The Stranger, Part 2

(Continued from The Stranger, Part 1)

I waded through the sea of decadence that was my hotel room, searching for all my belongings. I needed to get home, I needed to explain to Rhonda, my voluptuous black soul mate, why I left our baby at the supermarket.

But I couldn't leave this dive of a motel until I found my wedding ring. As I fished through piles of beer cans, unused condoms, pencil shavings and satin wigs, small glimmers of memory returned to my oatmeal raisin brain. I remember not leaving on good terms with the French-Canadian nor with any of the hookers. I do recall being thrown out into the back ally and beaten with a pair of particularly sharp high-heeled shoes though.

"Jesus-fucking-Christ that felt good," I said to myself still yearning for another smack across the face.

A-ha!. I was quickly jolted back to reality by that divine gold band. "Well that's one less thing I have to worry about," I thought to myself as I held up the golden ring.

But before I could even slip it back on my finger, somebody came bursting through the hotel room door. As I turned, to look, my face was met rudely by the business end of a 2x4.

I began to lose consciousness as I fell to the ground. The last thing I remember seeing before the lights went out as my head lay on the floor was those damn high-heeled shoes. I never forget those cruel, beautiful givers of pain.

I woke up alone once again. The cold white walls that surrounded my bed reminded me of a UFO novel I used to read as a kid. It was the examination room, yeah that was it. That was the place the aliens studied the humans. Poked em and prodded them, not a pretty picture I tell you.

Click-clack, Click-clack....I could hear the distinct sound of high-heeled shoes walking toward my room. Could I really be on a Martian vessel awaiting an orgy of proportions the earth had never seen? It would be entertainment for the Martians and pure pleasure for us captors.

No, it was only a homely nurse, come to think of it she was pretty cute for a homely nurse, and what do you know, she's wearing those cruel, beautiful givers of pain.

Why I could really......Wait stop these perverse thoughts Jim, they are what got you into trouble in the first place. Think about Rhonda and the baby and try to keep your damn flagpole down for ten minutes of your fucking pathetic life.

"I have to think about Rhonda and the baby and try to keep my damn flagpole down for ten minutes of my fucking pathetic life" I told myself as I began to fondle my now erect penis.

"What are you doing", the nurse, now annoyed, stated.

"Oh shit, I recognize that voice" My realization came to late though because before I knew the wig was off and my french Canadian counterpart was towering over my humble hospital bed . It was too late he had found me before I had even found myself.

"Let go of your penis and get dressed," he whispered softly into my ear. His familiar smell filled my nose and the memories of the night before came roaring back into my head like a freight train.

My wife is gonna fucking kill me.

The Stranger

"How is the weather down there", whispered the French-Canadian stranger as he slowly sniffed the larger of the two asses.

"I have a cold," I replied with a whimsical look on my eager, endearing eyes.

I couldn't resist any longer. "See you in China" I yelled as I buried my face into the Asian woman's ass.

The rest of the night was a complete blur. I awoke alone in my bed surrounded by empty bags of drugs and used condoms. I had never felt that awful in all my life. It was ten o'clock in the morning and I needed a drink. Stumbling out of the cheap motel I realized I had to call my wife. Jesus. My wife.

I picked up my phone. It was covered in god knows what. And saw that she had just left me a message.

"JIIIIIIIIIIM, where the fuck are you. You left the baby at the supermarket, fuck you. Your sniffing some whore's ass with that French Canadian slime-ball again, she screamed."

Oh fuck. The baby. The room started spinning, my bowels got heavy. And....and....and...and...Oh sweet release.

"Jim, wake up, get your act together," I said to myself.

"You can't let your body be your master. Not this time. Not again," I also said to myself.

"Hows the weather down there," kept running through my mind, I just couldn't shake it. I couldn't get his French Canadian smell out of my nostrils. He reeked of cottage cheese and french fried potatoes doused in gravy.

What did he mean? Was that some way of telling me something about the asses in front of us? Or was it deeper? Could an ass crack really tell a persons story, the way it had told me his earlier?

"Sniff an ass, save a flower," was all he kept saying as we walked into that shady Montreal whorehouse. And I believed him. More so, I believed IN him. And that's how it all started....

(To Be Continued)

(Continue on to The Stranger, Part 2)

Vice Cab Stories...Part 2

(Continued from Vice Cab Stories...Part 1)

There are no more than four nasty girls in the bar and everyone is hitting on them and they just basically run a drunken lottery of who they will go home with, leaving the men frantic and frazzled. That's when the hard drugs and fights start. Having a girlfriend is no better because everyone cheats on each other. My cabbie buddy one time actually picked up his girlfriend at some dudes house because his chick was so stupid she forgot to tell him not to call that cab company.

A lot of cab drivers sell coke. So driving a cab has has this weird aura surrounding it. Don't get me wrong, cab drivers here are still dirt bags just like everywhere else, but on Nantucket, they get a lot of respect.

Someone doing something shady in this small town really has to tip your ass and treat you right. So when the Russian whore house is involved, you get serious tips.

On top of that, people are always inviting you into these ridiculous mansions for a drink or a line. I can't imagine what these people do for a living but they make movie stars seem like the middle class.

Cougars are probably the the most ass your gonna get as a cabbie, but the occasional drunk chick without money can be pretty hot. There is this really hot chick that is always giving handies to the cabbies instead of money. She even tugs off the really unattractive drivers, it's crazy....

(To be continued)

Tourist Season Part 1

It all started on what seemed to be like any other boring day. Lily took out a pack of cigarettes and placed one between her blood crimson lips.

"Looks like it's gonna rain", said a the man at the cafe counter, "maybe not till later though".

"Dreary bag of beans this little town has become" Lilly replied as she threw a Hamilton down on the counter. "Keep the change Kenny you were wonderful last night." She laughed as the door slammed shut.

Small towns never really appealed to Lilly Post, yet somehow she always found herself stuck in the middle of nowhere without a pot to piss in.

Long gone were the days of old when cocktail shrimp arrived in buckets and champange flowed like the mighty Hudson. That was of course before her trusty trust officer pulled the carpet from under her diamond soled shoes. That was before what Lilly likes to call the end of all things. No more parties, no more gorgeous men, no more summers on Martha's Vinyard. No, it was all over. She knew it was a bad idea to borrow the family camera, but Christ almighty Jen Tucker would never have believed a word of it.

In the small town of Hinsdale, Idaho Lilly was a very popular lady. You see, in small towns where the breeding pool in tapped out, a new face in town can seem like a god send. Lilly was never really considered pretty by her peers or anyone else for that matter, yet in this town and others like it, she is treated like a queen. That is until the tourist season arrives....

(To Be Continued)

Vice Cab Stories...Part 1

It was 5:55 in the morning on a cold december day. A old fireman and I were waiting for this shitty bagel place to open so we could get a cup of their shitty coffee. He asked me what I was doing up so early and I told him I drove taxis and started at 5 in the morning. He looked up at me and said ," cab driving is like scalloping. When the cab drivers are happy....everyone is happy." I didn't quite know what he meant at the time, but I thought it was amazing.

Taxi driving on Nantucket is a little different then other places. It's like a playground for the rich and famous. In the summer they all come and frolic on the beach, then return to their jobs and lives in the winter. Nantucket in the winter is rough, it's always grey and stormy out. People do a lot of drinking and not the fun kind of drinking. It's more like the desprate and scary kind of drinking.....

(to be continued)

(Continue on to Vice Cab Stories...Part 2)