he might know some stuff.” She sounds so gloriously dumb, I know I must have her.

But first things first. I give her a respectful nod, then address Richie. “Let us start with an exercise in how one deals with a restaurant’s wait staff.”

I beckon to a pretty Asian server who is half hiding behind a marble pillar. She tentatively steps toward our table and asks Richie, “Would you like to see a menu, sir?”

He looks her up and down, all but smacking his lips. He not only is undressing her with his eyes, he is sucking her tits, fucking her in all three open ings and making her go buy him cigarettes and a six when he’s done.

“Shee yit,” he drawls. “I don’t need no goddamn menu. I see exactly what I wants to eat!” He puts his face very near the crotch of her short skirt, takes an exaggerated sniff and leers.

I roll my eyes. “No, no, no,” I admonish. “Watch me and learn.”

All charm and good breeding, I smile warmly at the petite server. “Per haps you could help me,” I say. “I enjoyed an excellent dish here last week but seem to have forgotten what I had. Would you mind sitting on the edge of my table for a moment to assist me?”

She appears bemused, but is lulled by my confident and well modulated tones. I move my place setting aside. She scoots onto the tablecloth in front of me. I casually spread her slim legs and push up her short skirt. She starts to say something, but stops when I cock an imperious eyebrow.

She is wearing stockings instead of pantyhose, and tiny white satin pant ies. I hook a finger in the crotch of the panties and tug them aside, baring her well groomed pussy. Its fleshy lips are pressed up tight against her slit. I spread the pink wings of her sex.

“Sir, are you sure— ” she begins. But when I place my mouth on her cunt and worm my tongue inside her fuckhole, she stops talking. Her head rolls back. She sighs with delight, placing a hand in my hair to hold my face closer to her crotch.

“The dish had this sort of flavor,” I say between licks, “but not quite as savory.” I suck at the bud of her clit, feeling its passionate pulse.

She holds her cunt lips apart with her fingertips. “Was it the smoked salmon, perhaps?” she whispers, watching my tongue run up and down the glistening groove of her gash.

“No,” I reply, working two fingers in and out of her tight twat. “It was a lighter taste than that. More subtle.”

“Oh my God,” she moans, writhing under the renewed lashings of my busy tongue. She is on the verge of coming. “Then it must have been the .”.”. oh .”.”. oh .”.”. OH .”.”. the Chilean sea bass!” With that, she squeezes my head between her tender thighs and climaxes with such force that she nearly upsets the salt cellar.

I dab my mouth as she wobblingly gets to her feet. “That was it exactly,” I say. “And a nice white wine, if you please.” She walks woozily toward the kitchen, a silly grin on her face.

Across the table, Bernice slaps the side of foul mouthed Richie’s head in”disgust. She says, “Why can’t you have that kinda culture and good manners, you stupid pig?”

He grumbles, “Ahh, suck my dick.”

This earns him another rap on the cranium from my walking stick. “That is no way to address a lady,” I say. “Let me show you the polite way to make such a request.”

I stand and take Bernice’s hand in one of mine. I nearly tremble when I realize that her palm is lightly calloused. I wonder what sort of demeaning physical labor occasioned this thrilling roughness. Common dishwashing? Glove free gardening? A sweaty under the sink home plumbing repair?

“Dear, darling Bernice,” I say, staring into her mud brown eyes. “Would you do me the very great honor of letting me place my stiff cock in your lovely, sensuous mouth?”

I flick my eyes downward. I have rather artfully unzipped the fly of my tuxedo trousers and tugged out my tool. My distended dick is throbbing with each beat of my heart.

Richie looks on in hypnotized amazement as Bernice leans forward in her chair. She parts her glossy lips and starts sucking my engorged member. I scoop her breasts out of the front of her dress. Her rubbery nipples are as big around as two Ch teau Lafite Rothschild corks.

In no time, she finds herself bent over the table. Her dress is gathered around her waist, and my cock is cramming her quim. I hold the smooth cheeks of her ass apart and watch my glazed prick slide in and out of her milky cunt. Richie’s mouth is opening and closing in disbelief and his face has gone bright red, but we pay him no heed.

Bernice soon is squirming and yelping with a wave of climaxes that trigger my own impending orgasm. I place the swollen head of my dick just inside the crinkled rim of her anus, raise one arm in a sharp salute and shout, “God save the queen!” as I shoot off my tapioca torrent.

Awakened from his spell, the flabbergasted Richie manages to exclaim, “Hey, you just fucked my goddamned girlfriend!”

“On the contrary,” I remark, wiping my detumescing dick on a crisp linen napkin. “I made love to Ber nice. It was you, dear boy, who got fucked.”

Contact Forum chronicler Dawson via his website, stjamesdawson.com.