J Long: Motel peeper

Emory couldn't believe it! Shit, there had to be at least a half a century difference between their ages. Shit, he wasn't any spring chicken. Shit, even he knew he was just an old cock.

Emory shook his head. Things were getting a mite stickly. Like his palms were sweating. Which was remarkable because he had thought that his fucking sweat glands had dried up long ago. And his mouth was a ball of cotton, and he wheezed instead of breathed. And his tongue felt as heavy as an anvil. His heart tried to beat fast, but couldn't. But it still beat strong enough to send hot blood to his cock and make it bulge out the crotch of his dung-covered coveralls.

"You fucking old bugger!" Wednesday exclaimed, breathing hard into his hearing aid. "Jesus Christ! Ya gotta fine cock, Emory!"

Emery was stunned. Nimbly, his hand moved beneath the bar. He placed his palm on the back of Wednesday's hand. Was that really his bulge? Was that really – oh Lordy, Lordy, Lordy!

Emory smiled. Then he stopped smiling so his dentures wouldn't fall out. But he sure was happy and proud, even though he couldn't express it.

Why, he could even feel her hand moving up and down on his cock-bulge, really laying into his meat just like Sarah Meeker used to do on those summer hayrides when he was a nineteen-year-old, wet-behind-the-ears kid.

Why, Emory could even feel a tingle in his balls, a tingle that wasn't as strong and as powerful as on that summer hayride of 1915. But it was still a tingle.

And now his cock felt just like the old days. Big and hard and throbbing, at least ten inches long and three inches in diameter.

Jesus Christ! He had a boner – as they called it in '32. He had a real big skiddoo – as they called it in '22. Emory felt so fucking alive. He felt as if his cock had suddenly become the fountain of youth.

"Hey, motherfucker!" came a sultry voice through his hearing aid.

Emory turned toward the sultry voice, saw the sultry lips from whence the sultry words had come, smelled the sultry Loins perfume that Wednesday wore around her ears.

He wanted to smile.

"Hey, motherfucker!" Wednesday repeated, rubbing his huge hard-on. "Christ, you got a big fucking hard-on!"

Emory blinked his eyes, "W-What's a hard-on?"

Wednesday blinked, too. Had she heard right? Did he really ask what the fuck a hard-on was?

She asked him: "You don't know what a hard-on is?"

Emory shook his head. "Is it the same as a kiddoo?"

"What the fuck's a skiddoo?"

Emory wanted to smile so badly. "A skiddoo's the same's what Elsie calls a humdinger."

Wednesday, as most cocksucking chicks are, became impatient. "Look, cock-face, I don't know what the fuck you're taking about. I don't give a shit about a skiddoo; I don't give a fuck if Elsie's a cow; and I don't give a rats ass shit about humdingers. All I care about is your fucking hard-on!"

People stopped playing checkers and pinochle and Monopoly. People had stopped doing other things in the Yahoo Bar because Wednesday's voice had managed to drown out the song of Roy Rogers' melodious twang as he sang: "Happy Trails to You…" via the juke box.

People like Ferris Collier who had just landed on Community Chest and was told to go to Free Parking.

People like Eddie Grossman who had just introduced his left big toe to Rebecca Shingles' cunt beneath the table as they played checkers.

They were shocked at what they had heard, and they had all turned in unison toward the woman who cared so much about an old man's hard-on.

Of course, some were embarrassed by what they had heard.

Like the prim and proper lady who sat in the corner of the Yahoo Bar reading Pride and Prejudice and getting a clit erection over a spit-swapping scene. Prudence was her first name, tough it could have been Prim or Proper, and Meeker was her last. Prudence Meeker.

Prudence had been shocked at what she had heard and then, when she had caught a glimpse of that fat bulge in Emory Willets' coveralls, she had nearly shit stones in her white cotton panties.

She had left in a hurry, not even paying for her pekoe tea.

But the others – well, the others were just as fucked up as the two perverts at the bar. Probably because they liked to hear women talk about taking good care of hard-ons.

They listened in.

Emory tried to listen too, but his hearing aid felt as if it were going to melt from the sultry, passionate heat that came from a sultry-voiced whisper.

Then Emory couldn't listen any more because pain was coming from his prick. At first, it felt like a dull ache, similar to what girls get when they go swimming while in the midst of a heavy period. The agony was centered at his crotch, and because he was almost eighty years old, the pain moved slowly through his balls and bowels until it inched up to his brain. And when the pain got to his brain, Emory grimaced, his upper dentures cutting into his lower gums.

"Ooooooohhhhhhh!" Emory drawled. "Myyyyyyyyy skiddddddooooooo! Ooooooiihhhhh, stoooooopppppp!"

Wednesday stopped pinching his cock. "Look, old man. I came into this fucking, two-bit bar to get a piece of ass. What I wanta know is – are you going to fuck the shit out of my ass or not? Is it a deal?"

Oh, Lordy!

Emory started to drool, then the drool turned crimson because his gums were bleeding so bad. But he was immensely happy, even though he couldn't show it. And he was happy because he had not had a real piece of ass since the days he had corn cobbed Emily Fitzer in the rutabaga patch on his grandpa's north forty. And that had been fifty-two long years ago.

So, no wonder he was happy. Fifty-two years was a long time between ass-fucks, for a man to stick his skiddoo into a whooooooppeeeee hole – which is what they used to call an ass back in his youth.

The proprietor of the Sleepwell Motel was a man named Hiram Shingles. Hiram was not a rich man or a poor man, nor was he a beggar. Hiram Shingles, to those who rubbed elbows or cheeks with him, was considered to be an asshole.

The only one in Tweedy who did not consider Hiram to be an asshole was his twenty-five-year-old widow daughter, Rebecca. She did not consider him to be an asshole because she did not want to be known as the daughter of an asshole.

But to all the other souls in Tweedy, Hiram Shingles was an asshole through and through.

People thought he was an asshole because Hiram did weird things – or at least, fellow Tweedyans thought they were weird things for a fifty-year-old widower to do to his widow daughter.

The first weird thing that Hiram was noted for took place ten years ago. People said that Hiram had just plain murdered his wife. Others, those with a sense of fair play, thought that his wife had simply run into an accident. But still others, those who befriended assholes, thought it was a clear case of involuntary suicide.

It had all happened when Hiram's wife was found in the barn in a very, strange position.

Most people would have called the position dog-style, or rear-ending, or an upside-down missionary.

Sheriff Colby wanted to call it grotesque, but because he did not finish third grade he did not know the meaning of grotesque. That's why he called it funny. Funny as in unnaturally funny.

Or was it funny to find Mrs. Shingles naked and on all fours with a couple of other fours in her ass – a couple of two-by-fours?

And that was only the posterior view of Mrs. Shingles' corpse. The anterior view was even funnier. Because that's where the two-by-fours had exited.

And the side view was just down right funny in an unnatural way.

From the side, Mrs. Shingles looked as if a Cyclops had rammed her torso on to a two-by-four and was ready to roast her over an open fire like a spitted pig.