John Locke: Box

“Where’s your sense of adventure, Gideon?”

“Sorry.”

She sighs heavily. “How long would it take you to know me?”

“What do you mean?”

“I can’t be puttin’ too much time into this relationship if it’s not goin’ anywhere.”

“It’s not so much a time thing.”

“Then what is it?”

“I can’t just take you out of town with me.”

“Why not?”

“I mean, I don’t even know if we’re compatible yet.”

“Our kiss didn’t tell you that?”

“Sex would say it better.”

She frowns. “Are you playin’ me?”

“I’m not sure what that means.”

“What type of girl would I be if I dropped my drawers for the first guy who offered to drive me out of town?”

“Based on what you said, I might be the seventh guy.”

“You’re makin’ way too many assumptions about my last six attempts to escape this shit hole. For your information, I only ran off with one man. The other times were on my own.”

“What happened to him?”

“Who?”

“The guy you ran off with?”

“It didn’t take.”

“Which is my point exactly.”

“Again, you’re makin’ way too many assumptions. The reason it didn’t take is because he died.”

“Excuse me?”

“He had a heart attack.”

“Where?”

“Starbucks.”

“The town?”

“The motel at Starbucks. I don’t like to talk about it.”

“He died during sex?”

“Just before.”

“How old was he?”

“Old.”

“Like what, sixty?”

“Older.”

“Eighty?”

“Let’s talk about somethin’ else, okay? ’Cause you’re really killin’ the mood here.”

I don’t want to talk about something else. I want to ask how long she’d known this octogenarian before he agreed to run off with her. I want to ask if she met him at the restaurant, same as me. I want to know if she made him steal the handcuffs while Scooter was taking a shit. I want to ask if he cuffed her to the fence. I want to know how far he got with her before his heart gave out.

But what I say is, “Tell me where you live, and I’ll take you home.”

“Call my cell phone first.”

“Why?”

“So I’ll have your number.”

She gives me her number and I call her cell phone.

“This is Trudy,” she says. “Who’s this?”

“Funny. Where do you live?”

“I’ll tell you after you check into the Dew Drop Inn.”

“Let me guess. That’s your only hotel?”

“Motel. And yes.”

“Sounds like a dump.”

“A dump would be a step up.”

“That’s probably not going to work out for me.”

“If I come by later, you won’t even notice the room.”

“Are you planning to come by?”

“I’d like to, but I need to think about it.”

“What’s there to think about?”

“You ever go to auctions?”

“Sometimes.”

“Would you spend every nickel you had on a painting that might be a fake?”

“What’s your point?”

“All I’ve got is my body. If I give it to you tonight, I’ll have nothin’ left to bargain with. You already proved you’re the type of man who expects sex before you’ll give me a chance to show what a great girlfriend I can be. I have to decide if you’re also the kind of man who’d walk away after gettin’ what he wants.”

“Nice speech.”

“Thanks. It ought to be. I’ve had a lot of practice givin’ it.”

“You managed to make it seem normal that I should let you move in with me based on a hot meal and a hanging.”

“And a hand job.”

“Excuse me?”

“Unzip your pants.”

“Uh…shouldn’t we call for an ambulance first? For your father?”

She reaches over and starts rubbing me.

“I’ll leave that decision up to you, Doctor.”

I’m still in pain from the crotch-kicking I received a few minutes ago, but then I remember that sometimes rubbing a sore spot can help the pain go away.

“Scooter should be fine for a while,” I say.

Trudy Lake.

There’s an art to givin’ a good hand job.

Most girls concentrate on the shaft, and feel they need to expend a great deal of energy.

They’re wrong.

In my experience, the sweet spots are the head of the penis, and the balls. It’s probably eighty percent head, twenty percent balls. You’d be amazed how fast I can get a guy off by rhythmically ticklin’ his balls and massagin’ just the head of his penis.

Dr. Box is no exception.

I didn’t put a clock to it, but let’s just say I was shocked to have him explode in less than a minute. And when I say explode…

“This has never happened to me before,” he gasps. “I bet you could water an acre of land in ten seconds using nothing more than your hand and a garden hose!”

This, from a guy who got kicked in the nuts twenty minutes ago. Not once, but twice.

“How’d you do that?” Dr. Box gasped.

“Was it really all that special?”

“Are you kidding?” He turns on the overhead light and says, “Look at the car’s interior. If terrorists blew up a dairy they couldn’t do this much damage!”

He’s not lying. If sperm were shrapnel, we’d be dead. Skilled as I am with my hands, I’m a bit taken back by the extent of the coverage. I mean, what type of circus freak has this type of orgasm?

Should I be afraid?

He says, “Honestly. You’re so young. How could you possibly be that good?”

I’d rather not tell him I’ve had three years of practice jackin’ off my brother.

I decide to say, “I think it happened like that because we fit so well together.”

“You think so?”

“I know so.”

“Why is that, do you suppose?”

“Do you want me to spend time thinkin’ on it now, or do you have somethin’ I can clean this up with?”

“I only brought the one beach towel. And Scooter’s using it.”

“I think we’d need two beach towels for this job,” I say. Then add, “Oh, shit!”

“What’s wrong?”

I point at the monster truck barreling down the road, headed right for us.

“What the hell is that?” he says.

“Darrell.”

Dr. Gideon Box.

I’d never seen a monster truck before, except when flipping through channels on TV. And even then I had no concept of the actual size until Darrell roared up in a cloud of dust.

“What the hell?” I say for the second time.

“You’re lookin’ at what happens when a redneck inherits a quarter million dollars,” Trudy says.

“How tall is that thing?”

“Eleven feet. The tires alone are sixty-six inches.”

A tall, thin, angry man jumps down from the platform and races to the passenger side of my rental car. He pulls the door open, takes in the scene. Sees my unzipped pants, and what’s left of my mighty sword. Sees Trudy’s hands dripping with evidence.

“You whore!” he shouts.

She slaps his face with a wet, sloppy, smack and yells, “Drive away, Gideon!”

“Gideon?” he says. “What kind of pansy ass name is that?”

He tries to grab her. “Get out, Trudy!” he yells. “Now!”

“Drive on!” she yells, trying to push him away.

“Oww!” she yelps as he grabs her hair.

I fire up the engine and try to figure out how to maneuver around the giant truck. I settle for backing up two feet, and sharply cutting the wheel. But before I can throw the car into drive, Darrell punches Trudy’s face, and rears back to hit her again.

“Come here, asshole!” I yell.

He stops in mid swing.

“What did you say?”

“I said, come here, you ugly piece of shit.”