At Night She Cries, While He Rides His Steed Read online

  When I am behind one woman, I use my fingers to play the other woman’s lady hole with the precision of a cellist. As I repeatedly switch back and forth between the two girls with a complex rhythm, the bigger one conducts her own two-finger symphony in the corner, per my instructions. I’m on some real Beethoven shit tonight. My mastery of sex has turned into an impromptu concerto, with four people playing as one, each giving everything they have, knowing full well it is for the best of the group. You’re only as good as your instrument, and on this night, I am finely tuned.

  After the whores have thirty-eight and a half orgasms collectively, I finally decide that it’s my turn to grab a gift from under the Christmas tree. Right before I climax, I grab a Buck knife still strapped to my calf, along with the bedsheet that has long ago been pulled off. I toss them to the big girl in the corner and make circular motions with my fingers, instructing her what to do. Once it clicks in, she knows exactly the surprise I have in store for these ladies.

  With my last thrust, just as I am peaking, I pull off each of the girls’ blindfolds at the same time. The big girl runs around the side of the bed, now wearing the bedsheet as a ghost costume.

  “Boo, motherfuckers!” she screams at the girls.

  Terror-stricken, the two women slap each other simultaneously in the face as hard as they can and fall to the bed. Imagine the first thing you see after an hour and a half of intense blindfolded sex is a giant ghost shaking her hands in your face. To the big one’s credit, the eyeholes she cut out in the sheet are flawless. She must have been a seamstress before whoring, because typically you don’t find tailoring like that. Good for her—it’s always nice for people to have an extra skill.

  After I pull up my jeans, I remove my timepiece and exhale deeply. Time to go home to the wife and kids for supper. I wipe my face with a pillowcase and drop two large chunks of gold down on the nightstand before I leave. The overweight one obviously gets nothing. I look back to admire my handiwork and see the two hot girls lying on the bed like an exorcism just happened, while the fat ghost waves good-bye to me.

  When I walk out, I’m greeted by thunderous applause from the entire bar. The walls are super thin; I knew it, and they appreciate the performance I just put on in there. I throw the pillowcase into the crowd as a souvenir, and whores begin fighting over it. My steed runs into the bar, and on cue, two gimpy patrons lift me up into the saddle. I sling my burlap sack full of gold over my shoulder and ride out through the hole left by the broken double doors in a championship exit.

  * * *

  I. The only man who had the kind of sexual power that I’ve had over the last century was George Washington Carver. Imagine smelling like a fresh bag of peanuts in every room you walked into. Carver knew it, utilized his strengths, and turned out more tricks than Criss Angel. He was pimp like that.

  II. No, I never pulled my jeans off over my boots to fuck. That would require too much effort. Remember, these are just random whores.

  Chapter Three

  IT’S HARD TO GET THE SMELL OF SEX OFF

  I feel more worn out than a stepladder in a midget’s kitchen as I ride up to my three-story log cabin. Remember, I’m really fucking rich, so this goddamn place looks like a Norman Rockwell painting having a ménage with A River Runs Through It and Legends of the Fall. Even though it’s enormous, I only put in fourteen bedrooms to keep things tasteful. My legs feel wobbly when I dismount. I’m not sure if it’s from the graphic sex I’ve just had, or the six-mile ride home from the bar. I lead my horse to the large, beautiful river that flows in front of my home.

  “Drink, fucker.”

  As he leans down to drink, I kneel down beside him and splash some water on my dick and balls to get the smell of pussy off me. When the sex water drifts downstream and reaches his snout, my horse smiles at me as if to say, “You fucking son of a bitch! Why didn’t you let me peek in the window? I’m a horse—they wouldn’t have suspected anything weird.”

  I remember thinking at the time, “My steed and I are close; maybe I should let him watch sometime.” I’ve never lost wood before, and I’ve done some sick shit. I definitely wouldn’t lose a boner just because a horse is in the room.

  From my back pocket I pull out a handkerchief emblazoned with the initials “SJSJ” in 14 karat gold, and wipe off my dong. Then I throw it in the water because I hate used shit. As I watch it float away, I see a huge, bright full moon reflecting off the water, smiling down. It winks at me, and we share a nice moment. I take my gun out of the holster and fire it into the air.

  “Children, your father is home!”

  I lumber toward the house with my sack full of gold. Upon walking in, I see my thirty-two-year-old wife, Louretta, a tall, redheaded Irish woman with huge tits. Also staring up at me respectfully are my seven boys, all under the age of eight. Each one of them tightens his hungry fists, gripping forks and knifes. They all begin chanting in unison, “We want gold! We want gold! We want gold!”

  Louretta smiles and shrugs her shoulders. “What do you expect, they’re starving. They’ve been waiting for you to get home.”

  “I can’t be that late for dinner. What time is it?”

  “It’s two-thirty in the morning.”

  “Oh. Sorry. I thought this was one of those fall-back time-change days.”

  She rolls her eyes and hands me a metal cheese grater. I pull out a chunk of gold and begin to lightly shred it over my boys’ plates of meat and potatoes. They tear into their cold dinners like tiny Viking warriors. Satisfied that they’ve each gotten enough, I give the rest of my chunk of gold to my youngest, Bourbon Street James, who is one year old. He claps excitedly and puts it in his mouth, sucking on it.

  Exhausted, I pull up a chair and look down at the faces of my children. As a man, there is no bigger satisfaction than coming home with a huge sack of gold every night, and hearing the sounds of your children’s teeth chomping into our country’s best nonrenewable natural resource. I kick my boots up on the table and light up a cigarette as Louretta brings me my ashtray that’s made out of half a monkey skull that I won in a poker match in Reno. I’m not even sure whose monkey it was, I just thought it would be a good conversation starter if we had people over. Taking a drag of my smoke, I watch Louretta walk back to the kitchen to clean dishes. I whistle at her, but she doesn’t smile back.

  “Pigtits, can you draw me a hot bath after you’re done in there? I’m exhausted from another long day of standing over my Chinaman and watching him dig my gold.”

  She stares at me incredulously before finally replying, “I’m going to have to boil like forty-eight pots of hot water to do that right now.”

  “Awesome, thanks, doll, you’re a lamb of God.” I fire a pretend six-shooter at her with my fingers.

  As she storms off, I look over at my kids and ask, “How was your day?”

  My oldest son, Daniel, who is almost eight, speaks up. “It was so much—

  “Rhetorical,” I say, cutting him off.

  They’re seven kids under the age of eight who go to a bullshit schoolhouse that holds eighteen children total. All they learn is how to read and count on their fingers. Big fucking deal. After I finish my cigarette, boredom sets in, and I whistle for Louretta as I walk upstairs into the bedroom.

  “Bath time, Red. Let’s start filling up those pots. I can’t wash myself.”

  When Louretta finally hobbles in twenty minutes later with two pots of boiling water, I’m already stark-ass naked, stretched out inside my personal claw-foot tub that is also made out of 14 karat gold. A large, golden grizzly bear head is mounted to the front of the tub, facing inward.

  “Are ya comfortable?” she asks.

  “Not really. Let’s put a rush on that water, Ginge. I don’t want it to be too hot, then too cold. You get it.”

  She splashes both pots of semi-warm water on me, and storms out. This goes on for the next hour or so until she finally limps in with the last two pots, her arms shaking from the effort. I stare at h
er like a nervous parent at the Special Olympics as she slowly walks over to the tub and pours them in. I clap for her when she finishes, then hold up a bar of soap and lean forward, pointing at my back. She drops to her knees and begins to scrub my back and genitals. On my jennies, I’m not talking about washing them from the front, but from behind and up underneath—the way God intended them to be scrubbed.

  “Do you want to get in this tub with me?” I ask Louretta.

  “No. I just want to get some sleep. The kids have to be up in five hours, and I’m exhausted.”

  “Jesus, you’re a fucking downer. Now do you understand why I’m always late for dinner? You’re always asking me to help with the kids, crying about your sister’s polio, or asking me to send letters back to your family members in Ireland to see if they’re still alive after the potato famine. I’m not a fucking postman or someone whose biggest fault is that ‘they listen too much.’ I’m a real fucking man . . . who needs a power wash with those two.” I point at her breasts.I

  “Is that all I am to you?” she asks, choked up.

  “Don’t be so hard on yourself. You also cook and clean too.”

  “It’s nice to know that’s what you think of me.”

  Louretta breaks down and starts to cry, so I rub her back with my hand, then expertly pop her bra off. “Come on, Lou, don’t be like that. If you didn’t clean me, I would be dirty as fuck.”

  She shakes her head in disbelief at how awesome I am, giving me the old “this is the last time” look, as she slowly removes her top. Her breasts escape from her bra with the desperation of two Anne Franks, both wanting to see the outside world. I’m continuously amazed at how enormous her areolas are. They take up such a wide area of her breast, it’s like seeing the tarp covering the infield during a rain delay at a ball game.

  Ever so delicately, she pulls down the rest of her dress, revealing an ass like a honey-glazed Christmas ham freshly cut down the center, and an unbelievable bush. If you don’t have enough club, you’re going to have trouble making it to the green from that rough. She doesn’t say anything to me as she steps into the tub—her eyes entranced in a catatonic stare. I reach up and put my hand on her breast.

  “Do you not like this?” I ask in a German accent, just because I can do one.

  “I know where you’ve been tonight. Just do what you’re going to do.”

  “Sshhhhhhh. Once I get going, you’ll forget about all the other women I’ve slept with and appreciate the new techniques I’ve learned.”

  She finally shows a hint of a smile, acknowledging the fact that she’s able to reach sexual heights with me that she could never achieve with another man. As she straddles me and begins to ride me, water splashes up over the sides of the tub and onto the floor. Her massive breasts have caused a tsunami-like current, creating the kind of deep curls that Kelly Slater deuces his wet suit over. I whistle softly, inviting my steed over to peek in the window. He nods at me with appreciation for the heads-up as he trots over and sticks his head in.

  I was right—I’m definitely not losing wood over it. If anything, I’ve gained an extra inch. As much as I’m proud of myself at this moment, I’m even prouder of my dick, which has been through fucking war today. I let Louretta’s slow ride continue for a few more minutes, but I’m already mentally planning my ground strategy. Why? Because I hate having sex in water.

  Having sex in the water is like dry-humping in button-fly jeans. It’s awkward, it hurts, and you can’t feel anything. Don’t get me wrong, it’s a decent hors d’oeuvre, like a bacon-wrapped plantain, but it’s no Awesome Blossom when it comes to starter apps. If shit is going to get live, you need to do it on dry land so you can get some real traction—feet, elbows, knees—any kind of grip. I squeeze her ass cheeks hard and lift her up out of the water, creating one last, final tidal wave that pushes the rest of the bathwater out of the tub underneath the bedroom door.

  “Hold my hand, I’m not going to lose you in this!” one of my kids screams out to the other children.

  “The current is too strong! This is probably where we say good-bye!” another answers.

  “Shut the fuck up! We’re making love in here!” I scream.

  Hearing a child’s voice during lovemaking would usually make most men lose an erection, but I’m not most men. I’m Saint James Street James, so I walk over to the closest full-length mirror in our bedroom to purposefully catch a glimpse of myself wet and fully flexed, which fuels my fire. I’m cut like a fresh London broil after Sunday mass. Nothing gets me harder than being able to see myself during sex.

  When I rise up on my tiptoes three inches so I can see every last goddamn tendon in my calf muscles swell, Louretta becomes suspicious, and I’m forced to turn my attention back toward her. There were still a few more poses I wanted to beast out, but that will have to wait for another day. Instead, I carry Louretta over to the bed as she holds out her arms. She braces them as if I’m going to drop her down aggressively, but I don’t.

  Instead, I flip her upside down and go for the standing-up 69. It’s a move seldom used or even seen for that matter, and truthfully I don’t even know if I’m doing it for me, or just to impress my horse. It requires so much upper-body strength that hopefully it throws my wife off the trail of how much sex I actually had earlier. Who else could do this right now? Off the top of my head, Jesus or Zeus maybe? After that I’m blanking.II

  After thirty minutes of standing cunnilingus, I rotate her right-side up and toss her backward onto the bed like a Romanian acrobat. We begin to make love passionately on the bed in the missionary position. By now you probably notice that I keep saying “making love” when referring to my wife. It’s because she’s my fucking wife, asshole, so I don’t treat her the same as the other whores. My seven children came out of her vagina—all of them through natural childbirth—and I respect that shit. The least I can do is make love to her.

  After her second orgasm, I flip her over on top of me, cowgirl style. I leave the lanterns on in the room so I can see her huge natural tits swinging back and forth off her chest. With her on top, I can finally go full-bone and get every single last inch in.

  As I thrust, I lean forward, slightly raising my upper body off the bed so my abdominal muscles can be on full display. Louretta deserves this. Nay, she needs this.

  “Do you have any laundry you need to do? Otherwise, I’ll put this washboard away.”

  “No, not yet. You better keep it out.”

  She starts punching me in the stomach repeatedly as she keeps riding. I begin doing a series of mini ab crunches, just because it feels right. After a clean set of forty, and two more orgasms had by her, it’s time for me to climax. I’ve never been accused of being a selfish lover—some might even say that I give too much of myself in the bedroom—so my orgasm is well deserved at this point. It’s time to downgrade this Cat 5 boner to a tropical storm.

  “Make them spin like cows caught in a tornado,” I say softly.

  She nods and leans back, rocking her ass back and forth on my dick and causing her tits to bang together like a wet seal clapping. It’s times like these when I realize why I married her. She always had the biggest tits in town, and every man hated that she married me. By the way, these are the exact thoughts that go through my mind every time I climax. I also tend to think about revenge shit I’m going to do to other people. It’s fucked up, but it somehow heightens my orgasms. Squeezing her apple-bottom ass, I arch my back and finally release.

  “I’m achieving!” I scream out at the top of my lungs.

  As that simple, two-word sentence flies out the window and echoes across the land, I look over and lock eyes with my steed, who stares at me with admiration. It’s a moment of pure, utter bliss. Louretta crumbles on top of me and puts her head on my shoulder, looking up at me like a lost puppy dressed up as a wizard.

  “Saint James, I’ve been thinking about something a lot today.”

  “That you want me to build a separate house for the childr
en to live in so we don’t ever have to hear them and they can raise themselves? I’m cool with that. I can have a crew of builders out here tomorrow.”

  “What? No!”

  “Oh, then what is it?”

  “I was thinking we could get a cat. The kids really want one.”

  “Why the fuck would you even ask me shit like that? A cat? Not in this fucking lifetime. All of our kids would be sucking each other’s dicks the second that goddamn thing arrived. Men. Don’t. Have. Cats. I’m going to go sleep in the barn with my steed. Thanks for ruining this moment.”

  I pull my arm out from under her so fast that her head barely moves from the pillow. Still buck naked, I get up and grab my jeans off the floor, and jumping straight up, in midair, I put them on both legs at a time. Using my foot, I grab my cowboy hat off the ground and flip it up onto my head as I leave. Louretta pulls the bedsheets up, covering herself as she quietly sobs.

  “I just thought it would be nice,” she says softly.

  After I slam the bedroom door and leave, I notice my feet are wet. “Daniel, get a mop and clean up this bathwater in the living room! It’s fucking soaked!”

  Not one great man in history has ever owned a cat; therefore my sons never will. This is why I love my steed more than anything in this world—he would never do some shit like this. Ever.

  That night, as I lie on the ground out in the barn with him curled up behind me, using his torso as my pillow, I dream of the day I first met him. I was a young boy, maybe seven or eight, when I saw him standing there on top of a diving platform at the Nevada State Fair. He must have been twelve stories up. There was this jackdick dressed in a tasseled cowboy outfit on top of him, rousing up the crowd with his ten-gallon hat.

  “Who wants to see us jump into this unbelievably small pool of water below?” he screamed at the cheering crowd.

  I sure as fuck didn’t. That’s when the horse and I locked eyes. I noticed his grace and beauty right away, plus I dug the fact that he wasn’t afraid of heights. From that moment I knew that he needed to be my steed. After that split second of eye contact, he sensed what he had to do—kill the asshole riding him. Without warning, he leaped off the edge and did a triple backflip, throwing that fake, wannabe cowboy off him, way out past the crowd.