Lori’s New Tits

 

by Fielding Goodfellow

 

Lori Finch returned from her yearlong study abroad program in France with a new pair of tits. They weren’t exactly new, but they were definitely not the same ones I played around with in the back of a Chevy Malibu during our sophomore year in high school. As for the year in France, well nobody really believed that story. We all knew that she got pregnant, and was shipped off by her parents to relatives who would keep and raise the baby. That’s just how it was done back then. That night, at the Algonquin, as we drifted through galaxies as yet undiscovered, she was once again the center of attention. And that’s how Lori liked it. She always did.

Two grease balls standing near the pool table kept staring at her despite the fact that they were with two exceptionally attractive women of their own who were so agitated at their dates and Lori’s tits, that they felt compelled to do something about it. Glances were being cast by eyes that darted back and forth across the pub, all focused on Lori’s new tits and protruding nipples. As the two women neared  our table. Lori stood and pulled her tee shirt up, exposing her tits to all who cared to catch a glimpse. The women froze in their tracks, caught between their embarrassment and their desire while the two grease balls, now with their dicks standing at attention tried to get a closer look. “Sorry boys” Lori said, “these are for the ladies.” The two women didn’t move, transfixed and intrigued by Lori’s exposed tits and by what seemed like an invitation, trying to decide if they really could take Lori up on her offer. Once Lori pulled her top back down, they turned and raced out of the bar, leaving the two grease balls to chase after them in the hope that they might provide some relief for the raging hardons they would rather not have to  deal with on their own.

Lori liked to say that she was a hedonist, but the truth was she was just another horny little shit who was more interested in getting her rocks off than anything else, just like the rest of us. She craved any kind of attention really, and often times she would feed into it just so she could feed off of it. It was all very convoluted. I understood I mean, though we never really dated and  spent most of our time getting high and rustling around the back seat of her mother’s yellow, convertible Chevy Malibu, we became close. Sometime during that sophomore year, she confided in me that she was bisexual. I wasn’t surprised. She had more balls than most of the guys I knew, and I was pretty sure that given half a chance, Lori could have turned pro and become a full time lesbian. Back then though, I was pretty fucking happy that she didn’t.

“I wouldn’t mind seeing those again.” our petite server said as she delivered the next round. She had been hovering around our table for most of the night, and we thought that she was interested in Tate. It turned out that she was really only hot for Lori “They’re pretty impressive.” she added. She was right though, they were, at the very least impressive. Someone in France had done a fantastic job.

The Algonquin was generally a peaceful place, but on Friday nights the rednecks would come down from the hills of Oak Ridges, or Victoria Square in their Ford F100s for a night in the big city. They were rowdy, and ignorant, and dumb as fucking door knobs, and they usually be counted on to start at least one good bar room brawl every time they showed up. Three or four of them arrived just as Lori and her new friend had escalated their flirting to a more hands on approach. As the server walked by, Lori would cup her ass. On the return trip, the server would intentionally brush her hand across Lori’s shoulder or boob. It was quickly becoming a lesbian liaison. The rednecks noticed too. It was hard to believe that people so fucking stupid could notice anything, but I suppose they noticed Lori’s tits right away, and everything else was just sort of there, right before their vacuous eyes. There was the customary name calling followed by graphic descriptions of how they needed to fuck the lesbian out of Lori and the server. It began to turn ugly as they moved towards us, so a few of us stood between them and Lori. In seconds, tables were being tossed over and fists were flying. People we didn’t know joined in and quite a beating was laid on the hill people. It ended quickly with them crawling out of the bar, tails between their legs, promising to return to kick our asses. Somewhere in the fracas I managed to crack a couple of ribs, and as I sat on a chair holding my side, Lori sat beside me.

“Thanks for helping.” she said. “But what the hell were you thinking? We both know you’re not a fighter.”

“Somebody needed to shut those fuckers up.” I said. “And its really not that bad. I got in some good licks and I think I enjoyed delivering the pounding.”

“Why does everything you say always sound like you’re talking about sex?” she asked.

“Well” I said, “I guess that’s just what you do to me.”

“You still want me, don’t you?” she asked. “You want my new tits.”

“I wouldn’t say no to spending an afternoon with them.” I said.

She leaned over and kissed me and then stood up, and lifted  her tee shirt to show me her tits in an obvious attempt to tease. There really was no reason for that, I mean, I already wanted her. “”How about tomorrow?” she asked. “We still have the Malibu.”

Lori left that night with the server, while I got checked out at the hospital. Three cracked ribs with instructions to take it easy and rest. It didn’t matter really. The following afternoon I was in the back seat of that yellow, convertible Chevy Malibu with Lori and her new tits.

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Take Me To The River

by Fielding Goodfellow

 

One of my son’s has been preparing to join the Armed Forces, and I’m all for it, I mean I think he should  make his own life decisions.  My wife is not taking it well. She’s not sure he’s old enough to make this kind of a  decision on his own, despite being thirty-five years old. As he moves ass backwards through the transition from civilian life, he has been sorting through his belongings in order to determine what to keep and take with, and what he will leave behind. The Father’s Day foofaraw had just got underway when the proverbial shit began to hit the fan.

“I’ll take the tv.” I said.

“I don’t know.”, he told me. “I may take it.”

“What the hell are going to do with 60″ tv in the army?” I asked.

“I don’t know. We’ll see.” he said. “But I will need you to take the dogs.”

“Are you out of your fucking mind?” I asked him.

“What’s the big deal?” he asked. The big deal was, and still is the fact that the dog’s are dead. He had them cremated and their ashes are in urns that sit on a shelf in his book case. There’s a blue urn for John, the male Bichon-Poo, and a pink one for Yoko, the female Powderpap. Despite the fact that I adored both of these dogs, I have no interest at all in bringing their remains into my home. My wife however thought that it was the least we could do to help her boy make the move into army life. It wasn’t. The least we could do, as I pointed out, was obviously to not take the urns.

The dogs had been with us for ten or eleven years when my son took them. He had just moved into a place of his own and wanted to have them there, I suppose for company. We agreed. He had them for another four or five years, and as they got older, they both became ill.  I was there when they were both put down. as my son wasn’t emotionally able to deal with the loss on his own. I wasn’t certain that I was either, but I was reminded on both occasions that I am the father and this sort of thing falls into the realm of my duties, right up there with confronting the armed lunatics who attempt to break into the house. It was a difficult time for all of us, but my son handled it better than I had expected. He had made arrangements with the vet to have them cremated and placed in color coded urns that he could keep and cherish forever. And now, he wanted to pass the joy of having the dead animals’ ashes displayed as an eternal shrine in my home.

“Its not happening.” I told him and his mother.

“Its okay.” she said. “I’ll keep them in the back of my closet. You won’t even know that they’re here.”

“Ill know.” I said.

“Well” my son asked, “What do you suggest we do?”

“What should have been done in the first place..” I said. “The ashes should have been scattered in a park. They always liked the park.”

“I don’t know.” my son said.

“Well then,” I said, “You’ll have to take them with.”

“What the hell do I tell the army?” he asked.

“You can always tell them they’re your parents.” I said. He didn’t seem to think that was funny. Neither did my wife. I however was pretty sure it was fucking hilarious.

“We’ll figure something out.” my wife said.

“What if those were your ashes?” he asked me.

“They’d be scattered in a river by now.” my wife answered on my behalf.

“Exactly.” I said. “If you want I can scatter the dogs in the river.”

“I don’t want their ashes scattered.” he said.

“Well, if you leave them here” I advised, “it will no longer be your decision to make.”

“Can I speak to alone?” my wife asked me. And there was twenty minutes in our bedroom, listening to her try to change my mind. I told her over and over that the ashes would not be staying in our home. Period. She cried and she begged, but I was steadfast, like a rock. And then she did it. “Please do it for me?” she asked.  Damn, she was good. She knew exactly what to say. She knew that I would never give in to the boy, and she also knew that I could never refuse one of her ‘do it for me’ requests. I didn’t even try.

“You’re such a bitch.” I said.

“Ya” she said. “But I so do like it when you talk dirty to me.”

My son was overjoyed that the dogs would remain sealed in their urns, prominently displayed in the back of my wife’s closet. There was really nothing else to say, and I had grown weary of these festive, family gatherings that always seemed to cost me something.

“Thank you for letting the dogs stay here.” my wife said as we lay in bed that night.

“I didn’t really have any choice, did I?” I asked.

“None at all.” she said. “But if you can think of something you want to do, I’m naked and I’m free for the next twenty to thirty minutes.” Damn she was good. She knew exactly what to say.

The Talking Dead

 

There is weird, and there’s spending an afternoon at the cemetery with my wife. There’s no particular reason for it, she just likes to go. She says its the only place she can go where she can get any peace. She says that its the only place she can go where spirits aren’t constantly whispering in her ear. I always thought that spirits would be all over a cemetery, but apparently I have always been mistaken. She says that the spirits leave the bodies and make their way to the other side long before burial. Even when they come back, they never return to where the body is interred. Sometimes she says that we should pack a lunch and eat at either of the two nearby cemeteries. Sometimes I wish that I could talk her out of going in the first place. Its not that I mind if she does her thing, but it all just gives me the willies.

The sky was insanely blue and the sun shone brighter than I thought it had a right to, and the universe seemed to have lined up all of the ducks into a single row and managed to create a fucking, spectacular day for us to picnic at the Necropolis. We sat on a bench eating veal on a bun as we gazed at the grave sides of Capt. John Andrew McRae and his beloved wife, Catherine. “If you listen closely” my wife said, “you won’t hear a thing.”

“I expected nothing less.” I said. “After all, it is a cemetery.” But she was right. If you really listened, there wasn’t any sound. There was no wind rustling through the trees, and there were chirping birds. There was nothing, and it was pretty fucking weird. We walked along the pathways that wound through the myriad of headstones that often seemed untended and occasionally illegible.  She said that sometimes she could pick up latent energy from the graves. She said that this was often a message indicating a troubled spirit who was unable to rest. She said that sometimes these restless souls get angry. I had no idea what the hell she was talking about, but I was pretty sure that I wanted no part of any of it.  Suddenly she stopped dead in her tracks. The color seemed to drain out of her face, and she burst into tears. Right in front of the final resting place of William Tyrell. Now I had spent a great deal of my life traversing space and time and as I wandered through assorted dimensions I discovered that while life races past at warp speed returning us full circle to where we began, its the attractions that make it all worthwhile, and not the journey itself. Sooner or later the lights of this amusement park will go out and I had always tried not to miss a single ride. This was not, however one of the attractions that I had any interest in riding. Sometimes you just have to pass.

She stood there crying for what seemed like forever, unable to speak. I held her until she stopped. She told me that she had been overcome with an intense feeling of sadness. She said that it enveloped her like a blanket and she just couldn’t seem to get it off. She was shaking. “I think we should go.” I said.

“Not yet.” she said. “I can’t explain it, but I feel like something’s here.” For me, that was the sign that it was time to leave, but for my wife, well she had yet to meet a ghost she wouldn’t want to talk with.  She stood there for a long time waiting, although I have no idea what she was waiting for, while I smoked and  polished off her iced tea.

“We should go now.” she said as she turned and started walking quickly across the cemetery grounds. She seemed afraid or worried, or both, and I followed close behind. She didn’t stop until we walked out the front gate, and stood on the sidewalk.

“What the hell is going on?” I asked.

“I don’t know.” she said. “Something was there. I don’t know what it was but it wasn’t good.”

“Are you alright?” I asked.

“I’ll be okay.” she said. “But that was pretty weird. I wish you could have felt it.” She could never understand just how happy I was that I couldn’t.

“I’m not doing this again.” I said.

“I know.” she said. “But I have to. Sometimes they talk to me. Sometimes they need my help.”

“Can we just go home?” I asked.

“Soon.” she said.

“I just want to go, now.” I repeated.

“In a minute.” she shouted back. “I thought we’d get a soft serve from the ice cream truck over there. Do you want one.”

“Ya. I suppose.” I said. “Medium chocolate vanilla swirl.”

“Ok.” she said. “You just sit here and rest. I’ll be right back. And then if you’re up to it,  I think you’re about to get incredibly lucky.”

 

A Night At The Roxy

by Fielding Goodfellow

 

Every Friday night the Roxy Theater screened a double feature, and every Friday night we were there. It was a ritual. It was always packed with the usual cast of suburban rebels and renegades who crammed into the theatre and quickly disappeared into the clouds of burning weed that billowed up to the rafters. We preferred to sit in the back, feeding our heads mushroom after mushroom, until we were no longer able to tell if it was art imitating life, or life imitating art. It didn’t take long for the weird shit to begin as the Oompa Loompas started singing and dancing their way across the silver screen, and the Canada Goose ushers wandered the aisles trying to sell their used AMC Gremlin. Somewhere between ‘Dirty Little Billy’ and ‘Fearless Vampire Killers’, I came face to face with God himself, working at the concession counter .

“Well, we haven’t spoken in a long time.” he said.

“Ya.” I answered. “I’ve had a lot going on.”

“I get it.” he said. “There always seems to be something that has to be dealt with.”

“You too?” I asked. “But you’re God.”

“That’s true.” he said, “Nevertheless, shit happens.”

“I guess it does.” I said. “So, do you work here?”

“No, no.” he said. “I just came here to see you. There’s something I’d like you to do.”

“You need me?”, I asked. “What can I do?”

“Well” he said, ” I need you to stop being such an ass. I need you to be  considerate and kind to people.”

“But they piss me off so much.” I said.

“I know. Me too.” he replied. “But you’re life will change one day soon, and if you aren’t ready for it, it will all just pass you by.”

“How can I change who I am?” I asked.

“That’s not who you are.” he said. “Its what you’ve chosen to be. Get high and let who you are come out. That’s when the real you can actually see. Just be patient and compassionate towards people all of the time. Trust me on this.” He handed me a large bag of popcorn. “Now go back and watch the movie. You’re gonna love ‘Fearless Vampire Killers’.

“That’s it?” I asked.

“Did you want something more?” he replied.

“Well some butter on the popcorn would be nice.” I said.

“I don’t think so.” he said. “I’ll tell you something. Stay the hell away from butter. And red meat. And fried foods. Definitely stay away from fried foods. One day down the road you’ll thank me for  this too. Now go and enjoy yourself.”

I left him at the counter and returned to watch the movie. He was right, ‘Fearless Vampire Killers’ was one hell of a movie. On the way out, I stopped by the concession counter, but he was gone. There was a pimply faced teenage girl working there who had never seen a man working there that evening, so I just chalked it all up to another drug induced hallucination. Either way it didn’t matter. Whatever did or didn’t happen that night at The Roxy Theatre has stuck with me, and has driven me to be a better person. There have been times though, when I wish that I would have at least asked him for the winning lottery numbers.