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You Say It's Your Birthday?

Why yes, it is...

By Julian FinisterrePublished 7 years ago 46 min read
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Happy Birthday, Julian!

You Say it’s Your Birthday?

Hey Shawty, it’s yo Birfday!

We gonna pawty, like it’s yo Birfday!

Shit yes it was. Snuck through yet another year and made it to forty-two. How the hell that had happened, I wasn’t quite sure. But I’m an accepting sort. I’ll take it, no questions asked. Sweet Jesus I was happy, though. And a fucking published author to boot. Memoirs of a Teenage Panty Thief had just come out. Crack me up. Making money off dirty stories. I just wished I could get that dumb song out of my head. Fifty Cent, for Christ’s sake. At my age.

Two feet of snow dropped two days before had finally been cleared and the roads were passable. The landscape was clean, soft and white, a late January wonderment to marvel over—and drive cautiously through. And my good old Aunt Jean Louise had come to my salvation yet again with her annual birthday check for two hundred and fifty dollars. Lord knows I needed it. Her only stipulation was that I have myself a good meal, and put insurance on the truck. The first part was a no-brainer: the ‘Trencherman’s Pride,’ up to the Cook Shanty in Ellesen—a mountain of thick, blueberry pancakes, a ham steak, four eggs, and a sack-full of potatoes cut into American fries. Wash it down with a lake’s worth of coffee and I was a happy, albeit uncomfortable, man. But I agonized over Aunt Jean Louise’s insurance rider. Beneficent Allah rewards with His mercy those who tread the path of the righteous, and I had been damn lucky for a long, long time. White-tailed deer, winter road conditions and those Fucking Illinois Bastards who flooded the north woods vacation-bound, knew nothing of my righteousness. Such as it was. The old gal was right—insurance was a good idea. Luck only held for so long.

Old Aunt Jean Louise, the Ever-Wise. Nearing ninety and sharp as a woman one third that age. Sharper really, with the weight of accumulated experience and all she’d lived through. Jean Louise Felch was a formidable woman by any account. She still lived on the family farm, ancestral home of the Felch clan since the 1840s. It was down in the southern part of the state, outside the little town of Maycombe, Wisconsin. The place was nothing more than a crossroads. Still looked straight out of a grainy, grimy newspaper photo from the ‘thirties. But the memories I have of that place are all summer-green and blue-skied, smelling of new-cut grass and a young girl’s arousal.

The Maycombe of my mind seems fixed within June’s first weeks, when all is gentle and growing.

I had always found my aunt to be a remarkable individual, possessed of a tremendous sense of empathy, compassion and an unfailing moral compass. It was she who had taught me the most valuable lessons of my childhood—those that have stuck with me to this day. That my shit did indeed stink. That to truly understand another human being you simply had to cram your big feet—regardless of the pinch—into their shoes and walk about awhile in them. Empathy and compassion she preached to me—moral values seemingly in ever shorter supply these days. It was only the assholes of the world who failed to demonstrate these values, those whose hearts were insufficient to the task of being human.

“And you don’t want people to think of you as an asshole, now do you, Julian?” The old saint had asked me on more than one occasion. Hell no, Aunt Jean Louise, I answered her silently. I surely do not.

Much of her wisdom had come to her at the hands of her father, an old-time country lawyer and a generally admirable man, Tacitus Felch. Tacitus had a penchant for taking on difficult, unpopular cases, and simply doing what he unerringly considered to be the right thing. He passed on before I was born, but the tales of his good works had evolved into legend, becoming the holy oral texts of my family. Tacitus Felch had defended horse-thieves, sodomites and those who brewed stump-hole whiskey. He had fought for a woman’s right to vote, brought back banned books and rubbed into the dirt the noses of the small-minded and sanctimonious. Tacitus Felch was an American hero and an all-around good guy.

And so was his only child. His daughter Jean Louise had been an early feminist, a practitioner of free love, Scout Master, and a proponent of marijuana legalization. On a directly personal level, she had caught me at age thirteen—one incident, mind you, among many—with my thin, barely pubescent cock in the mouth of Charlene Barker-Harris, the charming and lascivious daughter of well-heeled and upright neighbors. Aunt Jean Louise had waited until Charlene brought to fruition the practice of her new-learned art, and I was rolling about in the grass, twitching and squealing like a person possessed. Then she busted us. Sticky-faced Charlene was sent home breathless and flushed, and I—after first being compelled to return my young neighbor’s panties—was taken into the old library, musty-smelling and redolent of ancient volumes. There it was made clear to me that masturbation was a much quicker, easier and less painful means of relieving myself than being caught in flagrante delicto by parents, husbands, principals or other figures of authority. (“What does that mean, Aunt Jean Louise?,” I asked her, puzzled. “In a vastly compromising position, Julian,” was her reply,). As ever, her words were wise, and I would often later wish I had been able to heed them. Tossing off a quick one was, hands down, the safest—if not perhaps the most enjoyable—of the many options available for release. Which is not to say that I wasn’t an inveterate and incorrigible beat-off anyway, but I came by that naturally. For that lesson alone, I bless you a dozen times over, Aunt Jean Louise.

So I was off on the road to Ellesen, hungrier than hell and singing along, through a winter landscape of rolling, spruce-covered hills laced with meandering creeks that wandered, frozen-banked, through the valleys. Delicate shelves of crystalline ice hung thin over the clear-flowing water. Deer could be glimpsed in the snow-laden thickets, poking tentative heads out from the shadow into the sheer light of January. The air seemed so cold that it might cut your exposed skin cleanly as a jagged shard of glass, and perhaps shatter at the sound of a handclap. I had the Allman Brothers Band to keep me company on the ride, the old Eat A Peach album. It seemed a fitting soundtrack—lyrical and rolling as the gentle Wisconsin countryside. Memories of young Charlene always seemed to float back whenever I listened to these tunes—or thought of my aunt, for that matter—and were generally accompanied by that pleasant feeling of fullness in my cock, which presaged an erection. Summer-green that young girl was, and ever would be in my mind. Brown-skinned and on the verge of womanhood. She was what, four years older than I? And without the swarm of boys then that came to flock about her later, flies to her...well, shit—however unlovely that metaphor was. She liked to have me with her because I was a walking sexual laboratory, tractable and always eager to please her. With me her curiosities were easily satisfied.

"Show me how you pee,” she demanded one afternoon, the sun hot upon us and the air humid. We were near the little creek that we often escaped to, the banks shrouded by ancient willows, granting us both a haven and a refuge. A place where no one could see what we were up to. What she was up to. So I pulled out my little pecker and let her hold it, guiding the arcing golden stream this way and that until my reservoir was exhausted. She wore that flushed look on her face that I came to know so well, and which still serves to fuel those masturbatory memories that accompany my every night’s journey into dreams. Charlene held onto me long after the pissing was through, and I let her. The sensation was new and wonderful—someone else’s hand holding my ten year old’s tool. I liked it. A lot.

“Do you know it’s supposed to get stiff?” She asked me. I did, because it did. I nodded. It was kind of hard to breathe with her holding me, leaning close against me. “Well, make it get that way.”

I sure wanted to, but nothing was happening. This frustrated her. Charlene was bound and determined to witness an erection, there upon the creek bank beneath the willows.

“Well, Julian?” Her voice was imperious, and aroused, had I possessed that concept in my pre-beat-off’s vocabulary. She squeezed me, and began to move her hand along that little thing in the same manner that we had seen her uncle’s hand move upon a cow’s teat at milking time. That seemed to work, for that little thing of mine began to grow a little bigger. Charlene smiled at that, and a further idea came suddenly to her.

“Watch me Julian,” she said and began to unbutton the pale green blouse she wore, slipping it from her shoulders. So that was what a training bra looked like! Thick white cotton, with little daisies printed upon it, and a ratty little bow between her...

“Have you ever seen a girl’s boobies, Julian?” I by God had not.

“Wanna touch them?” I by God did. She slipped the cup away from one breast and I put my fingers to it, tentatively, almost afraid. I didn’t want to hurt her.

“Pinch it a little, Julian,” she ordered, “but not too hard!” I must have done it the way she wanted, for she did not say another word, just stood there with her eyes closed and her mouth slightly open, while I pinched her tiny hard nipple, my junior woody swaying in the light breeze. She felt my hardness brush against her and took hold of me again, grasping me tightly, running her hand roughly and rapidly up and down the short track of my shaft. It felt so good that I fell to the ground, and uttered the first yelps and yodels of what was to become a very vocal career. The orgasmic chorale, rendered from the green-grass. I don’t think I came then—it just felt so awfully good. But I’m pretty sure that Charlene did, because she looked at me, vacant-like, and did with her own fingers what mine had been doing. Then she showed me other things that a girl did to make herself feel good. Charlene Barker-Harris, that dirty angel, gave me the first sights and sounds of arousal, the first taste and the first touch of pussy—and showed me how to do those things too, the other things that made a girl feel good. Bless you as well, sweet Charlene, wherever the hell you’ve ended up.

Floating along on my summer clouds of reverie, I ended up at the parking lot of the Cook’s Shanty, a greasy spoon of wide renown, smack downtown—if you could use the word for such a place—in Ellesen, Wisconsin. The town is dead in the off-season, but becomes a seasonal Mecca for the blue-collar Illinois Bastards, who come for the fishing, the beer and the big girls to be found at The Fiddler’s Dram, which passes for the local nudie bar.

The Cook’s Shanty can only be called a dive, north-woods style. Faux log-cabin, adorned with the heads of trophy bucks, immense muskellunge, and the odd, cheaply framed snowy landscape, the joint is famous for major-league portions and ill-tempered waitresses. I parked myself at a corner table in the nearly empty main room, the one where smoking was still permitted, or at least tolerated. I scavenged a few sections of the paper and lit up a smoke. A fine day it was indeed, when the Good Lord suggested a cigarette to go with that cup of coffee. I noted with irritation that my foraging had rendered only the business, sports and classified sections—none of which offered reading of any particular interest. A surly older woman took my order, looking at me with a fat broad’s disgust for a skinny young shit with the temerity—and metabolism—to order, eat and avoid being grossly fattened by a breakfast the magnitude of the Trencherman’s Pride.

I burned through those three worthless sections of paper in minutes, before I was even done with my smoke, and looked about for the rest. It appeared that only one copy had survived the breakfast rush, and the bulk of that was being hoarded by a rather imposing looking woman sitting by herself in the middle of the room. I wanted to get up and ask her if I might at least have the front-page section, for it was simply lying on the corner of her table, apparently already read. But she made me nervous. She wore her long silver hair in a mullet, for one thing, and mullets have always frightened me. And she was big—probably half again my girth, with a good head and shoulder on me, height-wise. She had the look of one of those butch biker-dykes you see every July on their way to Sturgis, riding a much bigger bike than you yourself would ever dare sit your ass upon. Tight jeans, a black leather fringed vest stretched over a form-fitting white turtle-neck, and that over a very formidable bosom. Shiny black western boots, with silver toe-caps. Smoking those real long, real thin, brown papered cigarettes. I figured I’d just wait a moment.

So I waited. The same surly waitress brought her the same mammoth breakfast, and she jumped to its consumption with a business-like gusto. Her fork was but a blur between plate and mouth, the knife a skittering dervish, sawing off chunks of sausage, sections of pancake, slapping preserves on each of the six pieces of toast and somehow managing to imbibe copious draughts of coffee and orange juice in rapid alternation. Fucking A, thought I, that broad’s a bigger glutton than I am! And that was truly no little feat. So I just sat back and drank my coffee, rather than interrupt that dynamo at table. My own platter of plenty came soon enough, and the she-glutton turned to follow it, wanting to see who else had the appetite, and yes, the balls, to order up such a monstrosity. Pure and unbridled disdain shone forth when she perceived its destined target. What the hell was wrong with these big women? Because I am thin—okay, skinny—am I not every bit as entitled to partake of the hog’s portion as they are? Should the skinny man make do with yogurt and bran muffins—perhaps a single poached egg as well—simply because he need not heft his belly out of the way to have a look at his tool? I determined then and there to show that old broad what was up, and fell to manfully, giving every bit as good a showing as she. Six links of sausage, six slices of toast-bread—I do not fancy jam—four eggs over easy, a piece of ham steak and all those goddamned potatoes fell swiftly before my righteous onslaught. Casting sidelong glances at me, she redoubled her pace unnecessarily—she had the jump on me anyway, a fifth of the meal put away before I had laid fork to egg, or took up my toast. Perhaps she simply thought me unworthy to share eating space with. Unworthy indeed. Sweet Jesus.

But I slapped my useless fork to the table and rattled the dregs down at the same time as she did, to what felt would be my eternal discomfort. Such a prodigious amount of food is not meant to be consumed in haste, and I had let my manly pride cloud my judgment. Fuck you, Hoss, I beamed her way, as she eyed my triumph with an air of suspicion. Put that in your big ol’ pipe and smoke it! I belched softly and heaved back from the table. I knew I was going to suffer for my vanity. But for now, if I were to make it to John Wang’s Northland Insurance Agency, I had to haul ass. Apparently, Big Bertha, my fellow epicure-in-arms, had to as well, for she was shifting her three acre expanse off the seat and preparing to leave too. I slowed down just enough to let her pay and be gone, so I would not have to stand behind her waiting for the cashier. She scared me, and I had to take a leak anyway.

Once again out in the brightness of the late morning, I saw her climbing into a brand new Chrysler Town & Country. I was amazed. That big, mean thing drove a fucking mini-van! A Hummer, a Suburban, or any other of those monstrous gas-guzzlers would have been perfectly in keeping with her appearance. One of those huge, high-set four by four trucks even, but a mini-van? I belched freely this time, climbing into my own poor vehicle, and frightened off a small flock of twenty-four blackbirds squabbling their way out of some unrecognizable foodstuff. Might have been a pie.

The tunes kicked in as the old gal fired up, the Les Pauls of Dicky Betts and the late, sorely lamented Duane Allman chiming into the opening notes of "Blue Sky." Such a sweet fucking song that—and yet another trigger to the many memories of sweet Charlene, siren of my forsaken youth. This time in nothing but her little cotton panties, the both of us slightly older. She once again practicing fellatio upon me. Charlene had received her first car from her doting and indulgent father, a bright red Gremlin, as uncomfortable a vehicle as any I have ever ridden in. But it carried us off and away to magic places—places where she could freely explore her sexuality, using my happy, horny and ever-willing teen body as her lab rat. She had read somewhere about stimulating the prostate while giving suck, and had me dancing about twisting and shouting, while she knelt before me, my cock in her mouth and her finger well into my ass. She spluttered and hummed wetly to the song coming tinnily out of her Gremlin. "Blue Sky" it was then, and ever since, that vision of her—head moving jerkily up and down my now-respectable shaft, hair swaying in rhythm to her movements and the song—well, I grow a little happy wood just thinking about it.

John Wang’s was a mile north of town. I looked at my watch. Time was tight. I knew he would hook me up if I could make it there before noon, when he closed shop on Saturdays. I gave the truck a little gas and picked things up just a hair, the exquisite guitar solo that takes up the bulk of the song reverberating through my tumescence. And fuck me running if that goddamned Town & Country wasn’t just ahead of me, taking her merry and considerable-assed sweet time, putzing along Railroad Street—which I had to follow all the way out to Wang’s. I would be lucky to catch him open. There is nothing worse than a pressing and urgent matter to attend to, with half a hard-on to complicate things. Made it rather difficult to focus. And had I been—focused that is—I might have seen that the roadway was reflecting the sunlight in a most unnatural manner. Like the surface of a mirror. Like fucking glare ice, for about a hundred and fifty feet back from the one stop sign between me and Wang’s. And that big broad’s shitty Town & Country was sitting there, stuck at the stop, spinning her wheels trying to gain the traction necessary to move her big ass through the intersection. With no result whatsoever. I tapped the brake with an equal lack of reaction—save to begin my fatal slide. I tried to steer out, but succeeded only in realigning the angle of my skid so that my left front fender was coming cleanly onto the right taillight of her van. I blasted the horn, screamed like a girl, swore very quickly—all to no avail. The icy road passed under me in a heartbeat, and with that sickening crunch of metal, plastic and glass, I smacked soundly into the van, giving her the impetus to finally grab a little traction. And rocket through the intersection, into the ditch on the far side, while I spun slowly about coming to rest facing nose-forwards into the opposing lane of traffic. Fortunately, there was no one coming. I turned the truck around and moved over to the shoulder, where the van had slid off. Sweet Jesus, but I did not wish to get out of my truck. I would have liked nothing better than to flee, coward that I am. But in spite of my craven instincts, I did the right thing. I am not, after all, an asshole.

The impact had knocked the front right turn indicator loose on my own vehicle. That was okay—I could tape it back in with a new bulb and lens. Duct tape worked wonders. No such jury-rigging would be possible—or acceptable, I was sure—for my victim. The tail-gate of that new Town & Country was plumb stove in.

Her silver mullet shining a beacon from behind, I tremulously approached the driver’s side window—already rolled down in anticipation of my arrival. Each lead-footed step on that walk of fear and shame consumed an eternities worth of trepidation and effort. I was supremely conscious of the surroundings: the piercing brightness of the day, the crunching of my boot soles on the brittle, shaven snow smooth on the shoulder. Little Martha ending, the last notes floating out over the sputtering rumble of my old Dodge. Fuck me running, I thought, and looked in.

The big broad seemed to be shaken up, and for a heartbeat I was dreadfully worried that she was injured. Not so. As soon as she saw me standing outside the window, she let loose with a stream of vile imprecations that left me trembling, my toes curled double, kicking myself for not having hauled ass while I still had an ass left to haul. My lower lip quivered and the apologies came tumbling out. She was pissed, to say the least.

“You skinny little piss-ant!” She began, the rage gathered about her in a storm cloud, sparks shooting forth from blazing eyes, flecks of spittle flying. The storm dampened me as I manfully stood and battened down. I wanted to cry. “Couldn’t you see that fucking ice, you nit-wit? Are you from around here? Haven’t you ever driven in winter before?”

Words failed me before her onslaught. “What the hell were you doing? Mind in neutral...”

Her eyes narrowed and she stared at me, “thinking of pussy.” I could not help it, her pronouncement was so final. I nodded dumbly.

“Fancy that,” she said. I felt as though she were speaking my doom. “Let me see your license, young man.”

I would not have argued with this demon, even were I the arguing type. I fumbled for my wallet and showed it to her.

“Julian Finisterre?” She said incredulously. “What kind of sissy name is Julian, Julian?” Then she saw my date of birth. She laughed at me and pulled her own wallet from the pocket of her parka, a great leather thing with a winged ‘HD’ embossed upon the front.

“Happy fucking birthday, jerk,” she snarled, and flipped it open so that I might see hers as well. I did not care about the license. What caught my eye was the state identification card, with her picture, name and the letters DOC imprinted boldly across the top. Fucking Department of Corrections. Holy Crap—this woman was a prison guard, or worse. And her name—Louella Straponne. Sweet Jesus, Mary and Joseph. And unreachable now, the sign to John Wang’s Northland Insurance Agency stood out in the glare of the bright sun, to taunt and devil me. I stammered out,

“I’m so sorry Ms. Straponne.” I pronounced it like it looked: strap-on. “I saw the ice too late—there was nothing I could do...” She cut me off.

“That’s pronounced ‘Stra-ponne,’” she said bitterly. I imagine she had probably made that correction before. “Where’s your insurance card, Julian?” Louella Straponne spat out my name with venom and derision.

“I was just...” What was the use? “I don’t have insurance, Ma’am.” Such a bitter pill. And again.

“Fancy that.” Those eyes of hers froze me colder than a dozen dead suns burning at midday. She craned her head around and took in my old truck. “I am going to guess, Julian, that finances are not particularly your strong suite, are they?” I nodded an affirmative.

“Broke as shit, aren’t you, asshole?” I nodded again.

“Well, Julian.” She fixed me in my tracks, immobile. “What are we going to do about this?” I hadn’t a clue. Damn it.

Louella Straponne got out of her damaged van and surveyed the injuries. It was not pretty. The tail-gate was crumpled. The whole rear light unit was shattered and dangling. The bumper hung rudely askew. There was a lot of damage. Probably thousands.

“I need a drink, Julian,” she stated. “Get in your truck and follow me. You fucker!” She drove her wounded van to The Fiddler’s Dram, the nudie bar, where the dancers, at this time of day, had yet to arrive. Badger football on the television and a handful of sorry reprobates nursing Old Milwaukee in long neck bottles. Louella Straponne. And me.

“Sit down, you little prick,” she said.

She ordered and downed two tall Bloody Marys in short order, without even looking at me. Feeling it wisest not to speak unless spoken to, I just sat there silently. When her nerves were calmed—I had no doubts that the accident had rattled her—she turned to me once more, the vodka fumes rolling sweetly over her thin lips.

“You fucking sissy,” she said, glaring at me with a world of woe shining darkly in her eyes. I took exception to that. I really wasn’t. But I was no fool, either. I continued to hold my tongue. She slammed a tip down on the bar and stood.

“Follow me Julian.” And once again we got into our respective vehicles, and she led me out of town, through the bitter sunlight, down county roads that brought us, after twenty minutes, to an unexpectedly lovely log home in the country, nestled among tall, snow-laden pines.

Why did I follow her? Why did I not just turn off—there were plenty of opportunities to do so—and simply haul my craven ass to safety? Good Christ I was tempted to, but something kept me following the busted tailgate of that mini-van all the way from The Fiddler’s Dram in Ellesen on past the two wooden owls, carved from pine logs, standing guard at the end of the drive marked L. Straponne. Perhaps it was that honorable Felch blood that flows—however watered down—through my veins and keeps my moral compass tracking true. Perhaps it was the knowledge that I had done wrong and needed to make atonement. Or perhaps it was the voice of dear old Aunt Jean Louise, whispering as if just over my shoulder, “Do the right thing, Julian. Do not be an asshole.” But there was something else at work, too. Something attributable to the sheer and simple presence of Louella Straponne—as there had been to sweet Charlene Barker-Harris—and yes, to my dear old aunt as well. As soon as I had stepped to the side of that mini-van and beheld the rage of Ms. Straponne, saw her spluttering red face and heard the curses directed at me, I experienced the self-same reaction I had first known as a child, when Jean Louise had put me over knee and bared my bottom for tormenting the chickens: a powerful and unabating erection that would neither leave me nor grant me relief until my seed was spilled. Aunt Jean Louise had noted this with approval, and had paddled me often, until I was a young man. Charlene had delighted in my humiliation and the guaranteed pleasures the exercise of such allowed her. But this alone made me no sissy, damn it. So I had stood there on the roadside immensely erect and taken her abuse. Sat in the tavern uncomfortably stiff, while she polished off her drinks. And pulled my truck in behind Louella Straponne, facing I knew not what fate, toting God’s own wood. Ready to do the right thing.

She was waiting for me, standing at the rear of her vehicle, when I pulled in. I could see her lips moving and she did not look happy. Shit, she’d already inspected the damage on the roadside and at the tavern. But seeing her renewed anger made my cock give an involuntary twitch. It was embarrassing, and the fact that I seemed to have so little control over myself at times like these did nothing to lessen the feeling. Louella Straponne looked up from her dangling bumper, squinting in the still bright shade and motioned at me impatiently to hurry up.

“Take off you shoes, Julian,” she told me, as we entered her home, “and give me your coat.”

I did as I was bid, and she deposited boots and jacket in a huge entryway closet, behind great pine louvered doors. I would never have expected such a place, looking at her. It was fucking awesome. A wide kitchen, beautifully set up and equipped, opened off the side entry we had come in—counters and more counters, a great, butcher-block table stood an island before the stove. Double-doored refrigerator, finished in matte steel. I had worked in restaurants for years prior to teaching, but never in a kitchen as nicely apportioned as this. Beyond, a sort of great room. I could see bookshelves stretching endlessly and a wood-stove in a far corner, the black stovepipe angling off into a fieldstone chimney.

“Come in, Julian,” she said firmly, and indicated the great room. I was damn near awe-struck. She caught me ogling a series of watercolors, framed seascapes of fantastic rock and tree, expanse of sand and wind-whipped water. They were magnificent.

“Like those, do you?” she asked me. “They were painted, unlikely as it may seem, by a high school principal I once worked under. A man by the name of Myron Cocksmith. It was an honor to know and work for him.”

She turned from the paintings to look at me, barely bridled scorn flashing in her eyes. “A real man, Julian.”

Like I wasn’t? Her stare did not waver. She was taking my measure as I stood there, and I had the distinct feeling I was coming up lacking. At least in comparison to her memories of this man Cocksmith. What a fucking name. Was she for real?

Louella Straponne’s withering glare brought the color to my face, which only caused my erection to grow stiffer and stouter, if anything. I don’t know why it happens, but thus it ever was. It’s not sissiness, damn it. It’s a natural reaction to the stress of a domineering woman’s presence. That’s all.

“Take off your clothes, Julian.” Now, the rapidity of my response in obeying the deathly seriousness of her tone might admittedly suggest a certain lack of backbone. Of that I am fully aware. I certainly snapped to it. My fingers jumped to the buttons of my flannel shirt and fumblingly had it hanging open in a heartbeat. I shrugged it off my shoulders and placed it collar-first in her outstretched hand, as I did with my undershirt, jeans and raggedy boxers, standing before her in just my socks, my erection as prominent as it was urgent. This brought a smile to her face.

“Well, well, well,” she said softly, after considering my yeoman-like boner for a moment. “We might just have our own little cocksmith here after all. Wait right where you are, Julian. Do not move. She stared me down again, tool a-quiver.

“For God’s sake take your socks off. You look ridiculous.” She turned on her heel and left the room. Just before a heavy door pulled shut, Louella Straponne said firmly, “And do not even think of touching your cock.”

I do not think I could have moved. I certainly would have liked to stroke my cock. Left to my own devices, I would have been lying on my back on the carpet, masturbating and shouting like a fiend—but I was paralyzed by that voice, by those eyes. I felt the warmth radiating out from the wood-stove, and thought I heard a faint humming coming from the room she had disappeared into. It sounded familiar, but I couldn’t identify the melody.

The room was both dignified and handsome—a place I might spend serious time in. The log walls a dark honey color, there were several heavy, comfortable looking chairs set about with lamps beside them, meant for reading. Each offered its own perspective of the view through an immense window, looking out over what must be a rolling expanse of green in the summer, covered over thickly now with the new snowfall. She had what seemed to be dozens of birdfeeders scattered throughout—in the trees and on posts, hanging from wires. There were elaborate protections from squirrels fixed beneath most of them—pie tins upended and secured, above or below the feeders to prevent the brush-tailed vermin from pilfering seed. An old Sheridan pump-up pellet gun rested in a corner, leaning ready at hand, I assumed, to repel all boarders. The woman liked her birds.

In the middle of the room, looking towards the glass door of the stove, where the flames had begun to dance lowly, dying down, stood a great leather couch, broad and deep. I was just thinking that a body could get lost in such a sofa, when the door opened and Louella Straponne reappeared. The vision that greeted me took my breath away, made my eyes to bulge, gave me palpitations and caused my anus to tighten involuntarily. Sweet Jesus, what a woman! Gone were the tight jeans and the turtle neck sweater. The silver hair was pulled back, leaving the unfortunate effect of the mullet much less pronounced. She still wore the vest—with nothing beneath it. Her full, formidable breasts strained against it, winter-pale against the black leather. A low-cut black thong—leather as well—barely covered the swollen rise of her labia, smooth and demanding, and showed off her muscular buttocks to nice effect. There was not an ounce of fat on her. Had she a mind to, I had no doubt she could toss me about like a sack full of feathers. She stood in the entryway with her hands upon her hips, silently and disdainfully contemplating me. Her calves were bunched like softballs and the muscles of her powerful thighs were plainly evident, displayed to excellent purpose by the height of the heeled pumps she had slipped into. I tried to will my penis not to twitch.

Louella Straponne strode across her living room, in absolute control of her environment, moving to the wood-stove and bending low, that she might stir up the coals and add another log to the fire. Her ass mesmerized me, the thin band of the thong disappearing between her monumental buttocks, only to reappear, pulled tight against the greatest delight of all, that enticing gate of both heaven and hell, her anus. Oh, the fear that gripped me, and the wonderment as well! And oh how my unworthiness shone plain in the light of that puckering beacon. She held the pose long moments, demanding of my eyes their homage. Slowly she rose and stepped to me, pressing against my side, her breath hot upon my face, still redolent of vodka. I felt the firmness of her breasts through the leather, holding my shoulders in line, and the softness of her panty at my hip. I fancied that soft leather held back a heat that left the jumping, creaking wood-stove lukewarm by comparison. I was hers, and I was not worthy.

“You are so fucking unworthy, Julian” she crooned, taking hold of my tremor-wracked tool, as urgent and brittle as glass, gripping it and stroking it, taunting me. She cupped the heaviness of my balls and held them, weighing them. And then, placing a hand at the back of my neck, she shoved me towards the couch, sending me stumbling, taken unawares by the force and power in her arm. Just a twitch of her wrist sent me flying face first into the deep leather cushion and she was upon me in a fury. Arm about my waist, python-like, she hoisted me high off the floor and slid onto the couch herself, dropping me with a shudder across her thighs. Just like good old Aunt Jean Louise used to do—though, being family, she generally settled me in somewhat gentler fashion. The impact drove the wind from me in a great, wounded groan that shifted immediately in pitch and tenor to a high girlish squeal as Louella Straponne brought her open palm smacking down upon my wildly squirming buttocks. With her other palm against the small of my back, she held me pinioned across those powerful thighs.

“Goddamn you, Julian,” she hissed at me, “that van was brand new!”

She punctuated every other word with a stinging blow to either buttock. Wriggle though I might, I was helpless. My writhing movements only succeeded in drawing the swollen head of my slim stiffness across her smooth flesh.

“I love that van, you little pussy-struck pip-squeak!” she raged. “And it’s wrecked, you careless fuck!” I was shrieking with pain and humiliation as she vented her rage upon my ass. Righteous and fearsome was her anger and she had me sobbing, my buttocks aflame, humping at her broad thigh. Just like I used to do with Aunt Jean Louise. I was a shameful little fuck, and a sissy! But all I cared about then was the delicious burning of my tender ass and the muscles of her legs beneath my thighs. She caught on quick enough.

“Trying to come on me are you, you little weasel?” she sneered, and I felt her hands gripping my bruised cheeks, levering them apart for the most egregious of indignities—and sure enough, she slid her finger deep inside me, fingering my vulnerable hole while I continued to squirm and moan. A few more slaps to the rump was all it took and I was yodeling orgasmically, squirting my hot seed upon her thigh. She rolled me over and milked every last drop from my twitching tool, with a look on her face that, upon another woman, might have actually passed for tenderness—or at least satisfaction. I slid to the floor with tears in my eyes. Louella Straponne placed one of those magnificently heeled pumps upon my chest, and smiled at me. I wasn’t prepared for that.

“There, there, little Julian,” she said, slipping her finger into my shining seed, placing it glistening upon her tongue. She smiled, and leaning forward kissed me, making me to taste myself upon her for long moments, as her tongue filled my mouth. At last she turned me loose and crooned softly, ‘Now, my naughty little boy, you will please me as well.”

She opened her knees and in an instant, I saw glimmering before me, on some far distant shore, a vision of my salvation and the redemption of my tattered manliness. I drew myself up on my knees and put my lips to that holy adornment, that slim triangle of soft black leather against which bulged her swollen and silky labia. Raising my eyes to meet hers, keeping my lips yet against that sweetly soft garden gate, I murmured,

“May I, Ms. Straponne?” And at her nodded assent, I slid that briefest of coverings down from her hips, over those wondrous thighs and drew the thong from her. Holding the warm leather to my face, I drew in her essence. An orchid-filled hot-house, an orchard of peaches in the full blossom of an early May Georgia afternoon, Charlene Barker-Harris’ scent of the eternal Spring—none of these could match the splendor of Louella Straponne’s wondrous, enchanting cunt, and I drank her in. I knew of life for the very first time.

Such a cunt. Smooth, swollen, hungry. I kissed each of her heavy lips and parted them gently with my tongue. I placed my hands upon her thighs, opening her wider, and settled her back into the deep recesses of the couch. She purred her pleasures and let little love-moans escape to float gently out into the well-warmed air. I caressed her thighs and sucked upon the proud little soldier standing taut guard at the head of her gate, slid the tip of my tongue low to flick across her taut anus. She began slowly, almost imperceptibly, to move against me, rocking upon those magnificent haunches, bringing her open garden closer to me. And I lost myself within her. My desire to please this woman overwhelmed all other inclinations and became a separate sense unto itself. Louella Straponne reached down and held my face fast to her cunt, as I gave myself by instinct solely to her pleasure. The low moans became guttural and coarse, the voice of a barnyard animal or a beast of the field—a great and exquisite mare moved and quivering in her heat. She thrust against me ever more wildly, her breasts thrashing about beneath her unbuttoned vest. I reached for them and kneaded her nipples between my fingers while taking her demanding clitoris between my lips, an urgent little pilgrim wrapped in a burka of deliciously sensitive flesh, eliciting leonine wails from her wet and gasping mouth that rang through the warmth of her wild wooden lair. And yet would I please her further. Yet would I push her from the precipice whose edge I had brought her to, to float downwards on the wings of an angel and land in the sweetness of all-forgetting climax, where rivers run laughing, flowers blossom, and all hurts are mended. So I returned to Louella Straponne the favor she had so graciously bestowed upon me, sliding a wet and slippery finger from cunt into the unimaginable tightness of her lesser hole, and fucked her great ass thusly, burying one, then two, then three of my long, thin, accordion-player’s digits into the altar of her anus, setting her to shivering and wailing out her pleasures. An ecstatic lost in the rapture of the Mysteries, she was. A sailor long absent, rediscovering the sea. The djinn released at last from the lamp that had held her captive so long. My mouth held tight to her, a frail vessel to ride upon the tempest of her passion, I discerned the faintest of rumblings come to me, which grew to become a cry a-borning from within her deepest bowels, and cascaded forth from her lips in the roaring bellow of the lioness proclaiming her dominion. Louella Straponne, shuddering with the power of the epileptic’s grand mal, held me the tighter to her. She thrust her hips against me with such violence that I was stunned. Bright lights danced dizzyingly before me—whether within or without I could not tell—and I heard an angelic chorus howling demonically distorted vespers in her voice. Then burst forth the flood, scalding and sweet, drenching me in the discharge of her long pent passion. For forty days and forty nights I fought to stay afloat in the maelstrom of her all-consuming cunt. I spluttered and gasped for breath, drenched and drinking in the ever rising tide, until finally the moon-wrought thing shifted phase, and gave way to the ebb. Louella Straponne slowly ceased her shuddering, her taut sinews relaxed and she sighed deeply, releasing me to float aimlessly upon the now placid seas. Little Dutch-boy that I am, I eased my fingers from her, assured of the sanctity of the sea-wall, and slumped back upon the carpet, spent myself.

Thus I knelt, a weary penitent long last at rest, gazing up into the grotto that was Louella Straponne’s Lourdes. How many leagues had these blistered and lacerated knees carried me, to reach this holy place? Perhaps I truly did expect some sort of healing miracle, as the great gales that had shrieked down upon me subsided into gentler, rhythmic gusts of breath that wafted coolly across the bald spot on the back of my head. She looked at peace, with her eyes closed and a soft smile formed and holding upon her features. Seen so, I found myself thinking her lovely.

Louella Straponne slowly opened her eyes, showing in them the light of all new dawns, and reached down to me. Placing those great, strong hands—that had so recently applied the just desserts to my still-stinging rump—beneath my arms, she hoisted me up onto her lap and held me there against her, the warmth of her expansive body coming as if from a lesser sun, our mingled sweat and passion redolent upon us.

“My little cocksmith,” she crooned into my ear, holding my face pressed tight to her own. “My Julian, my angel. My salvation...”

Okay, these endearments did strike me as pretty fucking weird, but I accepted them, and I knew an odd, calming peace, as she whispered away sweetly and the shadows of tree and feeder lengthened in the snowy meadow beyond.

I felt Louella reaching for something, feeling about towards the far end of that wide leather sofa, and from the corner of my eye I saw a remote, held out blindly, pointing in the direction of the shelves of books and her thumb working the button that powered her stereo. Disks shuffled in the changer as she sought out her desired tune, and my heart gave a small, sorry lurch when I heard the first exquisite chords ringing off the two Gibson Les Pauls, chiming above the strummed acoustic guitar. "Blue Sky." The song that had provided a poignant and emotive mental soundtrack to accompany countless soaring masturbatory reminiscences seemed at that moment as if it would be forever corrupted. Settling somewhere into inconsequence was the Charlene Barker-Harris of long-gone summer days—the brown skin and little panties green as new grass replaced by this solemn wintry vision of Louella Straponne, silvery hair loosed and cast out in that hardly appealing mullet, labia swollen and threatening to consume all within her reach and the great, formidable breasts barely concealed behind the black leather vest. She pinched my chin between thumb and forefinger, holding me immobile and gazing into my eyes, while she sang along in a high, pure and unlikely soprano, “Don’t fly, Mr. Bluebird, I’m just walking down the road...”

Ah Louella, sweet as the nightingale. It didn’t matter, really. I just closed my eyes and let her warble away at me, the beginnings of an erection swelling once more. The wheel will turn forever and regardless, inexorable in its never-ending spin, and the one image would doubtless prove as compelling as the other, as far as tossing off a quick one went. My spring to Charlene’s summer, my autumn to the winter of Louella. Hell, it was all good.

My brief moment of philosophical consolation was abruptly and jarringly shattered. Louella Straponne cast me from her, releasing my chin with a fearsome muttered curse, and sprang leopard-like and silent toward the big window. A blue-jay, saucy and insolent, perched upon a feeder, scattering sunflower seeds wastefully about into the snow, looking at the window cackling and taunting Louella Straponne. In a blinding, holy rage that rose from nowhere, she grabbed up the pellet gun and began levering away, pumping it past full pressure, the color rising in frightening fashion upon her. A fevered brushfire of passion took hold of her and she silently cranked open the tall thin window that flanked the broader expanse of glass. Raising the rifle in one smooth motion, she snapped off the safety and drilled the bird, causing it to spin pivoting from its perch and drop head first into the new-fallen snow, a bright maroon stain spreading upon its breast.

“Fucking blue-jays!” She hissed. “Goddamn seed-stealing, nest taking, egg-sucking bastards! Horrible blue sonsabithches! Fuckers!”

She was nearly sobbing, so powerful and violate was this trespass that she had just brought to an end. She leaned the pellet gun once more in its corner, and fought to master her emotions. I could see her drawing tremendous breaths in through her nostrils, holding them a long moment, then exhaling slowly through her mouth. After a minute the color subsided from her face and she had a handle on herself. She came to the sofa and sat beside me once more, a look of embarrassment upon her.

“I’m sorry, Julian,” she said softly, stroking my mussed and sweaty hair. “I love my beautiful birds; and it just tears my heart out to see those filthy things on the feeders. It is only the blue-jays, Julian. I will only shoot the goddamn blue jays. They are awful creatures. They steal other bird’s eggs and suck them dry. They take nests from smaller birds and turn them out homeless. Only the blue-jays, Julian, have ever shit upon my car. It’s as if they know me, and do it on purpose, just to piss me off.” She looked so sorrowful, relating the litany of sins committed by the tribe of Jay, that I lay my hand against her cheek, and felt the pain trickle over my fingers. She took comfort in that, and continued.

“On a summer’s evening, my darling,” I flinched at that, “the birds come to my feeders—dozens of them: warblers and tanagers, cardinals and bluebirds, phoebes and siskins, and I spend hours watching them. They have been my only company for years. They bring me such peace, Julian; they make me happy. They are all I have had for so long.” The intensity of her look left me feeling rather uncomfortable.

“I love my beautiful little birds, Julian, just as I could love...” She stared at me with the tears of passion still welling in her eyes, as if afraid to voice her heart. I silently thanked whatever listening gods had paused her in mid-sentence, for I feared the enunciation of the coming predicate—and immediately felt the piker for doing so. What a craven bastard I can be!

“On certain special evenings in the summer, Sweetness, rare and wonderful summer evenings” she continued, after a most demanding and pregnant, staring silence, “I have had the most precious of all God’s winged children visit me, the mockingbird!”

She closed her eyes in rapture at the memory, seized by a discomfiting poetry. “What a bird, little Julian! No one can ever tell me that birds have no soul—no one! Not if they have heard the mockingbird singing! It is the sound of pure joy, and so fucking pretty… They bring nothing but beauty into my life, Julian. Nothing but beauty.” With tears in her eyes, Louella Straponne, waxing rhapsodic, began to whistle for me in imitation of the mockingbird’s melodies. Lost in avian-inspired beatitude, her breasts rose and fell to her efforts, her cheeks puffed out with the exertion of song. The notes trailed away and a melancholy came suddenly upon her.

“I found one dead once, Julian. Riddled with birdshot by the side of the road. Oh, how I wish I could catch the son of a bitch that did that. I’d cut the balls from him slowly, and feed them to him on a toothpick! Of all the things to shoot...that bird just brings happiness wherever it goes, singing all the songs it has learned upon its journeys. Bringing beauty into sorrowful, lonely lives.” She paused meaningfully, the tears welling once more. “Just like you...my little songbird.” With an unexpected wail she cried, “Oh how could anyone do such a vicious thing?”

Her words held long and plaintive, gripping my soul. "That is why Julian,” she said, and once again a light of frightening intensity took possession of her gray eyes, her voice dropping low, “it is a fucking sin to kill a mockingbird!”

Where in the hell had I heard that before? I shook my head, trying to loose the dusty webs of my memory, as Louella seized me once more and began to fill my mouth with her tongue. Oh yeah. It came back to me with the speed of ravishment. Aunt Jean Louise, in the perpetual summer twilight of memoried Maycombe, having caught Charlene and me at mischief yet again—albeit fully clothed, this time—with BB guns in hand and a dead sparrow at our feet. And, I might add, tears in our eyes, as well. She’d paddled us both for that, and enjoined upon us that same solemn dictate. I’d sworn by all I held holy, long, long ago, that I’d never shoot a fucking mockingbird. And I sure as shit wouldn’t shoot one now.

But I did fuck Louella Straponne long into a cold winter’s twilight, the sun disappearing swiftly behind the distant hills, as we thrashed about on her sofa before the fire, and shared varied tender revelations concerning our lives, love and loneliness. She wanted to help me, knowing I was broke, but I gently refused her, telling her of my book, and promising her a signed copy. That pleased her immensely. She seemed proud to know an actual author, and saddened when I said I had to leave.

“Julian,” Louella Straponne said to me shyly, “let us please see one another again, before too long.” I must admit I liked that idea, and told her as much. She even said she’d buy me breakfast. And as I stepped into my truck, Louella Straponne called out to me, into night air that seemed as if it might shatter, so cold it was with moonlight,

“Happy Birthday, sweet Julian! You have brought beauty to me today...” Aunt Jean Louise would have been proud of me. I felt like a regular little mockingbird.

I waved to her and backed out of the driveway, past the two carven owls standing sentinel by the road, thinking to myself that, goddamn right those shoes can pinch sometimes, but it’s a whole new world you can see for the wearing of them. I liked that. I liked her. And I’d shame her again at table. I flipped on the power to the deck, and by habit shifted up to the eighth track of the disk that knew eternal residence there—but I couldn’t do it. I was conflicted I suppose, or maybe I was just not quite adjusted to the new context that dear old song had taken on. I could not bring myself listen to "Blue Sky" at that moment. So I flipped on the radio instead, and what do you know, out came a-thumping the opening lines of Fifty Cent’s unforgettable chestnut—which just might be my new favorite tune: “Hey Shawty, it’s yo birfday! We gonna pawty, like it’s yo birfday!”

Fucking A, Fifty, I thought. You got that right. And off I slowly rolled into the January night, beneath the myriad stars, my one good headlight shining bright.

Happy Birthday, Sucker! You say you like zen-porn, erotic irony, full-tilt arousal and just desserts? Well grab yourself a second helping of cake, my friends! Two pieces'll do you fine. pair a deuces, from the Master Of Sexual Mayhem, J.A. Finisterre...get your copy now!

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About the Creator

Julian Finisterre

Prolific. Legendary. Underground. Author of pair a deuces, Cocksmith at the Helm, Evelyn and much more. Go on, google him.

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