She was a Buddhist—chop wood, carry water and ride horses—who put the word strapping into woman. In a pair of jean cut-offs and cowboy boots—her muscular but shapely tanned legs, her biceps and breasts threatening to pop the snap buttons on her plaid, fitted cowboy shirt, blonde mane a blowin’ in the wind—whole nations stopped squawking when she sauntered by. She had a raspy voice like hot summer straw out in the barn though she never smoked, and blue eyes like an Alpine lake. Dive in if you dare. Cynthia was her name, but she only went by Cyn, as in the original in the original curved bottle. Pop the cap and drink her down.
Yeah, right. What about the sheathed knife on her hand-hewn belt, buddy.
Um, that’s for your little baby balls should you step across her line.
I met Cyn—the original in the original bottle—when I worked at the Carnival Café on Broadway in Boulder. I cooked there. She set the place on fire and told us all what to do…nicely. It was a collective, so, there were no chiefs, only Indians. Still, Cyn was the unofficial Queen Mother of our clan. The wizened, long-white-bearded-Gandalf, Jeremiah, was our Lord Father.
Do you want wok fried or steamed veggies with your rice? Miso-tahini sauce? Cyn popping your head like a watermelon, crushed between her powerful thighs? Yes, I’ll take it all.
In addition to being a mountain woman living in a rustic cabin—electricity, no, running well water, yes—she gardened, danced the jig, and was the silversmith jeweler who made the wedding bands for Karla and I. You see, I was—and this is actually the story of my life here—and still very much am allergic to gold touching my skin. And since my wife to be was a gold-digger disguised as an hippie chick bike mechanic, well, I really should have gone left and left her at the altar when I had the chance…with the original in that original bottle.
But I didn’t, damn it, because…of the Great Vagina Showdown of 1975…when I saw with my very own drunk, but still single-vision, tear-stained eyes, their vaginas displayed for me side by side. And I had to admit that Karla’s vagina, the one I had already knocked up and was slated to marry on top of old Flagstaff Mountain at the amphitheater there in a few wee hours at dawn, was indeed more beautiful than Cyn’s dark, tough, leathery-looking labia and coarsest brown hair like sage brush in September. But oh Lord, Karla’s was wispy and blonde kissing her lips trembled soft with morning dew I had walked out upon with a glad head held high, if you know what I mean.
But I am getting ahead of myself, because this story does indeed have a beginning that’s worth jumping back to.
Our wedding planner was us, so we decided upon an Hindu ceremony performed by an Hindu priest at dawn in the aforementioned amphitheater on Flagstaff, overlooking Boulder, Colorado below, and the plains stretching to the east. Our wedding was to be on August 10th, about three months after I knocked up Karla, so, we were hoping, praying she could still squeeze into her bright blue wedding dress. Of course, first we had to make it through my birthday bash, bachelor party blowout the night before, August 9th, my 23rd birthday. And that was not going to be easy…thanks to me and Cyn, the original in that original curvy bottle.
The night started out simply. Terry, our housemate along with her man, Michael—a couple of chain-smoking Rinpoche devotees—made killer lasagna, leaving the pot out this time. We knew everyone in Boulder, so everyone and my mother came and stuffed themselves into our duplex living room/dining room.
My mother and grandmother flew in from Chicago for the baby-of-the-family’s wedding. Karla’s parents, living much closer in Grande Junction, Co, avoided her wedding and me like the plague-of-locusts-upon-their-land they thought I was.
Most of us sat cross-legged on the floor, hippie style, with our plates heavy with homemade lasagna—Terry was a serious chef by trade—balanced in our bony laps.
There were a lot of, “Um, wow. This is incredible, Terry,” as we munched away till sundown.
My mom and her mom—the proud matriarchal lineage that spat this frog out—sat upon their respective chairs and did a good job of fitting in with everyone else half to one third their age.
As the meal was winding down, two women sitting on the floor a few feet from my mother and grandmother, suddenly got a strange look in their eyes.
Casting her plate aside, the more stout Brunette said to the willowy blonde, “I have always been just sooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo into you.”
‘Me too,” the waif gurgled like a tiny mountain spring borne yesterday.
Oh no, you are not going to…in my home, on my birthday, the night before my wedding, in front of my mom, no biggie, but my stern Swedish grandmother. Too late.
Casting their plates overboard, the brunette lip-locked the blonde in an endless kiss of primal passion. A few hours it seemed later, she took her down for the count on my carpet, then dry-humped all the straight ideas out of that pretty little muffin head. All this in front of the two generation matriarch just arrived on United from Chicago.
My mom spoke first. “Terry, it was delicious, but we really should get back to the motel,” looking over the bodies blurring together on the floor. “Six a.m. is going to be here before you know it.”
On that note, they both abruptly stood up. The women did not move, so my grandmother had to lightly step over them. I thought she was going to fall down on top of them and break her hip. But old Alice was surprisingly supple for someone in her 70s! Must have been all those years of gardening. She did scant little to hide her silent scorn. Alice was, after all, once a millionaire’s wife, married to my late, great grandfather, the real estate and building tycoon of southern Wisconsin. She was used to riding shotgun in Gramp’s custom, loaded Cadillac—leather, teak wood, surround sound before anyone even knew what it was—so Alice was not amused by these shenanigans.
“Try to get some rest,” mom said to me kindly, as they were running out the front door to their rental.
I nodded sheepishly, as hands were now thrusting down inside tight, hot jeans, and if I wasn’t careful, I was going to get a rise out of this in front of my own mother and grandmother, who had great, nylon stockinged legs even in her 70s. Then I’d get arrested for the ultimate sin—popping wood before two generations of matriarch.
Balls? What balls. Cyn would probably carve them off slowly, laughing like a magpie in August, who found the peaches and made off with all their juicy, fat, ripe sweetness.
“Gary, how could you do that!? Get an erection in front of your own mother and grandmother, standing right there before you, just because two gorgeous women, one dark, Italian and robustly lesbian, the other petite, blonde and used-to-be straight, are going at it like it’s the end of the world,” she said in her deep whisky voice, unsheathing her six inch blade. “You dirty, filthy man and your filthy sperm that impregnated that poor woman in the prime of her youth, embarrassing her into a too-tight wedding dress on what’s supposed to be the day-of-her-life, why don’t I just relieve you of those things that have and will cause this world nothing but endless suffering,” licking her dry lips and taking a swig of deep, red wine selected by Michael for this my wedding dinner, birthday bash, bachelor party blowout rolled up into one mighty turd.
I swallowed. The door closed behind the matriarchy. And now, thank God, I could get a fucking hard on and fuck anything that moves!
Thank you Cyn, the original, in my mind, as she had not arrived yet—Queen of the Grand Entrance—for keeping it nailed down just long enough to get the matriarchy out the door, so I could… Fuck. Drink.
Someone was going to fuck me tonight, I might have said out loud, stepping over the steaming, humping pile on the floor. And it wasn’t going to be my wife to be, so…
I heard an acoustic blues guitar wafting over the labyrinth of bodies reclining in carbo’ coma’s Roman Bacchus repose.
Nice. Guy could play.
I was going to whip out my harps when Terry took to swirling and twirling her delightful body around his slow, nasty, 12 bar blues.
I did not know; that girl could get down.
“In honor of your bachelor Birthday Party, Gary . . .” she said, undoing the button on her jeans.
Oh my. The beast stirred
An instant later, her top came up over her head. What bra. Wicked smile as she tossed her little tank top at my face.
I caught it, and closed my mouth.
I never realized Terry had perfect little handfuls with pink nipples like twitching white rabbit ears. So taut, they looked like ornamental ski slopes.
Yes. I launched off her little ski jumps and gave into this new carnal knowledge…of my roommate!
Love it. Need it. Want it.
Her pants were trickier to get off. But, it would seem she had rehearsed her performance—it was not impromptu after all—as the crowd circled in around her and clapped out the rhythm section.
As she shimmy-shaked and stepped out of her jeans, I could suddenly see she was all bare under there too. No underwear. Then I saw her beautiful strawberry patch coiffed in the shape of an heart.
Yes. I heart Terry.
Men and women swooned. The dog barked. Cat scratched her fever awakened.
“For you and Karla,” Terry smiled, proudly grinding her heart shaped delight in my direction. “For your birthday, your bachelor party,” she twirled and smiled over her white shoulders.
Karla was off in the kitchen, putting things away, doing something practical, and had accidentally on purpose missed the greatest show on earth.
Oh, I’ve seen strippers and exotic dancers in my day before and since. But this transcended the art form itself. I mean, there she was—the chef of our wedding dinner and unbelievable layered carrot cake, what else, to be served after our ceremony atop Flagstaff mountain—thrusting it out, all nude inside the blues back beat taken down to the sound ground of our sweaty, thirsty young hippie beings.
Meanwhile, folks were starting to come together if you know what I mean. Boys and girls, boys and boys, girls and girls, dog and cat, all getting next to each other and peeling off into nooks, crannies, closets, and rooms by twos and threes.
Terry, I want to make it with you so bad.
And that is exactly when Cyn walked in. “Howdy folks. What you all got goin’ on here? Hope I am not too late to join the fun,” her eyes finding and seizing on me like a noose around my neck. And you know what happens to a man when you hang him by the rope of his own desire, don’t you.
Shit. She just walked right up to me. Looking down,” Um, I’m glad you’re glad to see me…or is that for Terry? Either way, anyway,” putting her hand on the front of my pants and giving a squeeze. “My, oh my…”
“Cyn, I, uh, we…”
“I’ve got something for you and Karla. Where is she?” releasing my desire.
“Um, try the kitchen. What is it?”
“Well, you can’t get married without them, dummy. Remember.”
“Huh,” shitfaced with dumb desire.
“I’ve got your rings!”
“Ohhhhh. Our rings. Thank you. Just in time, too, as we’re getting hitched in about nine hours.”
“I had to fix a radiator hose on my pick up on the way into town. Hot day! She got all overheated. But I fixed her…at least till I can get a new hose.”
“How did you do that,” picturing her old Chevy short bed pick up with the 302 short block V8.
“I just cut the hose at the break with my knife, here, and wrapped it back together with my tee shirt, a roll of twine and some baling wire. Presto, magic, chango. It worked. And here I am…ready to do business.”
“Well, try the kitchen.”
“You coming,” over her shoulder.
“Yeah,” reluctantly tearing myself away from Terry and the spontaneous orgy breaking out all over my duplex shared with Terry and Michael.
“You want to see them, try them on before the big day, don’t you?” unbuttoning her jean jacket to reveal the fact she had no tee shirt on underneath, just her rippling, I-fix-broken-radiator-hoses-with-a-tee-shirt-and-twine bosom heaving underneath her faded, worn soft jean jacket, tattered but true as every honest man who can say, why in God’s good name would I want to get married the day after my 23rd birthday.
That is just not a rational choice, given the alternative, staring back at me in the shape of her ass you could bounce honest silver quarters off all night.
“Yeah, sure I want to see them,” faking it till I make it back to the action.
Sure enough, Karla was actually doing all the damn dishes with help from Jolene, her best friend, thank God.
Jolene had a yellow rubber Playtex glove on one hand, and a cigarette going in the other. She was drying and putting away.
“Just to get a good grip on things,” Jolene said, holding up her gloved hand. “I’ve already had a few bottles of Michael’s good wine myself.”
Jolene was a bit of a lush, but I think that was possibly her only flaw, other than her brutal sarcasm when she was drunk, which I thought was sexy. But I am more than a little bit off, so..
Cyn nudged Karla and said, “I’ve got your rings, wanna see?”
“Sure. Let me put down this lasagna pan and then we can sit over in the breakfast nook.”
“Hey, I’ll take a glass of wine if you got any left,” Cyn said, eyeing Jolene’s half-full wine glass on the kitchen counter.
“No problemo,” I will go and fetch her Highness her glass of wine, good servant that I am,” Jolene half slurred, half snarled. Her sarcasm was right on schedule.
Jolene and Cyn didn’t exactly get along.
You see, Cynthia was called Cyn for a reason. She like to steal other women’s men. The more attached a guy was, the more attractive he was too her. It was sort of like a game to her. Jolene probably figured Cyn was going to go after me, seeing as I was getting married practically any minute now. Not to mention, Cyn had swooped in and stolen a guy out from under Jolene’s clutches. Saying that Jolene bore a grudge against Cyn for that would be like reckoning the lightning brings thunder rumbling over the foothills in August.
Jolene skipped out.
Karla and I sat down at the breakfast table with Cyn.
Cyn opened her hand made, hand-beaded leather pouch and pulled out our rings. She handed them to Karla.
Karla inspected them but did not smile. “I can see the place where they are joined together.”
“Me too,” I said, a little alarmed at Cyn’s lack of craftsmanship.
“I know. It was a rush job. These are just to get over your fingers, and to make sure they are exactly the right size. The real final solder has yet to happen. I just didn’t have enough time to do it right. But, in the long run this is best. Because I can still make a small adjustment, too tight, too loose, you dig,” putting her usual sunny spin on everything.
Her hands were rough like a man’s hands from rope and metal, chopping wood, carrying water, not at all soft like Karla’s.
Who needs her hands when you’ve got everything else she has to offer.
“Well, okay then,” Karla said. “But how about we wait to pay you the rest till after it’s all done?”
“Well, I sort of need that money now,” Cyn stepped up.
“We gave you money for the silver and stuff…”
“And I live by the seat of my pants. Every dollar is counted out in advance to make it down here from Ward and give you your rings. No one will be able to see they are not perfect. And I will make them perfect as soon as you return them to me for the final adjustments, if any. There will not be a line, a crease, nothin’. Just completely smooth as it should be. Perfect. But this is how they are right now…and I need my money so I can buy gas and a radiator hose on Monday, before I go back up to my cabin.”
“All right,” Karla said. “I’ll go up to our room and get your money.”
“Thanks,” Cyn smiled like a rattler. “I really do appreciate.”
“We’ll give you back the rings right after the ceremony,” Karla didn’t smile back.
“How do they feel?” Cyn asked.
“Well, mine fits a little tight,” Karla said.
“Not a problem. I can fix that. Probably two centimeters ought to do it. And you?” looking at me.
“Well, mine is actually a little bit loose.”
“And I will tighten that up so it’s perfect. You’ll see. You know, buying rings forged from raw sterling silver formed into a band is actually not an easy thing to do. But it’s something that will remind you of how…”
“Just fix them…without the speech,” Karla said. She jumped up from her chair and pounded up the stairs to our room.
“What did I say?” Karla looked at me.
“Look, I think she had different expectations, like, they would be completely finished and fit just right,” I defended the wife-to-be almost reluctantly.
“And that is a reasonable expectation…after this the second fitting. I guess I should have explained that all to you. This is what it’s like when you make a band from raw silver…but I thought that’s what you guys wanted.”
“It is. Don’t mind her. Christ, she’s three months pregnant. Who knows what it is? Her parents aren’t going to be here, but my mom and grandmother are. We have to close our juice bar for a week to go on our honeymoon, which we can’t really afford. She always worries about money.”
“Well, everything is going to work out for you guys. And your rings are going to look fantastic…and last for a century, so…”
“Thanks,” touching the back of her hand.”
“Don’t mention it. You paid me to do it, so.”
Karla walked in and handed Cyn the money, forty dollars.
“Thanks. This will get me home.”
“I’m going to go back upstairs and lie down. I need to rest, feeling light headed and a little bit nauseous again,” Karla said, turning for the doorway.
“Sure,” I nodded. “Want me to come up? Rub your back?”
“No. You should enjoy your party. I mean you’re the man of the hour and all that.”
“Well, thanks. Feel better.”
With that she was, thankfully, gone—what a thought—leaving me alone, at last, with Cyn.
“You’re so patient,” she said, touching the back of my hand again.
She was a hands on person.
“Thanks,” I looked at her bottomless blues. Karla had blue eyes too, but hers were a cooler, lighter, icier color. Cyn’s were an hot blue. “She deserves it, my patience. I mean, she does the books and does half the work plus carrying our child and everything else.”
“You do a lot too, though,” squeezing my hand.
Her palms felt hotter than the Flatirons on an August afternoon. And I was digging their rough feel and the thought of her hands making our rings, fixing radiator hoses, and woman-handling my body. She was the same height as me but probably outweighed me. Most women did back then as I only managed 125 pounds soaking wet on a good day. But not a day in August. If I turned sideways, all you could see was hair, lips, and a penis, about all a woman really needs from a guy, right?
Jolene never returned with Cyn’s wine. What a surprise. Instead, I heard a tidal wave shift inside the hollering and clapping The guitarist had slipped into an East Indian Raga kind of riff, using open tuning, no doubt.
I got up and headed out into the living room. Cocking my head to Cyn, “Let’s check it out.”
Ordinarily, I would be taking, not giving orders to her. But hey, it’s my bachelor party, birthday party blow out, so she followed.
“You go little Jo.”
Well, I wasn’t surprised to see Jolene swirling around, trying not to spill a half-full glass of red wine, while dangling a cig from her lips.
I was amazed she could keep her balance, performing a step that looked half Greek belly dance and half Indian folk dance. Hey, I was a trained dancer, so…Maybe dancing was sobering her up. It has that effect on some people. Take me, for example..
Guitarist was just as adept at this Ravi Shankar thing as he was handling slow blues.
I belched up some Lasagna and pressed in closer to the action, no longer thinking about Cyn as I had been every second since she walked in.
Jolene saw me and smiled, did a twirl in my direction, her wine glass held aloft without spilling. She looked me in the eye as she handed me her wine and cigarette. “Here. Drink the wine. Hold the cig’ for me. I’ll need it in just a minute.”
And with that, she skip-stepped across the carpet. “Make some room,” she bellowed in her full, sexy voice.
A beat later, she was stepping out of her bright yellow harem pants.
Oh lord, what have I done to deserve all this and heaven too. Tanned and toned to a perfect T, Jolene practiced yoga back when only an handful of hippies in Boulder and Berkeley even really knew what that was.
I could pop a few postures, like shoulder stand, head stand, plus a plough. But what shocked me most wasn’t Jolene’s flat, adolescent-looking girl’s chest, or her even tan all over, but her love patch was completely gone!, and about the only part of her body not tanned, so it sort of shouted it’s white nakedness, “I’m here.”
I took a deep gulp of her red wine, as Jolene sat down in full lotus., leaned over, clasped hands behind her head, put her elbows down on the brown, low-shag carpet, and using her amazing belly and back muscles, pulled her legs in full lotus up off the rug till she poised in a full lotus head stand, her body forming a perfect right angle. And this meant we could all look directly down upon her lovely lips, full and brown like Cyn’s, but more subtly so.
“Give me my cigarette,” her other lips said, upside down, from down near the floor.
I started to reach down to place her good ol’ Marlborough Red hard pack cig’—75 cents a box—
into her mouth, when she snapped, “No. My other lips!”
Well, I must confess this is something I had never actually done before—insert the filter of a lit cigarette into the vagina of an American woman posed in full lotus head stand. Nonetheless, I did not hesitate or flinch. After all, this was still my birthday party bachelor party bash getting better by the minute. Joyfully, I gently twisted the filter of her burning cigarette into her slightly moistened, thank God, labia lips.
An instant later, her vagina contracted, coiling up inwardly. The crowd groaned, then gasped, then squealed as she exhaled from her vagina a small but respectable poof of smoke.
I downed the rest of her wine in one gulp.
Her vagina retreated and inhaled again. Yeah. A second, then a third exhale of smoke greeted our awe struck eyes. Jo had stolen the show. “Take the cigarette out please,” she said with her upside down lips inches from the floor.
Her vagina gave a little push as I carefully pulled the filter, half inch deep, from her brave trick pony.
Oh my. The filter glistened with her wetness.
Seconds later, Jo’ was standing beside me, naked as a Jaybird in July. “Go ahead, take a drag,” she smirked, chest heaving from her yoga circus act.
I wrapped my lips around the moistened filter and took a deep, hot pull into my long distance runner lungs. I exhaled…the future.
The crowd cheered for more.
It was the best damn cigarette I have ever smoked in my life. Slightly acrid with a flavor and aroma like burnt poppies and urine on an hot summer day, I swooned.
Jolene got dressed, reversing her strip tease—tank top, harem pants, dressed. Did anyone wear underwear? Grannies and squares, I guess.
“Bravo,” Cyn said to Jolene, genuinely impressed. How could she not be.
“Look,” Jolene was emboldened by the wine and her trick pony taking over the crowd’s mind. “I know what you’re up to.”
“Huh. What is your problem?” Cyn pushed back hard and fast. “Why can’t you just go with the flow. Not everyone lives by your morals…or drinks and smokes as much as you do, sooo.”
“Karla is my friend. You hurt her, it hurts me. But if you two must, for Chris ‘sakes, at least find somewhere to do it other than right here under her roof. Okay. At least try to be a little bit cool about it.”
With that, Jo’ just walked away.
Cyn and I were both dumbstruck by Jolene’s speech. Was it really written that loud and clear all over our faces that we had to have each other before the night was through. Furthermore, Jolene’s performance had the opposite effect of cooling things down. Instead, it was like she had thrown gasoline on our fire.
I could see in Cyn’s eyes just as crystal clear as she could see in mine, we had to get down.
“Look, they’re having a huge party next door, too. Right?” Cyn offered. “Why don’t we just sneak over there and find somewhere to get into each other.”
I nodded, drunk on and obedient to our lust.
“That, I think, would be very cooperating and considerate…of Karla,” she rationalized.
“Oh yeah. Completely cooperating and considerate, I think. I mean what else can we do?”
A second later we were sliding into the wall-to-wall party next door. These were college squares with short hair and lots of beer, no pot, and nothing much interesting to say. Who cared. We found a place in the corner and started to make out. Fuck, it was hot. Forbidden. Nasty. I reached inside her jean jacket and caressed her breast, found her nipple, rolled it between my thumb and finger.
She moaned, stabbed her tongue down to my tonsils, rubbed the insane hard on taking up all the room I had left in my jeans, and crawling down my leg half way to Mexico.
“You’re so lonnngggggg.”
Yeah, and so long marriage ceremony. I wanted to run way to Mexico with Cyn. I wanted to run away and hide, forever, from the rest of my life and all the days of fatherhood and bills and taxes and playing by the rules.
She knew that. Got in my lap. She was rocking my cock like the queen of the rodeo. I swear, it was one of the top five dry humps of my life. She opened the metal buttons. Breasts in my face. Grabbed my hot ears. Pulled my head into her breasts.
I sucked and sucked like I hadn’t eaten anything in years, when in fact, I had probably been feasting on Karla’s swollen, pregnant breasts, sensitivity permitting, on a regular basis.
It was at this moment, that the truth of universal waters came splashing down upon us.
“Hey!” An angry looking collegiate dweeb yelled at us, his hand on Cyn’s shoulder. “This isn’t your party!”
Um, what was your first clue. My hair down to the middle of my back? Her unbelievable body and face like Ursula Andress? The fact we were both cool and not a couple of keg-drunk idiots in plaid shirts and square brown shoes?
“You guys have to go back to that stupid hippie party next door where you belong…and get out of my house.”
What could I say. Hard on in hand—and that was the other thing, I could barely walk and was clearly tripping over it on the way out the door, you pencil dicked loser—we stumbled out onto the front porch.
“Well, now what are we supposed to do,” Cyn buttoned up her breasts against the gathering chill.
It was pushing midnight and beyond. I had not a clue what to do.
Reality was starting to encroach on my dream of running away and joining the circus with Cyn.
“What about the cemetery,” I said, thinking of the old cemetery just a few clocks way. “No one’s going to be there. I could get a blanket, and…”
“Are you nuts?! I’m not going to go balling in a cemetery. That’s sick…even for me.”
“Well, um, I was just trying to come up with someplace.”
“What about your backyard?”
“Well, “ I scuffed, “it’s really all ripped up with my half assed garden.”
“Let’s just give it a little look, anyway.”
So, we pushed around the side of our house into the backyard. There were some people out there making out, smoking, drinking, laughing. We joined them.
I think we talked and kissed for three hours. My lips were numb. My balls were bluer than Lord Shiva’s throat, from holding in my poisonous semen.
Finally, when it became gravely apparent we weren’t going to screw, we surrendered to the inevitable tides of our separate futures and went back in.
Entering through the kitchen, where we had first sat down with Karla, and Cyn had showed her our rings, we shuffled on into the living room.
Karla was sitting there, a lot drunker than anyone ought to be in her condition, but, alas, it was only red wine, so.
“Well,” Karla slurred. “Did you fuck her?”
I simply shook my head.
Cyn collapsed on the burgundy velour sofa next to Karla.
“Thanks,” Karla said, turning her head to Cyn, “for not fucking him or taking him away from me on the night before our wedding.
“Sure,” Cyn said, a bit sarcastically. “But I have to say something. I mean, shouldn’t we just let him decide.”
“You’re right,” Karla said, tears turning to steely resolve in an icy instant. “Let’s just show him, right now, side by side. You pull your pants down, I lift my skirt.”
“Okay, why not, girl. I like your style,” Cyn said, gladly accepting the challenge.
“After all, “Karla said, “it’s the vagina he will be spending the rest of his life with, soo…”
“So right, again, lady. Wow,” Cyn smiled, undoing her belt, unbuttoning, unzipping, and quickly pushing her pants over her ankles.
Wow. No underwear on that girl either.
Cyn sat closed legged on the couch waiting for Karla’s signal.
Like two gunslingers waiting for the sign, I took the cue. “On my count of three, you will both open your legs wide as can be and show me what you got! One, two, three…”
And the gates parted for me. I drew myself closer, sitting on the floor, creeping in for a good look on my hands and knees, so that I could also get a little whiff of these vagina slinging ladies and their sharp shooting pistolas.
First, I have to say, Cyn’s legs were like a religious experience, especially her thighs. And her ass was also holier than fuck. But we were solely focused on the jewel between their thighs.
And I had to admit that the vagina I had already known countless times and impregnated with my seed only three months ago, on May 10th, according to Karla’s gyno’, yes, with her tantalizing fine blonde hair and delicate pouty little lips weeping a clear glistening, greeting my glad face, hers was of a superior appearance and aroma, compared to Cyn’s leather brown labia like an old saddle built for a bucking horse, and coarsest, darker brown pubic hair stiff as dry straw. And I detected a bit of that same slightly bitter, sort of like urine and burnt flowers odor that greeted me from Jolene’s wetness on her cigarette filter. And though I was not offended by this odor, I also did not find it attractive.
It was then I simply nodded in the direction of Karla.
“Well, of course you’re going to pick hers; you almost have to,” Cyn shrugged, got up, got dressed, and headed back outside, maybe to find someone else she could hunt down.
“Do you really mean it,” Karla said, a tear staining her cheeks rosy with wine, heat, desire, and the hormones of pregnancy. She really had a good, firm, pleasing round cheek. And one of the more delightful vaginas I have ever known.
I jumped up on the sofa and threw my arm around her. She lay her head on my shoulder.
It’s all about choice—that one word. Later, a writer would compose a long passage in a book not yet published all about the word CHOICE—the single word on the side of a non-filter Camel cigarette pack, which I smoked back then.
You choose to love or be afraid. You choose this and it takes you there; you choose something else and it takes you somewhere else…and on and on…till your children and their children have grown and you face your final choice—to leave this movie, this dream. And you are barely remembered more than a sentence in a book inside of many turned pages.
After awhile, you hear that voice say, The dream is over. Do you want another?
All that and more in a drunken moment more sober than I’ve ever been, their vaginas whispered to me, their shimmering tongues issuing forth the universal waters of all mankind.