BOYS DON'T QUEEF-Part Three by ZUIDERZEE (zuiderzee@yahoo.com) The intended version! With the fussin', fightin', feudin' & fornicatin' what was missin' before! (note: this time out, I understand the accredited erotica stroy-codes much better than previously!) Thus: m, f, f(?), 1st, size, rough, va, viol, interr. Disclaimer: This here tale's meant for them growed-up folks what don't mind none havin' a tale of sinful goings-on told to 'em. Amen. My dick wasn't trying to kill me, nothing like that. But under the circumstances, I think it would listen patiently as my kidneys outlined an assassination plot with my bladder as an interested party. For those of you who haven't had the occasion to wear restrictive clothing for long periods of time, there is an abonimable correlation between tight pants and the overactivity of the urogential system. It's similar to when you're forced to stand perfectly still or hold important things in both hands and not let go for any reason that you find out exactly where you itch the worst. Naked, or in a bathrobe, I could forestall a fierce piss for over an hour after felt the spikes of pain jab my crotch. With my semi-erect cock going down the right pantleg of my motorcycle pants and me still wearing thin gloves, my ability to hold my water was cut down by two thirds. In plainer language, suited up the way I was, I had to piss three times as bad. I've already said I did my best with woodworker's tools to stretch out the waist and crotch of the cycle pants, but like all elastic things that are relatively new, they had a sort of memory and went back to most of their original snugness. Next time, I'd try a mannekin and some wooden wedges and failing that, the jaws of life. My urge to ejaculate doesn't follow the same rules, but hear you me, when my waistband is undone and my fly is down and my dick is crowning from my underwear with a dribble of precum and my balls are swollen and rising, it takes an act of congress for me to stuff the whole shooting match back in. * The cartoonesque coloring of the Men's room door was childlike, friendly--about the last thing I expected in "Yobbo Country"--only the fact it was made from vertical wooden planks set in firmly in the outhouse classification. I felt like a novice transporting Nitro as I continued along the creaking wooden porch, sloshing the load with every step. My worried mind ran back to a personality I'd once known in school: Pete Schumaker, affection- ately known as "Peachy"; poet, societal commentator, flaming queer and all around good egg--a boy so nice and quiet that you'd be proud to offer your hand to him--as long as you washed it quickly afterward. Peachy changed the day he found out that urine and semen came from the same "place". I was the one who told him and I'll not soon forget the ashen color of his face as the blood drained from his cheeks and lips as his mute, slowly-dawning horror told him that I wasn't lying about that fact. "And you thought love-juice came from...where?" No one, not even his mother had told him about love-juices. He died a virgin at 17 having half-heartedly pursued a few platonic boy/boy love affairs. His fat, naked body was found in a perfumed bath where he had slit his wrists. Poor little Peachy, he never understood what I had to go through, but until the end he remained a great admirer of me, but I kept his money-filled love letters a dead secret. I am not sworn to secrecy about what happened, but in the course of an hour, my system was relieved, the tomboy had seen my dick, the old man had taken me into his confidence and I had taken his gun. Taken? The fancy-suited hillbilly dandy practically forced the heavy automatic into my hands. The tomboy's he-guise and unfamiliarity had me uncommonly fooled. In the suburbs or the city, I could generally tell a mannish female from a boy. In unisex overalls and bulky long- sleeve undershirt, the tomboy was alarmingly barefoot in the restroom and boasted a physique that is best called "chunky". Her eyes (HIS, I thought at the time) were blue and downcast for much of the time. Pale blond lashes and brows and the fine, but dirty tow-colored short hair juxtaposed with her (HIS) work- clothes and brawn, conjured in my mind images of a knockabout Danish beer-delivery boy in training, sans the boots; Dirty, strong and fair-complected, I could almost see a pair of oaken beer kegs riding on those built-up shoulders. A crumpled sailor's cap would have just completed the image of one of Copenhagen's wharf-denizens. * I had lost an hour, but that wasn't terribly important. With my helmet under my left arm, the gallon gas can held on that same side, I held my gloves in my right hand like a scourge. The roadmap was rolled up in my jacket pocket and the gun was tucked into the small of my back as I'd seen it done on good old TV for years in a variety of cops & robbers programs. The first order of business was to gas up my motorcycle, swing down the road to Big B's and top off the tank. From there? It seemed to me on the walk uphill that the smoke rising over the trees was no longer the thick, billowing dark gray, but white. So, either the danger was over or they'd just elected the first hillbilly pope. Jimmy Joe Bob I or something. Riding safely in the waistband of my cycling pants, the gun was concealed, illegal, dangerous and an additional 50 points on my Macho-Meter. I knew how to shoot. Grand-pa Buzz secretly took me out into the boonies for target shooting with small caliber rifles, strictly for target practice. I had once auditioned for the part of a "troubled youth with gun" on the defunct "J. T. Horlick" prime-time cop drama. The expert on the set showed me the ropes on how to convincingly handle an automatic pistol. Mom didn't like the idea one bit, but the money would help. Ultimately, I lost the part to a more ethnic kid, but I never forgot the training. So, some impressionable black kid (in the context of the story) got to shoot Horlick's junior partner in a terse scene and then drop the gun and look appropriatley guilty and small for the rest of the show. My trouble was, I couldn't project the kind of innocence that would have sold the scene. Hell, three days before the audition, I'd just been introduced to dry-humping, clothed orgasms and the wearing of cock-rings! Those Hollywood people... A small delivery truck lurked in the shadows right where I had left the motorcycle. The driver, a backwoods beanpole who I guessed was about 16 years old was pissing all over my wheels. He hadn't heard me come up. Beanpole was giggling, oblivious to me. "I'd sure Preesh-ate-it if next time you parked this rice-burner in Toe-Key-Yo where't blongs! Hot damn, but there's a purty sight...!" I put on my gloves, donned the helmet and held the gas can in my left hand. Then I kicked his bony butt, startling him into reality. He let out another spurt of piss and turned around to see me. I threw the rag into his face, trying to think of some suitable redneck expression to show I meant business. "Take up that rag...and commence to wipin' son...and don't you miss nothing, Beanpole." "Why you Jap-lovin' shit-ass, I--" I produced the gun, set down the little plastic gas container and watched his eyes bulge in crapped-my-pants scaredness. The peckerwood stuffed his skinny, wet-ended willy into his union-suit with record speed and commenced to wipin'. The gaunt-faced kid who looked as though he'd grown up on a strict diet of corn-based foods got the bike halfway dry before another motorcycle roared down the road followed closely by a battered, vintage American four door convertible packed with yelling locals. It skidded to a halt on the road. The chrome-lined road-monster had been white at one time and its post-war engine sounded like a elephant plagued with intestinal gas. How it had kept up with the other motorcycle was a mystery. Vapor billowed from under the hood and a rockabilly tuned blared from the radio. "Take off fellers, shit-ass here's got hisself a gun!!!" I grabbed Beanpole by his shirt, opened the cycle's gas tank, handed him the plastic container and told him to "fill 'er up!" That done, I trained the automatic on him and began a brutal kickstart until the formerly drained bike revved to life. Capping the tank, I lowered the helmet's visor. BLAM! A lemon-sized scar appeared on the tree next to me as a bullet fired from someone in the convertible narrowly missed my head. I pocketed the gun. The chase was on. I couldn't pistol-whip Beanpole, but I could kick him toward the convertible and that saved me from another round from the peckerwood posse. Going around the delivery van, I headed up the road, calculating the four- door would lose a minute or so in turning to follow. Damn! No going to Big B's now. * I still don't know how that overloaded, under-serviced convertible kept on me as close as it did, but I never quite got it out of my side-view mirror. Another round dinged my helmet. I had to get off the road. Taking the first gap in the trees to the right, I swerved through the tangled woods, leaving a telltale dust cloud in my wake. The trees gave way into a clearing of low bushes. A dirt trail perfect for motorcycles caught my eye and I bullied the bike down, intent on getting to the cluster of huge old trees down the hill. What the FUCK! Someone had put steps into the path. Sections of thick wood that might have been split from old railroad ties made my wheels hop up and down jackhammer style. No way to turn off, no way to halt my momentum, I rode the violent steps for a hundred feet and then pitched from the seat into the leafy undergrowth where I fell hard and was knocked out cold. * Vague images of dark and light which might have been dreams tormented me. When I knew for certain I was awake, I rose into a world of visor-shaded twlight. I had my helmet on, my suit on and a raging hard-on. A gorgeous, blue-ribbon-winner of an erection that throbbed like a sprained arm. It had been folded tight in my pants, but had turned into a monster stiffy all the same, unable to turn and find an avenue of escape as it took on blood. It had piled up like a traffic jam. I could almost hear horns honking. A large hand belonging to a farily large person was clutching the mound of my groin, testing it. "No bones is broke. I made sure, but you've got some swelling going on in your loins. Can you hear me?" An unfamiliar voice landed on my helmet-muffled ears. I drew it off and looked up at the tomboy who was crouched over me. Only now did I see her as a girl. It was the same one from the Men's room at Big B's. She now wore what looked like ochre army boots. Size 10. The shoulder straps of her overalls were undone and dangled. The long sleeve undershirt was off and she now wore a men's striped shirt with the sleeves rolled up, showing off her considerable arms. Bra-less, her huge white tits surged forward in an assualt of cleavage I could have seen with my eyes closed. Buttoned from the tummy downward, the shirt was stained with sweat. "I guess I'm not hurt too bad--" I said. "Never heared of a body gettin' hurt good--!" she laughed. "That one always makes me laugh when my ribs aren't bruised." "I drug you a long ways from where I found you...I reckon I never would'na knowed you was there in the bushes, less'n that mote-E-sickle o' your'n didn't throw off a glint in the sun." "Lucky me." "Them angel folk was a-lookin' out for ya'll today." "You were at Big B's...?" "I got a chore there washin' winders...when I wash them winders in the diner, that's the sign they's ready for supper." Indeed, she smelled like soap as well as sweat. That gave me an idea. "That's right nice of ya ma'am--" "Oh, I ain't no mam no-how!" The tomboy turned a charming shade of pink. "Taint a proper lady neethers...I's jes a local gal. Don't have much't larnin'." Her hard-nippled whoppers joggled in the slack hammock of her shirt. "I guess this calls for a proper inter-duction," I said, falling into her mode of speech, or trying to. In the end, I came across as more Longhorn than Hillbilly, but rural all the same. Dialect coaches had taught me to lose my Great Lakes honk as well as how to adopt accents. "They call me Creed Kray." "How dee-do Mr. McCrae!" She pumped my arm in a powerful handshake, bringing those braless beasts into motion again. And too, she botched my name like so many others. I didn't bother to correct. I doubted she knew how to read or write. "My name's Tempest Ludmilla Youngblood." Tempest Youngblood. She was a little too breezy for a name like that. At least it wasn't Earthquake McGoon. Maybe in a few years. "How dee-do Miss Tempest--" She turned pink in the cheeks again and gave my sore shoulder a swat. "Awww...don't nobody call me Tempest less'n they's gettin' stern with me. Folks call me Lud. Well, Mr. McCrae, guess'n the farst thing we duz now is get you cleaned up from your tumble." So saying, she bent all the way over me and gave me a kiss on the lips. "Dang but ya'll have such't a purty face...almos' like a gal." "Looks can sure fool a body, cain't they?" "It's hell-fired wicked to practice Dee-see-vin on folks. Well, ain't you gonna get yourself up?" "I'm well on my way...Lud? I guess I need a little help." My erection grated in my clothes, the swelling cock-head pressing forcefully at the fabric near my right hip. Earthquake--I mean Tempest, who I could not quite yet call "Lud" wrapped her fire-extinguisher diameter arm around my waist, setting my ribs on fire, but when I saw the cluster of buildings within tolerable walking distance and banked on their being a good-sized bed in at least one of them, I looked back at her with nothing but smiles. "Thanks for giving me a...hand earlier." I said through a disguised groan. My cock will love you for the rest of my vacation. She hugged tighter. "Th' Lord He jes' loves a right charful giver, don't He?" The Lord probably knew I was intent on giving nothing but love. * My seduction of Earthquake--there I go again! As I was saying, my seduction of Tempest Ludmilla Youngblood progressed in fits and starts. "Best tell your folks you got a guest coming to call." "My folks don't live here, Mr. McCrae...I's jes sposed to keep an eye on the main house and make sure none them other shacks gets busted into." "This is a hotel or something?" I asked when she let me go. "People what know'd this place when it was open called it a camp. Camp Sunshine." Tempest dug into her grimy overalls for a small ring of keys, isolating one from the rest as she approached a long, low lodge whose signboard had been taken down long ago but showed the difference in weathering on the wood that had once held it aloft. Camp Moonshine would have been a better name, I thought. I vaguely remember Uncle Buzz talking about nudist camps in the mountains. This had been one of them. What luck. Oh, that I had had the fortune to see Camp Sunshine when it was in full swing. On second thought, seeing a bunch of naked hillbillies perhaps wasn't a big draw. On third thought, locals probably didn't frequent this place, leaving it for outsiders. With my bike down, I'd be the first guest in a long time, I figured. * I got stripped to the waist in no time, asking for a place with a mirror, a sink and a place to lie down. I was hoping for a bed, but got an expansive old couch instead in a room she called the "parlor". Tempest came back with a few towels and dropped them with a gasp of unaffected emotion as she saw my naked chest and stomach. "How do I look?" I turned around, catching my reflection in the murky, age-darkened mirror. There wasn't a lot of light in the parlor and that was a plus. "Not banged up too bad, am I?" My erection hadn't forgot I was with a young woman, as like as not a virgin and already at ease with my being in what might be her house. I turned around to face her, not hiding my arousal. "You look mighty pleasin' and that's the Lord's own truth--!" "I ain't keepin' you from your chores, am I...Lud?" "When a body's doin' good by helpin' the hurt and lost, that's a more important deed than sweepin' porches, pumpin' the water and gettin' the meat pounded." She was coming closer, her big, fat nipples still straining beautifully at her shirt. "I guess if the meat has to be pounded, I shouldna' oughta' keep y'all from it." "We's put on this here Earth to give solace and succour to one another, ain't we?" Now she was close enough to touch. "Amen to that, sister." "Giveth unto me no mockery, Mr. McCrae..." "What I have is completely real, Miss Tempest, I swear on a stack of Bibles on Easter Sunday too." I put my hand on hers, clasped it actually as saw the reaction in her eyes. The sparse fringe of fine blond hair on her arms stood up and I smoothed it down with a chuckle that she joined in. Our eyes met at last and I forgot she was a tomboy. I leaned forward, and kissed her cheek once, twice, three times, moving in a slow, downward arc to her lips. When I got there, her pucker was waiting for me. Any embarrassment now and the operation would be scrubbed. "Oh, but how my heart is a flutterin'...leapin' within this breast to lead me inter temptations and wickedness!" She clutched my hands and pressed them into the cushioned hollow between her joggling bosoms. "Oh, no. Not this heart. It's too well shielded." "Please, Lord, don't let this passion blind my eyes to what's right and proper o' me!" She kissed me again; one of those open-mouth Soap-Opera, spit-swapping kisses that signal a scene change or a blandishment from a semi-celeb with toilets to clean. She had been right, her heart was going like a drunk stomping on spiders, real or imaginary. Then she kissed me, throwing her arms around me, but much lower than before, clasping them in the small of my back to pull me close. My canted up cock squirmed wetly in its confines, sending up signed complaint notices. "Tempest, I ain't been properly succoured in a long spell." I winced, picking that moment to undo the closures on the motorcycle pants and stop punishing my cock for being what it was and doing what it was supposed to be doing under the circumstances. "Not in here...I want to be courted in under my own roof." What I had wanted so badly to blossom on that old couch was suspended. Leaving my helmet, jacket and gloves inside the parlor, I followed Tempest around to the back of the lodge. To her trailer. * The 50's era trailer was on blocks, the tires having rotted over the years. It was wired to the house and there was power, plumbing and a few appliances so outdated I couldn't recognize them. The moment she turned on the central light in the low-ceilinged trailer, there was a blue flash, a click and the bulb went kaput. It was a long time til dusk, but the position of the trailer behind the much higher lodge and overhanging boughs of nearby trees plunged the 30+ foot trailer into darkness. Deprived of visual stimulation, I let my skin and ears gather the information. Clasps clicked and fabric drew over skin in whispers. Tempest was panting now, keeping away as my arms groped in the grayness where only corners and reflective surfaces stood out in the gloom. Zip. Zip. Zip. I could make out the whipping sounds of tough bootlaces freed from eyelets and Tempest removed her clodhoppers in the blackness, dropping them to the floor with first one clump and then after a tension-filled silence, the other one. The acceptable odor of her sweaty socks climbed in the air and these too came off in huffs of damp fabric over calloused soles. I didn't know what kind of underwear she might have--if any, but I guessed she wore underwear. "Mr.McCrae?" "It's not McCrae. It's...Kray. Creed Kray. No mick." I rhymed her boot-dropping with my own, sending them well away from the wide bed in the rear of the trailer, one by one. "I has to confess something fore'n we does anythin' more." Her morality was getting tiresome, but at the same time, setting her apart from dozens of other girls who spread or knelt or jerked without a hint of qualm. "When I was with you in the Gent's room up at Big B's, I seen your pecker...your member...while you was in the midst of your relief. I shouldn't have been lookin' at it, but I done it. And it looked to me mighty long. Long as a Bowie knife. And I ain't been with no man afore this'n. The wives up the sewing bees and the bridal parties is always sayin' this and that. I ain't going to commence to uncivilized holwin' nor screamin' for the accomodation, is I?" The weight of her body combined with mine on the bed and the plywood frame creaked under the load. The trailer shifted ominously. "Tempest, you'll make nothing more than a joyful noise." "A joyful noise unto the Lord?" she said in a concerned voice as her meaty body slid up alongside mine. The raw scent of country pussy had me oozing precum in beads now. I writhed, hauling away my wet, clinging jockstrap. My whopping wood catapulted to my belly with a splat. Tempest followed the noise and grabbed it tightly. "I'm sure He'll hear it too." * She came when I suckled those big teats. I kept one hand pressed down on her tummy, a broad expanse of untoned muscle that was stubbornly clinging to baby-fat. But this was a strong belly too. When spasms made her gut clench, I could feel the exquisite tone. Her shoulders, thighs and back were powerful, her neck thick,her calves defined and that laruppin' big ass that didn't have a hint of mush or sag. No cottage cheese here. This was the ass pop-singing divas went to plastic surgeons and personal trainers to get. And now it was mine to play with. Tempest, however, was content to rest on it, letting me massage the sturdy cheeks only for a few minutes before she threw those wrestler's arms around me and begged for some lovin'. Having come, she was wet with sweat, steaming against me. "Has yer feller ever courted ya like'n this, Lud?" "Now you attend to me, Creed and don't give no thought to what's gone before..." That wasn't quite the information I needed, but it was fun to hear. My erection slid against her belly and against the insides of her thighs and I felt the hairy wetness against my cockhead. I tickled her a little, feeling for her tiny, hooded clit which hadn't risen as much as I'd hoped. Her cuntlips were wet, unfurled and meaty. Tempest moaned and spread wide, applying real strength as I humped over her to suck her tits again and then tongue-wrestle her in the dark. Starting with the a missonary position that only seemed right for this scripture-tickled mountain gal, I maneuvered in the dark, parting her sweaty thighs with my sweaty hands. I docked my cockhead just right against the fluted, wet, beef-curtains of her labia which were appropriately hairy and gave a polite, but manly thrust, hearing the moisture in the pit behind them squelch in aromatic displacement as a thumb-length prowled into her, filling her from floor to ceiling, wall to wall, but not yet front to back. 160 pounds of tomboy contorted at that first prod and her labia gave me a rhyme to what her mouth had accomplished earlier in the parlor. The wet folds slid, bulging, stretching, turning on themselves and me as the wide pelvis into which they were set angled like a barge on a wide river. Her powerfully muscled legs with thighs a frog would aspire to leaned away from center then drew inward again. Crick, crick, crick. Her bare toes clenched, popping the knuckles. I was right up against her maidenhead, feeling the resistance. I gave a sharp, little prod which made Tempest buck and slide back in retreat. I slid forward in pursuit, putting more of my body on top of hers, mashing her enormous breasts with my sore ribs. The cushioning effect was delicious and I spared one hand to tweak her already stiff cigar-stub nipples. She inhaled a ragged gasp of pleasure, fear and pain as I applied more interior pressure, trying to batter her gash-gasket in an imitation of a stiff finger piercing the stubborn foil seal under the screw-off caps of the BBQ sauce I pitched on TV. I don't know what kind of food Tempest grew up on, but her innocence was damned hard to take. Proving her guilty was going to take what the guys in the locker room at Lamour Jr.High called the "Red Plunge", the "Cherry Buster" and more recently, "Using the Force". I coaxed her into rolling her butt up to get her vagina into a steeper attitude for the decisive poke that would mark the end of her one-time-only virginity and usher her into womanhood. I had one chance to do it right. Tempest and I sucked face vigorously although she whimpered in premonition of the pain like a child in a doctor's office looking at needles and the child's father imagining the bill. I propped myself on one arm, still going at those stupendous nipples in the dark. I somehow coaxed her into gripping her ankles tightly. That would help. Maybe she didn't know about the blood. I wouldn't spoil this moment with that hint. Her angle was perfect, according to the locker room crowd. I had my end covered. I poised, waiting for her to come or respond more freely to my kissing. When she bit back at my lip in eagerness, I let my captured glans slide in the mucous for a mere second and then drove down with all my weight, feeling resistance for a dreadful, unrepeatable moment in her life as the barrier tore and my formerly frustrated erection did what I had been waiting for and wanting for in the course of years. I had deflowered a virgin. And what a virgin. But my job wasn't over yet. Transported to an apex of horny achievement, my sore muscles and bones forgot themselves and ran away with my genitals in a fest of mucous-coated swiving. Tempest let go of her ankles and heaved the deep moan of a foaling mare, rising up from the dampening sheets to pull me down on top of her as she panted steam into my face and ears in grit-teeth, berserkitude. "Don't stop, Lou, don't stop!" Tempest groaned. Lou? Who the hell was Lou? I didn't ask. An old boyfriend who might have come close, but not enough to do what I'd done. Secretly, perhaps, she longed for this Lou, but as I continued on toward my climax, the name was forgotten. Under my root, my balls were climbing sneakily, trying to work in a premature ejaculation, but I caught them in the act and drew them back down, carrying on with plowing the tunnel of a girl that too many took as a boy. I had found out the best way possible how wrong I'd been. A series of smacking sounds in the dark made my balls begin to creep up again. Tempest was sucking on her own nipples, satisfying my surety she could easily do it, but defying my suspicion she wouldn't. Somewhere outside, I guessed on the back wall of the lodge, a yellow floodlight flared to life, presumably on a timer. The golden glow shot through the trailer, falling on our forms through the half-open blinds making stripes on our bare skin in lurid colors. My balls must have been thanking me for getting them out of the cycle pants and they paid me back with a load of unpretentious gunge that was enough to baptize Tempest from the inside out. The first spasm of my inner abdominal muscles made me fall flat over Tempest like a collapsing Tsunami of teenage flesh. SPLOOOOSH! I came! The pressurized fluid angrily hosed Tempest's heretofore unplumbed depths, painting the walls in sticky, salty, gooey testament of my new found fetish for girls of near-indeterminable gender. The big tomboy threw a leg over my back and pulled me down into her as I ran through my series of spurts like an elimination round of a game show with too many contestants. My fluid and hers squittered out past the dipping plug of my horsecock in narrow jets that I could feel on my face and chest and thighs. Reeking of her interior, but masked with the smell of my own sour boy-syrup, my cock was withdrawn with more than a little effort. Tempest's feminine muscles had gone ape during my orgasm, compressing my impacted cockshaft under the flaring head. More steaming liquid drooled from her and she fussed in the striped light, fumbling for a tea towel which she kept near the pillow. She mopped her brand new woman's cunt with it and got her breath back, telling me in a strained, tired voice (between kisses) that she hurt, but she was in a state of "jubilation". When she was recovered, she asked for more, and I complied, ramming and wetting her newly modified orofice twice more over the course of the night, always in the missionary position although I asked nicely and explained what "cowgirl", "doggy-style" and the exotic "69'. She murmured/sang before she fell asleep next to me, ignoring the marshy wet-spots were both reclined in. The tunes were familiar, but I was delerious and now wanting only to spoon in with her until first light. I fell asleep, wondering about Lou, then my dreams turned to fucking Tempest outdoors like a real hillbilly. That had to wait for tomorrow. * We woke, kissed passionately, but put off lovemaking even while we showered in the close confines of the shower stall which pumped eye-popping, scrotum-shrinking, cock-drooping, nipple-stiffening, friend-hugging cold water. We dressed and I went out to inspect my bike. The throttle cable had broken. Other than a number of scuffs and a small puncture to the saddle, the bike was more or less all right. It was right about then my gathering wits identified the tunes Tempest had been humming last night. They were from "Oklahoma!" When she came close and held my hand, I started in like another fellow who was genuinely named McCrae, singing the opening to "People Will Say We're In Love". I sang the Curly part right, but Tempest looked blankly at me like I was waiting for something from outer space to fall at my feet. It would have been fun to hear her try to imitate Shirley Jones with her low, countryfied voice, but she didn't try. I'll put out a flag near the highway close to where the mailbox is. Lou and Sugarcandy'll see it and stop by here--if it can be patched up machine-wise, they could tinker you right back to fine fettle agin." I wasn't jazzed about Lou, but if he could fix that throttle cable, it would help. Meeting a girl named Sugarcandy might also be a bonus, but this morning, I was concerned with Tempest's story. Her education consisted mostly of doggerel gleaned indirectly from dozens of long-winded Televangelists, Country music from the failing 60's era radio, (I was glad she knew who Elvis was, but she didn't know anyone from him onward, not the Beatles, Michael Jackson, Madonna or Britney Spears) she must have subscribed to the bumper-sticker slogan that "If it ain't country, it ain't music". It was freakisly curious she knew only half the songs from "Oklahoma!", but knew them well, missing all references to the film version except what was in the songs. I found out why. On a dusty old phonograph that looked like a sewing box was a beat-to-shit soundtrack LP with no album jacket in sight. "Where's the album it came in?" I asked. The dumb look on her face showed she didn't know that records were sold in protective covers. I guess they didn't have them at Big B's. The heavy radial arm was resting needle down on the record about halfway through the side that didn't feature: "People Will Say We're In Love". "Ain'tcha never heared t'other side of this here ray-cord, gal?" "What...other side?" she responded, looking at the oily black disc on the turntable as if there was actually another side to it. Which I knew there was. "Why there's a whole 'nother bunch'ta singing on the other side... all you gotta do is lift up this here arm'n flip the thing over and play it like this one." "You's saying there's a whole 'nother side?" "That's how they're made, missy." "I lifted the arm, swung it back to rest, lifted the record by the edges like the experts do, flipped it over to show Tempest what I was talking about and set it down, lining the spindle through the center hole with the practiced ease of a boy used to poking things. Tempest gasped. "Why you shouldn' oughta' done that." I was all smiles, amused by her ignorance and eager to show her how a simple thing like a record player really worked. I wondered who had first showed her. They had neglected a basic fact. It took a moment to find the On switch. Then I dropped the needle just so at the right selection and stood back to join Tempest, wrapping my arms around her from behind. Bacon-frying noises, pops and cloth-ripping noises mingled with Curly as he pondered why folks said this and that about him and Laurie. Tempest was dumbfounded, looking and listening like a primitive tribeswoman suddenly finding herself on the Slot-machine labyrinth at a giant Nevada casino. Then the shock wore off and she listened for the first time to a record she'd grown up with, but had never suspected there was more to it than a single side. The music swelled with my cock and I kissed Tempest's neck over and over again. I massaged her stiffening nipples through her shirt and ground my semi-erect prick into her rump. We were weaving with the tune when a motorcycle engine roared outside and stopped. The trailer door burst open. "LOU! It's you!" Tempest said, turning to face the newcomer. "That's Lou?" I asked, looking at the venomous, trashy cycle mama-in-training with two cigarettes in her bruised lips. "I's my belief he'll visit mischief upon ye!" Tempest wriggled loose of my hold and hid behind me. "Who? Lou?" I asked, wondering why Tempest had used a masculine form, calling this she-punk "he". If this was a game, it was an interesting one. If Tempest didn't know this girl was a girl, that meant they had experienced some intimacy. Maybe Tempest had gotten naked of felt up, but not Lou. Unless it had happened and Tempest was far dumber than I took her for. She knew a member for a member, and mine was the one against which any future cocks would be measured. "Don't Lou know how to knock--or make Poe-lite conversin'?" Sneering in hatred, she grabbed my rolled road atlas and threw it at me, whomping me in the stomach. "...Salopbastard--!" The rest was lost as she growled and huffed in stud-hating fury. She could easily be mistaken for a boy, too. Easier in fact than Tempest. I hoped Sugarcandy was going to be on my side. Outside the fashion magazines, Lou was one of the few mulattos I had ever seen. Cleaned up, she might be average--fuckable. "Get out th'way, Tempis, I's gonna rip this mutha-fucka til he shits out'n his bellybutton--!" She looked at me for a second, sized me up, then whipped out a switchblade and attacked me. TO BE CONTINUED please leave feedback to zuiderzee@yahoo.com