The Rough English Equivalent (The Jack Mason Saga Book 1)

by Stan Hayes

  “That’s for damn sure,” grunted Ricky. “This here sex drive’s a pisser, ain’t it? Ever think how much simpler life’d be if yer dick didn’t throb thirty times a day?”

  “How the hell else’re they gonna fill up alla these lil’ ol’ houses? People wouldn’t dive into a life sentence like that in their right mind. They gotta have a little help from a hard-on.”

  “Yeah, and I’m livin’proof a’that. Came within a gnat’s ass of one a’them little houses.” Ricky took another pull off the peach brandy as he pondered his escape. “Within a gnat’s fuckin’ ass a’never gettin’ outa here, with Trisha and her goddam folks on my fuckin’ back for life. Tell me I was lookin’ past th’ enda my dick.”

  “I ain’t gonna tell you that,” laughed Jack as he reached for the bottle. “I ’magine it seemed like far enough at th’ time. How far d’you reckon you’re lookin’ right now?” He drank, handed it back to Ricky and pulled the Ford’s gearshift lever down into low. “Le’s get on over there so you can charm th’ shit outa th’ quiz kid.”

  “She won’t know what hit ’er,” laughed Ricky.

  Jack gave the hot rod its head as Fifth Street turned into Poplar Drive. The Marsh’s house, a couple of miles south of town on the right side of the road, sat well back in a vast front yard, bounded on both sides by tall pecan trees. The trees had served as yard markers during countless Sundays of touch football over the years of the boys’ growing up. “Whaddja say th’ stringbean’s name is?” Ricky asked him.

  “Maybelle; Maybelle Wright.”

  “Where’s she from?”

  “Some little shithole way on down th’ road; Baxley, Hazlehurst, someplace like that.”

  Ricky grinned as they turned into the driveway. “Reckon she’d feel more at home if we took off our shoes?”

  “Suit yourself. Terry says she’s quick as a highland moccasin, so I ’magine she’ll handle your usual howdy-do, whatever that might be these days.”

  Ricky elbowed Jack as they rolled to a stop behind the red deck lid of a sports car. Silver script in the lid’s right bottom corner said AustinHealey. “If that’s hers, I guess her daddy owns a good piece of th’ shithole, wherever it is.”

  “Damn,” said Jack, “an Austin-Healey. Be nice to ’er, buddy, or I’ll have to. I wanta drive that gentleman!

  An inch-thick stack of 45’s waited their turn to slip down the fat spindle of Terry’s changer as the Charms belted out Hearts of Stone loud enough for them to hear it on the porch. A dark-skinned brunette close to six feet tall opened the Marsh’s front door. “Hi,” she said, extending her hand. “I’m Maybelle.” Good God, thought Jack, what a grip; a little on the plain side, but she looks like she’s up to handling pretty much anything, or anyone. I’d think twice before I let that mitt get a grip on my dick. Wonder if she wrestles alligators down home. “pleased to meet you, Maybelle,” he said. “This is Ricky Terrell.”

  “Hello, Ricky,” she said, as they looked each other up and down. “You’re th’ ballplayer, riit?”

  He turned his smile wattage up to full bright. “Bingo, Maybelle. How you doin’?”

  “Great. How ’bout a beer?”

  “Y’all come on in th’ kitchen,” Terry said to Jack as she took him by the hand. “Help us get this pizza dough together, OK?”

  “Didja get th’ anchovies?” Jack asked her as he decapped four Budweisers.

  “Yes, I did. But nobody wants ’em but you, so just put ’em on one side of one of th’ pizzass.”

  “Anchovies? I like ’em just fine, m’self,” said Maybelle. “Mind if we do a whole one with them little rascals?”

  “Not a’tall, if you want ’em; I just thought ol’ New York Jack ’us the only one that’d eat those little hairy things. You really like ’em?”

  “Oh, yeah. You need to drink beer with anchovy pizza, though, and luckily, we do have beer. They’re salty, but not bad!”

  “Well, hell, I’ll try a piece myself,” said Ricky. “Can’t be too bad if they’re salty. Hey.” Taking Maybelle’s arm above the elbow, he pulled her toward the door to the dining room. They’gn get th’ dough goin’; comeer n’have a lil’ taste a’what I brought to th’ party.”

  “What is it?” she asked, planting her feet to prevent his succeeding any further at pulling her toward the dining room.

  “Sump’m just this side of spectacular that we can chase with this here beer; peach brandy, born on a mountaintop in Tennessee. Left it in my coat outcheer.”

  “Why doncha just bring it on in here, Davy? Somebody else might want a ‘l’il taste,’ ” she said, raising her hands above her head and making quotation marks as she spoke. “But no coonskin caps ’til we’re drunk, if ya don’t miind.”

  Ricky looked at her for a second or two, realizing that he was going to have to give this heifer a little rope. Dialing his smile down to lower wattage, he rotated his head left to right in a single long-suffering shake, rear-marching into the dining room to retrieve the unopened twin to the pint bottle from which he and Jack had been drinking from the pea jacket’s other pocket. “All right,” he said, flicking the bottle back and forth in a short arc with a twist of his wrist, “This is sippin’ whisky for sure. Y’all want glasses, or shall we just pass this little jug from hand to hand?”

  “Daddy’s got some shot glasses in that cabinet over there; top shelf,” said Terry.

  Beers in one hand, brandy in the other, they toasted each other with the small glasses and drank as Chuck Willis crooned Don't Deceive Me in the den. “That your red car?” Ricky asked Maybelle.

  “I wish. My daddy let me have it while he and my mama’re travelin’.”

  “Looks fast.”

  “It is,” said Terry. She like to scared me to death drivin’ down here.” She set the brandy down with a thump and tipped her Budweiser up for a long swallow before she spoke. “Shit! ‘Peach brandy’? That ain’t nothin’ but ’shine likker! It’s hot!”

  “Gotta take it real slow at first,” said Jack. It’s OK when you get used to it.”

  “It is right peachy,” said Maybelle. “Ice water’d be a better chaser than beer; anybody else wanta switch?”

  “I don’t want any more,” said Terry, picking up her beer and returning to the pizzas-in-progress. “Y’all go ahead.”

  “Might as well finish these beers, since they’re open,” said Ricky. “Glad you like my little holiday treat, Maybelle. Here, I’ll top us up.”

  “Y’all go on in there and daince ’er sump’m,” said Jack. “I’ll give Terry a hand with th’ anchovies.”

  The den was large enough so that no furniture had to be moved to make room for dancing. Maybelle had pulled the 45 spindle off the turntable. “Wanta hear anything special, Davy?” Maybelle asked him, mischievous mahogany eyes accentuating an I-dare-you smile. “You look like a slow daincer to me. How ’bout Nat King Cole?”

  “Sounds fine to me, Sugar,” said Ricky, taking a drink from each end of his two-fisted cocktail.

  Maybelle matched his drink as the music started, setting her glass of “brandy” on the mantelpiece and turning to him as The Sand and the Sea poured out of the speakers. Their eyes were level as she looked at him. “Taste how good it is without that beer chaser,” she said, extending her arms.

  “Lessee,” said Ricky, putting his nose to her full plum-tinted lips, then kissing her as they swayed to Cole’s baritone. She kissed back to devastating effect, sucking his tongue inside her mouth and letting it linger there for a long moment. Ricky responded with a rocky banana that rose to fill the hollow of her crotch.

  She pulled her head back, took a breath and smiled at him. “Easy, Davy. We just met. Wait’ll we break out th’coonskin caps.”

  He leaned back from the waist, not breaking eye or pelvic contact, his hands slipping easily, smoothly from her waist to take a light grip on the cheeks of her butt as they danced in place. “If you’re gonna keep on callin’ me Davy, you need to remember somethin’ else in that Da
vy Crockett song.”

  “Oh yeah?” she said, moving her hands to his cheeks, drawing his erection into her, smiling at her perception of controlling him. “What?”

  Ricky returned her smile with an even lazier one. “Davy killed him a bear when he was only three, so he ain’t gonna lose much sleep over a beaver more or less. So just toss me the ol’ coonskin whenever you take a notion.”

  She pulled him to her again, kissed him lightly, then broke away. “Buy me a drink, Davy. Let th’ goddam animal kingdom take care of itself for awhile.” Retrieving her glass, she held it out to him as Jack and Terry walked in.

  “Y’all havin’ fun?” Terry asked as she saw Ricky gesture toward Jack with the still-open bottle. Eeeww, quit drinkin’ that ’shine. Y’all’ a’gonna throw up.”

  “I wouldn’t think of disgracin’ Zetas by lettin’ a- what fraternity are you, Davy?”

  “Pi KA.”

  “-by lettin’ a Tech Pike get me to throw up on th’ first date. This is our first date, ain’t it, Davy?”

  “Reckon so, Maybelline.”

  “How fast is that Healey, Maybelle?” Jack asked her as they ate pizza in the den.

  “I know it’ll do over a hundred; it’s got th’ LeMans kit,” she said, chewing. I got it up that fast a time or two drivin’ down here, but I never did get it wide open.”

  “It’s a sharp-lookin’ thing, that’s for sure.”

  “Wait’ll you see it with th’ top and th’ windshield down.”

  “Th’ windshield goes down? Damn! You gotta take me to ride tomorrow, Maybelline,” said Ricky.”

  “Trade ya for a bowl ticket,” she said. “Where is it y’all’re playin?”

  “Sugar,” said Ricky. “But since I got red-shirted, I’ll be in th’ stands.”

  “Ooh, N’Yawlins. Take me to th’ game. Mama and Daddy won’t be back ’til th’ tenth; we can drive down in my car. I bet we could have some fun in th’ French Quarter, Davy. Who’re y’all playin’?”

  “Pittsburgh.”

  “Y’all kicked our butts this year,” she said, “and we ain’t been to a bowl since ’49. Th’ least you can do is take me to the Sugar Bowl.”

  “You’re on,” said Ricky, “Le’s drink to it.” He raised his glass. “To Tech, th’ Sugar Bowl and th’ French Quarter. Beat Pitt.”

  “Y’all could go with us,” said Maybelle, “but th’ car’s not big enough.”

  “Well, I sure wouldn’t trust my car to make it down to New Orleans and back,” said Jack. “Y’all’ll just have to tell us about it when you get back.”

  “We’ll certainly do that,” Ricky said with a laugh. “Might even tell th’ truth, but it’ll be a good story anyway.”

  They necked for a while in front of the televised grotesquerie of giant elves on a contrasty Kinescope recording of Wrestling From Hollywood, the comedy intensified by Dick Lane’s blow-by-blow and the officiating of an obviously inebriated Pappy Boyington. “Ricky,” said Jack.

  “Yo.”

  “We’ll be back in a little bit. Keep an eye out for Terry’s folks, willya?”

  “Sure.”

  He’d felt pretty experienced for his age, but he’d never been aroused the way he was by this long drink of water. She kissed him like she wanted to suck the life out of him, and made no move to stop him as he pulled the Villager shirt out of her jeans and cupped one of her own rock-like tits in his hand. Nor did she object when he squeezed her Maidenform’s clasp, letting her tits hang free, never moving his mouth from hers. Taking a deep breath as he rolled a nipple between his fingers she groaned, “Davy.”

  “Yes, baby.”

  “Night-night.” And she was out. There was nothing for him to do but to but take her upstairs and put her to bed. Well, he thought, take her upstairs anyway. Straightening her out on the couch, he braced his feet at its edge and lifted her in a fireman’s carry. Grunting under her weight, he headed for the stairs and the Marshes’ guest bedroom, expecting to hear the Mercury pulling in at any moment.

  He paused at the top of the stairs, getting his bearings in the dim light and hoping his first guess would be right as he counted the doors running down the left side of the hall. Not the first one, on the left side; that would be Terry’s folks’, in the corner of the house. The next door was shut tight; that was obviously Terry’s, she and Jack busily fornicating behind it. The next doorway was narrow; he looked in and saw a bathroom sink shining in the moonlight. Two to go; another narrow one, probably a linen closet. He was at the end of the hall. Reaching inside the door, he flipped the light switch and to his reflief saw Maybelle’s bag sitting on a cedar chest against the wall. Bending over the bed, he dropped her on it as gently as he could and stood up, straightening his aching back.

  He turned the bedside lamp on and the overhead light off, pausing to look at the supine Maybelle while he considered his options. His watch said ten thirty-five. Without knowing where the Marshes had gone, he had no idea when they might be back; somewhere, he knew, between right now and midnight at the latest. Well, he thought, no gentleman would leave a girl passed out in her clothes, would he? I’ll get them off and see if that wakes her up.

  Pulling her jeans down over her ankles, he was surprised at the contrast of her tan with the bright white of the band of skin that peeked out under her light blue panties. Removing them, he felt his erection returning; by the time he’d removed her shirt and dangling bra, there was no turning back. Just a quickie, he thought; I’ll chance it for that long. Rolling her to one side of the bed, he pulled its satin coverlet, blanket and top sheet down, then rolled her back onto the sheet. Covering her, he went to the other side of the bed and got quickly out of his clothes, extracted a Trojan from his wallet, and before getting into bed went quickly to the bedside lamp and turned it off. Returning to the window on the opposite wall, he pulled the venetian blind all the way up, giving him a view of the road from that end of the house and, he hoped, some warning of the Marshes’ return.

  Slipping into bed, he turned her head to him and kissed her, receiving a drowsy moan in response. He put a hand on her crotch and was rewarded with another moan, this one having, he thought, a more erotic tone. He unrolled the Trojan over his now-throbbing erection and returned to fondle Maybelle’s pussy, which he found lurking adrool behind its thick black bush. Trisha having spent a lot of time showing him where her clitoris was and how she liked it massaged, he was able to revive Maybelle rather quickly to the point of a sleep-fucking response to his stroking. Ricky played patiently with her, putting his finger inside while continuing the rhythmic rubbing of her clit. As she awoke further, she moved in time to Ricky. Unable to wait any longer, Ricky parted her legs, pushing past the girl’s slick lips and in and out of her depths. As he’d expected, a dozen or so thrusts was all it took. Maybelle, for her part, had gone back to sleep.

  On his way past Terry’s door, he tapped on it. “Jack.”

  “What?”

  “It’s after eleven.”

  “Oh, shit. We went to sleep. Are they here?”

  “No sign of ’em. Better hurry, though.”

  “OK. See ya downstairs.”

  He was down in a few minutes. “Where’s Maybelle?”

  “Out like a light. Le’s scoot ’fore th’ old folks get back.”

  They were back at the Dog House before midnight, having a nightcap in the back room. Don let certain of his friends hang around after closing, and was pleased to sample Ricky’s peach brandy. While he was in the kitchen, Jack said, “So Maybelle letcha have a little. How was it?”

  Ricky’s head dropped, rebounding when his chin hit his chest. “What?”

  “How was that ole gal? Look like she miit break your back if she got excited.”

  Ricky rotated his head in a large arc, first left, then right, in the manner of pre-game stretches. “You know what they say- the worst I ever had was wunnerful. She ’us pretty well out of it.”

  “No doubt, the way she gargled th’ peach bran
dy. The shit does grow on ya, don’t it?”

  “It do,” Ricky agreed, nodding solemnly.

  “Well, you’ll have a time down in N’yawlins, that’s for sure. Wish it was me; she’s a sexy bitch, and so’s her car.”

  “Whachoo figure thass gonna cost me? I ain’t got a pot to piss in, or a window to throw it out of.”

  “You got th’ tickets, doncha?”

  He leaned back, caught himself as he almost fell backward as he held up four fingers. “S’poza be pretty good seats.”

  “Are your folks goin’?”

  “Nope. They not that inner’std since I’m not dressin’ out.”

  “Well, hell, sell two. Hey, maybe we could auction ’em off.”

  “Oh no; they kick my ass off th’ team if I sell ’em. They tol’ us ’at when we got ’em.”

  “But relatives can use ’em, can’t they?” Ricky nodded, failing to catch his head before it found his chest again.

  “Well, just tell whoever wins ’em that they have to be your uncle or somethin’.”

  “Can’t trust ’em to do that. “Tech’d pull my scholarship if ’ey caught ’em.”

  “What if we auctioned ’em off down at the warehouse? Any of those guys’d say they’re your uncle.”

  “Where?”

  “Mose’s place. Hell, he might buy ’em himself.”

  “Ud’ju ask ’im?”

  “Shitcheah! Soon as we get up in th’ mornin’. Wait’ll he hears what you need th’ money for.”

  “Yeah, he’s a spo’t, awriit.” This being Ricky’s final pronouncement before lurching to his feet and heading for the Dog House’s back door at a dead run.

  Jack waited a decent interval before joining Ricky outside, by which time he had moved from what Jack, fresh from French 101, thought the Frogs would call his endroit de vomi to a seat on the curb, arms clasped around his knees for a headrest. Jack sat down beside him, an arm around his shoulder. “How you doin’, bubba?”