by Jayce, Aven
So, Hayden’s tucked away next to the bed, and Wild Wagon Train is with me in the tub. Here we go. Sip wine, close eyes, relax, take a deep breath, now smile and read.
“Hot.”
“What’s hot, Uncle Al?”
Al looks around at the circle of covered wagons. His eyes stop on the one owned by Doc West, who sent for his two wives to join him in the big Cali-forn-i-a. They’re traveling alone, and Pete can tell they’ve been without a man, a real man, for months, maybe even years. Who knows how long it’s been since the doc left them back East.
“Willie Jean and Nelly. Them women have some hot baked beans, don’t ya think, Petey?”
“Yessum, I reckin’ so, Uncle Al. Haven’t seen beans that big in some time. I think they need some pork to go along with them beans.”
“That’s a fine idea. Petey, why don’t you go over there and see if we can help them pretty ladies out with a who-ha-wallup.”
Petey scratches his ass as he struts over to the women. His spurs clink and clank along the stone laden prairie ground.
“Mam,” he tilts his hat. “Other Mam.”
They giggle and whisper to each other while Petey turns back to Al. Al waves his hand to keep going.
“Ladies, my Uncle Al and me can’t help but notice your mighty fine wagon. Looks like it could fit four comfortably. You think you could show us what you keep inside, maybe let us feel around a little bit?”
They whisper and look at his bulging trousers. The buttons are coming undone from his Rocky Mountain size erection.
“Oh, sweet sugarcane, Petey. You trying to get these fine ladies out of their knickers without inviting the entire camp to join in?”
It’s Ned Williams - wagon train leader, Indian interpreter, rattlesnake catcher, and the man with the longest beard in the camp. And as the rules of the west have been written, longest beard reigns, always.
“Howdy, Ned,” Petey says. “Thought you’d be sleeping by now.”
“No. My woman’s bathing down by the creek and I’m not getting any shut-eye ‘til she returns. Matter o’ fact, I don’t think I’ll get in my wagon bed for some time now, not knowing your little pecker knocker’s gonna get some.”
“Ned!” Al calls out. “Leave my nephew alone and let him get some pork and bean practice before he finds himself a wife.”
“Ewweee, Al. I got a good old cow named Betsy with me who could use a fine lad like your nephew to show her a good time,” he jokes. “What do ya say? Betsy’s in need of some lovin’ too. She’s good practice for beginners; bigger hole, no complaining.”
“Ha, ha, ha, good one old friend. Petey, go ‘head and show Ned what you got. He might change his mind about you poking his cow once he sees your...”
I nearly spit out my wine at how ridiculously awful and yet classically funny this twisted pulp erotic fiction is. You need a sense of humor and an open mind to enjoy this stuff. I have a feeling my father would have gotten a kick out of these books, and maybe that’s why I’m drawn to them.
Petey’s snake falls to his knees as he lowers his trousers to the dry earth. He kicks them away and the brown cloth lands on top a sage bush. He stands with both hands on his hips in a proud stance.
“My nephew has a pecker bigger than your beard, Ned.”
The women gasp and point at Petey’s pecker. He rocks his hips and it swings like a rope over a swimming hole and their giggles echo into the starlit sky.
“Well now, I think we need to turn our circle of covered wagons into a circle of uncovered fanny’s. Hey, Dewey,” Ned calls out to another man. “Get that violin of yours to sprout out some of that parlor music you like so much. And Mary, give each man a drink from my barrel of whiskey. The coyotes are coming out tonight!”
Ned drops his drawers and exposes his short, but fat, pecker. Its width is greater than it’s length and that makes for some fine lovin’.
As Ned always says, it’s the width that counts.
The bubbles are gone and the water’s cold, which means my after-work, much deserved, fiction party’s over. Today was long. Too long. And I still have dinner to eat and a shitload of work to do for the university.
By the way, Violet, if you’re listening, I did go to the police station on my way home today, but I ended up sitting in my truck for a good hour. It was an hour of people watching - a guessing game of who was there to report a crime, who might be turning themselves in, visiting someone in the holding center, or perhaps, there to pick up a loved one. That’s what made me drive away instead of talking to someone about the weekend break-in. It was a mother who walked in alone, but came out with her arm wrapped around her daughter. A young teenager who was maybe picked up for shoplifting or leaving graffiti on the back wall of the local Walmart, it was that teen who made the decision for me. I pictured her having a record, unable to get a decent job or accepted into college after one arrest, and her life never the same. Okay, I admit my daydream was extreme, the kid probably got off with a slap on the wrist and community service, but that wouldn’t happen to an adult charged with breaking and entering, and I won’t destroy Bridgette’s future based on one mistake. Hannah’s a different story. I could easily take pride in knowing I took her down, but Dan’s right, I can’t bust one and not the other; it would have to be both.
And all of that made me think of Dan entering my home. He did it out of spite because he thought I had a guy in my shower, and he wanted his books back.
Which made me think of myself. I trespassed on his property and looked in his windows.
Fuck. We should all go to jail. Every single fucking one of us. I bet most of the population could be arrested for doing something wrong at some point in their life. This entire world is full of criminals.
So I drove away without filing a report, knowing Hannah’s a bitch and wondering if she believes in karma.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
It’s strange living so close to the person I’m dating. I wake up each morning and realize a few walls away is his bedroom. It’s like being in the dorms. If Dan and I both stood on our back decks with our morning coffee we’d be able to see one another and wave. I wonder if he even drinks coffee?
I want to see him, damn it! He’s all I can think about as I wait patiently for my office hours to end. Time drags, and since I can no longer watch porn, I need something else to do. On days like these I could kick myself for not bringing a book along, but when lost in a boredom funk, there’s always Facebook.
I can’t believe no one’s liked my I wanna get drunk post from yesterday. My friends suck.
But on a happier note, Dan’s sent three cheesy e-cards. Literally, all of the messages are referring to cheese, with a man dressed in ‘50s era clothing off to the side and a solid color background behind the greeting.
I know it’s cheesy, but I feel grate!
Good sex sounds like you’re stirring Mac-N-Cheese.
I’m not afraid to eat melted cheese that dripped on my dick. That’s the five-second rule of awesome.
I post a message on his wall to please stop being so cheesy and he replies with a smiley face. When did Facebook change from being clean and sophisticated to full of preschool stickers you get for using the potty? Good girl! You get a sticker of an animal with a giant smile and hearts over its eyes... just because. Because it’s fun. Because the social media king wants its members, the majority of whom are over thirty, to feel the joys of wearing footed pajamas once again.
Since Dan’s online, I take the opportunity to send him a few quizzes so I can really get to know him, because, after all, Facebook quizzes are the best determining factor of whether or not a relationship’s going to flourish.
First, Which Biblical Figure Are You?
I’m Mary, he got Peter. That’s pretty good. They could’ve made it work with one another. Hard to believe that eight short questions would determine that I would be Mary, but I’m not complaining.
Second, Which Internal Organ Are You?
Heart for me,
but he got spleen. Why spleen? How did he answer the questions to come up with a spleen? That’s awful; a person can live without one of those. That’s one for two.
Third, Which ‘90s Romantic Comedy Leading Man Is Your Soulmate?
Oh, this blows. I got Joe from You’ve Got Mail. I want a do-over. Do-over! No, wait. He got Joe too. Awesome. It’s a match made in heaven. Two for three.
He asks if that means we’re getting married and I respond that we should have dinner first then maybe elope afterward.
Why don’t you come over tonight at six? We’ll have a bar-b-que before the justice of the peace arrives.
Lol! Should I wear white?
Only if you don’t mind red stains on it. Bar-b-que’s messy.
Everything’s messy with you!
He sends another smiley face with a second request to join him for a casual dinner tonight. It’s an amazing feeling knowing he misses me as much as I miss him. I reply with a pair of sticker lips and a thumbs up. Facebook’s so surreal.
Speaking of which, I haven’t checked in with the Dick Sluts this morning. I wonder what they’ve been up to and if I’ve missed any posts about my books.
I sign in as Violet and search the site, but come up empty-handed. If I’m not promoting it, no one’s reading it. Ahh, but Kimmy Firestorm’s been posting all morning about a bad review. It must be a troll. I feel that there are more troll reviewers now then ever and I’ve noticed a pattern with them. They give all Indie authors a one star, and all well-known authors who are with a publishing company five stars. Why read Indie authors if you never like any of their books? Or worse, I’m not a Kimmy Firestorm fan, but why do shit like this to her?
Kimmy Firestorm
Sluts! Please Help! Your reviews are needed to move a one star I received on Amazon further down the list so readers don’t see it first. It was posted two days ago and now my sales have dropped eighty percent. I have a little boy to take care of! This reviewer said not to buy my books and to stay away from them and that they were the worst books ever! This isn’t helpful at all! I don’t want my baby boy to starve! Please write some reviews so her bad review gets mixed in with the rest. I don’t want it to be the first one seen by readers! Love you guys! XOXO! Please save my baby boy!
489 people like this.
I sign into Amazon to look at the review, which has already been pushed to the third page with the help of the Sluts. I click on the reviewer’s fake name, and then on her public wish list, which many people don’t realize displays the real name, and see... it’s... what the fuck? She really goes by that name? It’s fucking Kimmy Firestorm! It’s a marketing ploy! That bitch! She wrote this review herself! She’ll get a shitload of five star reviews from that post and then delete her one star. What a scam.
I’ll have to try that. What a smartass Slut. Damn she’s brilliant. I’ll never trust another one star review again.
I check my own reviews, which I’ve been avoiding for a couple of days. The books are doing fairly well with twenty new reviews, and nothing too horrendous from reviewers. But there is one guy named John Lambert, whose screen name is Voracious Deep Throat Reader, who left me something special, keeping his review short and sweet.
Way too much sex, borderline porn, no one over twenty-one would ever enjoy this.
Porn. Hmm, that coming from a reader who goes by Deep Throat? I might take that as a complement, plus, whenever a reviewer mentions there’s too much sex, my sales double. Thank you. That’s why most women read these books, because of all the nooky; otherwise they’d search for something in another genre. I guess he didn’t read the warning.
The fucking parts of my books focus mainly on the couple’s teenage daughter. She uses sex to take away the pain of the loss of her mother. I made her eighteen in the book so I wouldn’t be called out for writing child porn, but hated doing it because that’s not reality. Like, teenagers don’t fuck? Was the Titanic not a boat? Do bears not shit in the woods? Whatever. In real life I turned nasty after my mother passed, but it was a lot of third base action, without any home runs.
At any rate, the thing people criticize the most in my story is how the parents die and how immature the daughter is (me). One reviewer said she was so appalled at how unrealistic it was that she wanted to toss her Kindle out the window, even though it’s all true. I was immature and my parents actually died that way. If everyone in this world was perfect and we all had cookie-cutter personalities, life would be boring, and that goes for books too. It’s dark, I know, especially my father’s death, but it’s factual. That’s what hurts the most. The unbelievable doesn’t necessarily mean the impossible.
My life today’s the same. I’m a disgruntled professor who writes erotic novels, who lets a voice in her head take control of her life at times, and who recently picked up a man with a foot fetish. It’s all true, but unbelievable to those sheltered women who live in the middle of the Nebraska cornfields.
“Div?”
Richard pokes his head into my office and I close the window on my desktop, replacing it with a PowerPoint lecture. Yes, I’m busy with university work. I promise I’m not pussyfooting around. No pun intended.
“Come in, Richard. Did you get the document I sent last night of the new brochure for the department my students designed?”
“Yes, it was wonderful.” he says, wearing his usual pleated khaki pants and argyle sweater vest. “Thanks for all your hard work.”
He walks over to my window and looks out. From the third floor I have a clear view of every building on campus, every event that takes place in the quad, and every bake sale, protest, sidewalk chalk message, and make-out session on university grounds.
“I have a meeting with the Board of Trustees tomorrow. They want to discuss you and Margaret.”
“They want to discuss us, or our program?” I ask.
“Both,” he sighs. “I came to ask if there was anything you’d like me to say on your behalf?”
“Oh,” I whisper. “So, it’s that kind of meeting.”
He nods. “I want to be completely honest with you, Div. There’s a good chance your department will be deleted at the end of this semester. With the lack of majors and the continued hostility among the faculty,” he turns and looks at me, “I believe this will be the meeting that ends it all.”
Fuck. I’m not ready to be unemployed. I was hoping to have one more semester to save a little more money before I resigned.
“Tell the Trustees to look long and hard at the track record in this department, the faculty who have come and gone, and then steer them to the root of the problem. Then suggest they institute a mandatory retirement age to rid themselves of her.”
He laughs, which I wasn’t expecting.
“I can’t say that, how about coming up with something your program has to offer the university and the community, and where you’ll be taking it in the next five years so they see an opportunity for growth.”
“Yeah, okay,” I mumble. “I’ll email you something.”
“By the way, have you seen Margaret today? She didn’t open her building this morning, which is unusual. She’s here from seven to seven each day, even when she doesn’t have class.”
“Yeah, even when she doesn’t have class.” I shake my head. “No, haven’t seen her.”
“Uh-huh, well, I had to open the building for her students this morning, which is a first.”
“You could call her.” I suggest. Why are people so dumb? Why ask me?
“Alright then,” he starts to leave. “Make sure you send some information you’d like passed along to the Trustees.”
“Will do.”
Richard plays both sides. He’s equally friendly to Margaret and me, as Chairs often try to please both parties, never saying one person’s right over the other. Which is exactly why these things linger on. If he would just point a finger at Margaret, or at me for that matter, and say ‘cut the shit,’ I think it just might be over, but he doesn’t have the balls under those kh
aki’s to do it. I’m convinced that men who wear pleated khaki have lost their nuts within the folds of the pants.
I bring the Amazon window back up on my desktop and search for Hayden’s trilogy. I’m feeling gracious enough today to post a good review for her first book. Why not? I thought it was interesting enough that I continued on to the second.
Holy fuckin’ hell, the woman’s got over three thousand reviews. I only have three hundred. She’s been selling a shitload of books.
She already has many long-winded reviewers who have written essays, recapping the entire story so I decide to keep mine short.
Good start to this trilogy. Spoiler Alert - Be warned, it’s dark, with kidnappings, people killed and their body parts used for pleasure. The guy’s a psychopath, but I think he just met the one woman who will be able to change him. Excited to find out!
I’ve decided to forgive Hayden for writing that nasty post about my book on the Dick Sluts site. Just like Kimmy and myself, and all the other erotic writers in this world, we all want the same thing, sales. Hayden’s no different.
I sign back into Facebook and send her a private message, author to author, looking for some feedback.
Hayden, Violet Cuddlecock here. Just wanted to tell you how much I enjoyed your first book. Reading the second one now. As a fellow Indie author, how do you get so many sales? I saw all of your reviews. You must have a shitload of readers! Can you help a fellow author out by giving me a few helpful pointers? Thanx.
She responds instantly, and totally pisses me off.
I have a lot of sales because my books are better than yours. Duh.
Fucking bitch. I take my review of her book off Amazon and walk away from my computer. Maybe it’s time to reconsider my job here at the university and quit writing. It might be easier to deal with Margaret than the world of erotic princesses. It seems like everyone’s a writer nowadays anyway, just like everyone’s an artist. Fuck, I’m so confused! I’m having a midlife crisis at the ripe old age of twenty-six. I’m too sensitive to be in either career. I’d be happier serving popcorn at a movie theater.
