King of the Perverts (3 page)

Interlude 2

The Baby

Some important information about me:

I’m part ginger. I’m not talking full-blooded. I don’t have a shock of orange on my head (it’s more of a ruddy brown). I’m not transparently white and prone to sunburn (I can get a tan, but it’s touch-and-go; tan becomes burn very quickly). And I’m not covered with freckles (they do come out when I burn, though). My dad passed his gingerly genes along to me. He’s your prototypical redhead. The guy would practically burst into flames whenever we went to the beach, which was not very often. My mom was dark-haired and Italian all the way through – her great grandparents came from Sicily to Ellis Island and were purported to bleed olive oil if cut. Sicilians tended to stick together, so my grandparents were pretty hardcore, but my mom broke from tradition in a big way by finding someone about as far from her end of the gene pool as possible. I fell somewhere in between them. My grandpa (never a big fan of my dad, whom he referred to as
‘
The Carrot
’
) liked to call me V-8.

   So, I’m about as white, round-eyed, and pale-skinned as they come. This is important to know.

After my divorce from Carrie, I hung around pretty close. I had to, because she was going to have my child. And because she was threatening all sorts of legal maneuvers designed to milk me for every dime I had, which wasn’t much. I still hadn’t found full-time work since the warehouse fired me, and since I got fired by a fucking warehouse, it seemed I wasn’t very desirable as a potential employee. Because I never finished college. Because I quit to become a husband and support my wife. Because she spent all our money but refused to GET A FUCKING JOB HERSELF.

You see where I’m going with this. Huge resentment issues.

So, fast forward approximately nine months. I’ve still got my part-time job
–
a fabulous, budding career in the food services industry. The only thing keeping me from either blowing my brains out or driving as far west as the $285 in my savings account would carry me was this baby on the horizon. Carrie didn’t let me come to the doctor appointments, but I still found out when they were and how things were progressing. I told her she owed me at least that if she was planning on getting any more money from me. She begrudgingly gave me copies of the ultrasound picture and eventually let me come to a checkup in the last trimester. I got to feel the baby kick. It was an amazing, transformative moment. I cried.

As I looked at my ex-wife, with my hand on her large belly, my daughter kicking my palm, with tears in my eyes, I could feel the ice begin to melt. That wall that had built up between us over the last few years seemed to be slowly dissolving. Neither of us said anything, but I could sense the difference. We had a new connection. This little life inside her, this
‘
product of our love
’
as the saying goes, proved to me there really had been love there between us at some point. I thought a lot about the beginning, how it was when we first got married. I stopped obsessing over the end when it got bitter and nasty. I threw that out. I was done with holding a grudge. I thought maybe this could work, maybe we should make it work for the sake of our daughter.

I started coming over to the house regularly to check on Carrie, make sure she was OK and had everything she needed. I would do stuff for her so she could rest. I made dinner and did the dishes. I washed laundry. I read stories and sang to our little angel in the womb. I even crashed on the couch a few nights. The closer we got to the due date, the more it felt like things might work out. Carrie felt it, too, and even said so. We didn’t talk about re-marrying just yet, but I was definitely thinking about it. I had hope for the future for the first time since we were still newlyweds.

Then the baby came.

For whatever reason, Carrie didn’t want me in the delivery room with her. I protested at first, but she was in labor and not in the mood to discuss things. She gave me a look. I knew what that look meant. I stayed in the waiting room. I was in there for nine fucking hours. I sat in every single seat. I read every magazine from cover to cover, four times. I nearly got kicked out at one point. I was a wreck.

Finally, Carrie’s mother came out to tell me the baby had arrived. She was not smiling.

“You shouldn’t go in there,” she told me.

“Why the hell not? I’m the freakin’ father. I want to see my daughter.” I was pretty slap happy from sleep deprivation and nervous stress at this point.

Carrie’s mom just shook her head. She couldn’t look me in the eye. “Wait here for a little longer.”

I wasn’t pleased about it, but I did. Twenty minutes later, a nurse came out and said, “Mr. Porter? Follow me and we can go and see the baby in the nursery.”

Not
your
baby.
The
baby.

She pointed her out for me, lying in a bassinet amid half a dozen other squalling newborns.

“Which one is she?” I looked where the nurse was pointing, tried to follow her finger. “Is that her, next to the little Chinese baby?”

The nurse just said, “Um.”

I read the name on the tag at the end of the bassinet.

PORTER, AMELIA

She wasn’t next to the little Chinese baby. She
was
the little Chinese baby.

The wisps of red hair I was expecting were in reality short, straight, and black. The light, pale skin that should have resulted was more olive in color. The eyes were of a shape typical to the Asian world and not the creamy, large, round eye
s
of my sun-sensitive forbearers.

This was not my child.

“Are you sure that’s the right one?” I asked the nurse.

She still couldn’t meet my gaze. She just nodded. “I’m afraid so, Mr. Porter.”

Everything inside me broke right there. I walked out of the hospital without another word. Carrie didn’t even bother to try and call me.

I haven’t spoken to the bitch since.

The Alligator Fuckhouse Part 2

Picking out my gator bait did not go very smoothly. It was getting late and the choices were running slim. I was too picky at first. I was looking for a certain body type to make sure I could pull this move off. I’m a relatively fit kind of guy, but I’m certainly no bodybuilder, so I can’t have a chick that’s too thick to flip. I also don’t have the same equipment as my tutor in the Ways of the Fuck, Mr. Peter Oh’Tool.

Long story short (literally), I was getting down to the witching hour and I still didn’t have my prey. Mongo was getting twitchy and kept walking by, mumbling in my ear, “Pick out bitch and let’s go.” And, “I don’t wish to be here all fucking night.” And, “Shit or get off pot,
pidoras
.” I’m not sure what that last word meant, but I had a feeling I was cussed out in Slovakian or Siberian or whatever the fuck country Mongo is from.

So that’s why I’m here at the motel room with Danielle, wondering if she can smell the faint, lingering odor of urine in the air. She’s nice looking, no major issues with her hair or her skin, no odd birthmarks or growths anywhere on her body, which is a plus. I look for those things first. Paranoia
,
I guess.

In fact, Danielle looks pretty damn good without her clothes on. She’s got a very nice body and seems to know how to use it. I can tell by the way she’s advancing on me as we make for the bed. In a normal situation, this would be fantastic.

But this is not a normal situation. The problem with Danielle in relation to this week’s challenge is that she’s about six or seven inches taller than me, and I’m guessing probably equal or close to me in weight. She’s not fat or anything, not by a long shot. She’s just big. Bigger than me. Probably stronger than me, too. Turns out she’s a college volleyball player.

On the other side of the bar, sitting down, throwing back shots with some of her teammates, Danielle looked pretty normal in the stature department. And I was working on a few beers and two shots of whiskey myself, so my perception inside the dimly
lit bar was not where it should have been. Add the fact that she was hanging around with other volleyball players, all of whom were much taller than your average co-ed, and you can see why my perception was way out of whack.

Danielle looks down at me with a boozy, eyes-half-closed air of sexiness bordering on drunk. This is going to be a problem. There’s no way I’m going to pull this off, not with this girl, but what the hell have I got to lose at this point? According to Mongo, I’m already falling behind in the game. Seems the guy in Baton Rouge, Louisiana
–
Bob something I think
–
has lucked into a hive of LSU sorority whores who are convinced he’s Les Miles’s nephew. The dude has already completed five challenges. I’m still stuck on number two and my unwitting partner looks like she could very easily spike me into the floor.

“I’m gonna fuck you now, little man.” She grabs me under the arms. It tickles a little, and I’m nervous as hell, so I can’t stifle a giggle. Then I remember the cameras and mics strategically hidden around the room and I make a wish to the Dark Lords of Perversion that it gets edited out, that this whole part hits the cutting room floor, because Danielle next picks me up and tosses me back onto the bed.

She rips my pants off without undoing my button or belt, which snags a few loops of pubic hair along the way. The pain is sharp and real. I scream. The scream is more embarrassing than the giggle just a second ago. This is not going very well.

Danielle laughs, a much deeper, more masculine sound than I’ve emitted thus far, and jumps on me. It takes a minute for the pain to pass but, once I catch my breath again, it’s on. Danielle is into it and it doesn’t take me long to get there with her. She starts on top and rides me with gusto. She even makes little whoop sounds, like we’re at a rodeo. We get into a groove, find our rhythm, get used to each other’s body and pace. We fit well together on this plane and she takes notice.

“Yeah baby, work those hips,” she says.

We keep at it a few more minutes and she starts to moan. She sounds like she’s going to come soon, but if she starts, so will I and I’ll miss my chance for the
alligator fuckhouse
. I reach up and pull her close and roll her onto her back. She makes an excited “Oh!” noise and tries to keep going, but I take one of her legs and try to throw it around my front. I need to get in behind her to do this move right.

I miscalculate how long her really long leg is and she miscalculates how far it needs to go to clear my face before she brings it down. I catch a heel under my left eye and am momentarily stunned. Stars and whatnot. I shake my head and squint against the pain and by the time I get my bearings back, Danielle is up on her knees, backing into me hard, saying things like, “Oh yeah,” and “Come on.”

OK, here it is. Moment of truth.

I have to press on her ass cheeks to bring her down a bit before I start my run. The first step is gaining my balance. I throw my feet over her legs, positioned in front of her thighs, and I do so without too much difficulty. She continues to bang away against me with her ass, seemingly unaware of anything abnormal going on behind her. I’m barely even noticing what’s happening because I’m concentrating on being technically correct. We seem to be having some pretty great sex at the moment, but I can’t let that distract me.

Next, I lean forward and place my hands on her arms, careful not to be too firm yet. Don’t want to tip her off that something is about to go down. I drop my head down, reaching for her neck. I don’t quite make it. My lips are bouncing against the top of her spine, and that’s as far as I can get. I’m considering just biting her back and going for it anyway, but the last thing I want is to get this far and have it not count due to a technicality. According to Peter Oh’Tool’s specific instructions, I must bite her neck before I pin down her arms and go into the death roll.

“Are you OK back there?” She’s still bumping away against me, but her pace has slowed and she’s looking back over her shoulder. “You’re not, like, having a heart attack or something, are you?”

I perk back up and resume returning her thrusts. “No, I’m good. I was just trying to… kiss your neck.”

“Oh.” She tilts her head back and I nuzzle closer, about as far as I dare go lest I ‘lose contact with the mother ship’. I place my lips on the base of her neck. Technically, you could probably call it upper shoulder, but whatever. Close enough for rock and roll. I take a deep breath… and hesitate.

Goddammit, I hate it when I hesitate. I always hesitate. I don’t know why I do that. Some psychological hang up I have.

“You sure you’re OK?”

Shit, we’re slowing down. Losing momentum. The air coming out of the proverbial balloon. If I don’t do this now, I never will. Fuck it, just lean forward and bite this girl.

You’re not a man, you’re a fucking alligator!

COME ON, DO IT! BE THE ALLIGATOR!

I do it. In one swift motion, I wrap my arms over her, locking my hands just under her breasts, and sink my teeth into her lower neck (upper shoulder, what-the-fuck-ever). I plant my feet in the bed and try to stand, with every intention of lifting her up and rolling to the right, onto my back, maintaining my hold on her arms, and achieving continued insertion in the Promised Land so I might then press on and give Danielle the screw of her young (but definitely LEGAL) life. But I have one problem: I can’t roll her.

In fact, I can’t do anything. My feet are no longer making contact with the bed. And she’s screaming. She’s raised up high on her knees, high enough to get me airborne.

“OW HEY WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING STOP BITING ME LET ME GO”

I don’t stop biting her. I probably should, but I don’t. Instead, I kick my legs, desperate to find purchase. That doesn’t happen either.

And then we’re standing.

Correction: She’s standing. I’m holding on for dear life, my arms wrapped around hers, my legs clamped on top of her thighs.

We spin.

She screams.

“GODDAMMIT WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING YOU PSYCHO LET ME FUCKING GO OH MY GOD”

I’m getting dizzy. The spinning ends when she slams me against the wall, rattling the cheap paint-by-numbers picture that passes for roach motel art. This is the point where I stop breathing.

Danielle lets out a surprised, “OH!” and freezes there, breathing hard. I think a rib may have cracked and is now lodged in my lung. I’m still clamped to her like a barnacle on the hull of a ship. She jolts forward, trying to shake me loose, then falls back against the wall again, rattling my ribcage and stressing the thin drywall.

Breathing is overrated.

Oooo, look at the pretty stars.

Danielle says, “OH!” again and pauses, panting.

She leans forward and slams me back.

Again.

“OH!”

She finds a rhythm. Rock forward. Lean back. SLAM! “OH!”

Rock forward.

Lean back.

SLAM!

“OH!”

Rock.

Lean.

SLAM!

“OH!”

Rock lean slam OH! Rock lean slam OH! Rock lean slam OH!

I’ve nearly passed out from oxygen deprivation when she comes.

It’s loud, it’s long, and it results in much pain to my person. But even amid all this chaos, it’s magical. I realize that, not only did we maintain our connection, we did it standing up. And against the wall. And fair Danielle is currently coming her brains out loud enough for half of Muncie to hear her. That’s enough for me and, despite the hot pain in my chest and the gathering darkness of unconsciousness, I join her.

It’s an
alligator fuckhouse
for the history books.

Take that, Baton Rouge Bob.