by Chad Kultgen
We take a shower together to clean up. I watch the blood and semen run down her legs and into the shower drain. She cleans her cunt but doesn’t wash her face, leaving the smudge of blood so it’s still there when we leave a few minutes later to get her ice cream.
chapter twenty
Bon Voyage
I’m at the airport with Casey and her parents eating chicken strips in a Chili’s Too. I’ve had to shit since I woke up, but Casey told me there wasn’t enough time to drop a deuce because her parents had to be at the airport. Casey’s mom says, “I’ll be out here again next weekend to help you start planning for the big day.”
I wish I would have taken that shit.
Casey says, “Are you coming back, Daddy?”
He says, “Not if you want me to pay for it. I have to work.”
Casey’s mom says, “So it’ll just be me. And I’ll stay as long as it takes to get everything together.”
I don’t particularly dislike Casey’s mom, but the prospect of her staying “as long as it takes to get everything together” makes the impending shit lurch in my intestines and want to come out.
Casey tries to coax the turd out a little more by saying, “Mom, if you don’t want to hassle with a hotel while you’re out here, you can always just stay with me.”
I immediately picture Casey refusing to suck my cock or fuck me because her mom’s in her apartment. I chew my chicken strip hard enough to grind my teeth down to nubs.
Casey’s dad says, “That wouldn’t be a bad idea except for your mom’s back. You know she wouldn’t be able to sleep on your futon.”
Casey saves the day with, “Well, I could sleep on it while you’re out here and you could have the bed.”
My intestines are at full boil. I say, “Excuse me, I have to go to the bathroom.”
As I leave the table kind of abruptly I can tell Casey’s mom is somehow offended that I’m exiting while they talk about obviously important matters. When I stand up a silent fart leaks out and I try to point my ass slightly in the direction of Casey’s mom so there’s a possibility that she’ll be blamed for it.
After I clean off the toilet seat in the Chili’s Too bathroom and apply three toilet seat covers, I rip my pants down and open the flood-gates as a torrent of liquid shit flies out of my ass in a way that makes me think I might have possibly shit some vital organ into the water below. And then I feel fine.
I sit on the crapper for another five or six minutes before wiping, just feeling lighter, better. When I come back out, all of our food has already been cleared away and Casey’s dad is signing his credit card bill. I thank him for lunch in a mandatory attempt at politeness.
We walk with her parents to the security check. Her mom hugs me and her dad shakes my hand just before they walk through the metal detectors and disappear around a corner to go to their flight.
As I drive back to Casey’s place with her in the passenger seat, I reach over and start unbuttoning her pants with one hand, trying to get her in the mood so once we do get to her apartment we can get right to fucking. As I get to the second button she stops me and holds my hand.
We drive down the road in complete silence for a few miles listening to 50 Cent. As soon as he tells us that he’s into having sex, he ain’t into making love, Casey turns the volume down and begins telling me the following information: “I love you so much. We’re going to have the best life together. I can’t wait.” Every word she says makes me feel a little more like faking a stroke and pretending to lose all memory of who I was, but it’s not until she looks me in the eye and says in all seriousness, “You’re my soul mate,” that I realize I am not going to marry her.
chapter twenty-one
Be the King
Todd and I are at a bar in Westwood. Next to us is a table full of seven Asian bitches playing some kind of card game. Three of them are extremely hot and the rest are definitely worth fucking or at least getting head from.
Todd says, “So what’s the deal now, you’re getting married to Casey?”
“No. I’m not.”
“But you just said her mom is coming back here to start planning the wedding in a few days, dude.”
“Right.”
“So when are you planning on not marrying her?”
“I don’t know.”
“Dude, do you think those Asian sluts would let us play with them?”
“I don’t know.”
“Dude, I’m gonna ask ’em.”
And he does. The hottest one of them all appears to be the only one who speaks English and answers for the whole group when she says, “If you want play with, you and friend can play with.”
Todd and I sit down at their table and listen to the following explanation of a new card game we’ve never heard of. “Okay, we play Be the King. It go like this. We have nine person to play so there will be cards one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, and then king.”
She starts pulling out the ace through eight of clubs and a king.
“Okay, now I deal.”
She gives everybody at the table a card.
“Okay, now you look at card, but no show to us.”
Todd and I look at our cards. I have the three of clubs.
“Okay, now who has king?”
One of the Asian girls sitting next to Todd goes fucking crazy, tosses her king into the middle of the table, and starts screaming, “I king, I king!”
The one who speaks English calms her down, “Okay, okay, okay. Now that she king, she tell us what to do.”
I’m semi-drunk by this point and completely confused until the “king” says something of which I understand the following, “Okay, four—seven—”
The girl who speaks English explains to us that her friend, the king, has told whoever has the four and whoever has the seven to kiss for thirty seconds. And the game has just become infinitely more interesting and corroborates a long-held theory of mine that there are only two kinds of Asian girls—nymphomaniacs and corpses.
We all reveal our cards and it turns out that two of the really hot girls are four and seven. They kiss each other in this innocent giddy way that gives me a hard-on immediately. Todd and I agree to somehow let each other know which cards we pull.
In the next round I pull the king and Todd tips the corner of his card my way to show me he has the five. I say, “Okay, everyone except the king, kiss number five.” Our friend, whose American name we’ve learned is Danni, translates it to her pals. They do a gang kiss on Todd, sometimes kissing each other.
The next round I pull a four and Todd shows me via a less stealthy and progressively drunker upturn of the corner of his card that he’s drawn the eight. One of the semi-attractive Asian girls has drawn the king. She commands one of the girls to take another girl’s head and pretend to smash it into a wall. Then the girl whose head was pretend-smashed into the wall has to scream and pretend her head really was smashed into the wall. Despite the fact that this act is in no way sexual, it is highly entertaining.
The longer we play, the more Todd and I try to turn Be the King into an orgy of Asian bitches to which we’ve somehow become privy, but there’s something about these girls that won’t allow us to succeed. They’re naive and it seems like they’re probably virgins and all of them find just as much excitement in pretending to beat each other up as they do in kissing each other.
The next time I get the king, I decide to see how far I can take it. I know Todd has a three, so I say, “Number four and number five have to suck the king’s dick.”
Danni says, “What is dick?”
I say, “Penis.”
She says, “What is penis?”
I point to my crotch.
She says, “Oh,” and giggles, then translates it for all of her buddies. They all giggle and start looking down at the ground. Four and Five start talking to Danni.
She says, “They say they no want to do that.”
“But I’m the king.”
“If they no want to, they no hav
e to.”
“Then what’s the point of being the king?”
“To have fun and do funny thing.”
“A blow job is a funny thing, Danni.”
They all start talking to each other for about a minute. Todd and I just drink our beers. I look around the bar and notice that a group of people has kind of surrounded our table and has been watching us play this game for a while. Finally the Asian bitches come to a consensus.
Danni says, “We all go now.”
Todd says, “No, you don’t have to go, dude. We can let you be the king and slap each other around or whatever you guys want to do. Don’t go.”
Danni says, “We need to sleep for tests. It nice meeting you.”
With that, Danni and her gang of Asian girls leave the table and the bar, leaving Todd to dispense the following accusation, “You made them leave, you fucker. If you hadn’t scared them off by commanding them to give you a blow job, we could have—”
I say, “What, gotten blow jobs?”
Todd laughs. We discuss the nature of the game and how bizarre the Asian girls were before the conversation returns to Casey.
Todd says, “Seriously, dude, what’s so bad about marrying her? Free house, she has rich parents—all that shit sounds good to me.”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“Then you should do it. I mean, fuck, dude, free fucking house. She ain’t bad lookin’—that’s pretty sweet.”
“Yeah.” No.
Later that night, after I’ve gone home, I lie awake staring at the ceiling and jerking off to thoughts of fucking the Asian girls we played Be the King with, which somehow reminds me of the first time I fucked my high school girlfriend, Katy. I remember the first time I shot a load down her throat when I shoot a load all over my own hand and the postejaculatory calm washes over me. For the first time in a while, Casey and my life’s ruin is the furthest thing from my mind.
I wipe the semen off my hand and my dick with a towel that was lying on my floor and stay awake for a few more minutes wondering if I should have asked the Asian bitches to have anal sex with me, if somehow that would have offended them less. I also wonder if some of them were willing to suck my dick and Danni or one of the other bitches convinced them to leave. I wish Casey was Asian. I wish I hadn’t thought about Casey.
some chapter
Little Kids
I’m eating a cheeseburger at Topz on Melrose. This semi-old-looking bitch is sitting a few tables away from me with a little girl who’s probably about two or three years old. Across the room there’s another bitch with a little boy who’s probably about the same age.
The little boy keeps staring at the little girl and touching his cock. I wonder if he’s actually thinking about fucking her or if he’s getting a boner and doesn’t know what it is or if he’s just pawing at his dick because that’s what little kids do. I myself don’t think I ever thought about fucking when I was two, but I don’t really remember.
As I keep looking at these little kids and wondering if they’re thinking about fucking each other, I can’t help thinking that at some point in each of these two-year-old kids’ lives, they’re going to be fucking somebody. That two-year-old girl whose mom dressed her up in a little pink dress to take her to Topz after Sunday church is going to suck cock, take it up the ass, have load after load of semen shot in her face, and eventually have another little girl who’s eventually going to do all the same shit. And that little two-year-old boy whose mom dressed him in his Spider-Man T-shirt to take him to eat lunch after his favorite morning cartoons is going to fuck a girl, eat pussy, get twat hairs stuck in his throat, get his dick sucked, and someday have kids who will do all the same shit.
I wonder if either of the kids’ parents have thought about any of this. I wonder if I’ll have kids. If I do have kids I wonder if I’ll look at them and think about them eventually fucking. I wonder if my parents ever thought about me fucking. I wonder if my parents are still fucking.
chapter twenty-two
Hi, Mom
I spend the night at Casey’s apartment because we have to meet her mom at the airport the following morning and Casey wants me to drive. I assume that we’ll fuck because this is the last night we have before her mom is in town and possibly in Casey’s house for an indefinite amount of time. At 11:43 P.M. Casey’s snoring makes me realize I shouldn’t have assumed anything.
I’m unable to sleep, and my restless libido starts turning into rage. I lay awake staring at the ceiling listening to the sound of Casey’s nose whistling in between her snorting gasps for air. I have to fuck. I nudge her a couple of times.
“Casey, Casey.”
She wakes up. “What? I was asleep.”
“Let’s make love.”
“My mom’s coming tomorrow morning. We have to get to sleep.”
“But don’t you want to make love one more time before your mom gets here?”
“Why?”
She doesn’t understand, or maybe she just doesn’t care that once her mom is in town the frequency with which we have sex will be cut in half, or probably even worse. I say, “Because I love you.”
“I love you, too. But I’m tired and I don’t want to be even more tired when my mom gets here.”
She kisses me on the cheek and rolls over, turning her fat ass toward me. She says, “Good night.”
I can’t take it. I get out of her bed.
She says, “Where are you going?”
“I have to go to the bathroom.”
She goes back to sleep never knowing that I walk into the bathroom and jerk off into a bottle of special color treatment shampoo that she bought because it was featured on an Oprah show as one of Oprah’s favorite things. As I jerk off, I think about kissing Alyna and fantasize about fucking her. For a split second, just before I cum, I entertain the thought of leaving Casey’s apartment and driving to Alyna’s to see if she’d be up for going to get coffee, but then I blow my load and I calm down enough to wipe off the top of the bottle, screw the lid back on, put it back in Casey’s shower, and crawl back into bed with her.
I dream about nothing.
I wake up the next morning to an already awake and chipper Casey saying, “Come on, sleepyhead, it’s time to take a shower and get ready to go pick up my mom.”
We take a shower together. She uses her special color treatment shampoo. I use the Pert that’s been in her shower as long as I’ve known her—probably left there by a previous boyfriend. Seeing her massage nine parts shampoo and one part semen into a thick lather on her head is more satisfying than any sex the night before could have been.
In the car on the way to the airport Casey turns off the volume on my stereo, which was playing “Xxplosive” from Dr. Dre’s Chronic 2001. She says, “You know you can’t listen to that when my mom gets in the car. She’d be completely offended. I mean, I’m actually kind of offended, too. But I guess because I’m younger and like I’ve grown up with rap music, I can at least deal with the way they talk about women. But my mom would not be okay with it.”
I let her turn off my music without any rebuttal.
Then she says, “I’m sorry about last night, you know, not wanting to make love, but I think that other things are just a little more important right now. I mean we’re about to start planning our wedding. That’s like a day that we’ll remember for the rest of our lives.”
She keeps talking about things as I stare down the road trying to imagine what the couple in the car in front of us is talking about. I can see the silhouette of the woman in the passenger’s seat. She’s kind of flailing her arms around and every once in a while pointing at the guy driving, who’s completely motionless, staring straight ahead and probably looking at the car in front of him wondering what the woman in that car’s passenger seat is saying to the guy driving.
As I pull into a parking space in structure #4 at LAX I realize Casey is still talking about something. I hear, “…take us to breakfast at the Griddle, which I know you don’t
like, but can you just eat something and pretend to like it for me? I mean, she is going to be your mother-in-law in a few months. It would be nice if you could just pretend that you can eat breakfast with her at her favorite place in L.A. and not make a big deal about it.”
I want her to shut up. I say, “Okay.” It doesn’t work.
“And don’t be rude and order something that’s not on the menu. The last time we went there, you asked the guy if they could make you a plate of scrambled eggs with nothing else in it. How embarrassing. If you want scrambled eggs, just get an omelet or something and cut it up.”
When we get in the terminal we find out her mom’s flight is fifteen minutes late, which Casey insists is a perfect amount of time to go look in the gift shop. I flip through an issue of Hustler that someone has already taken out of the plastic and left on the rack. Casey flips through Oprah’s latest issue until she sees me staring at a pair of huge tits and a shaved pussy.
In a forced whisper she says, “Put that down.”
I pretend not to hear her and flip the page to see another bitch spreading her friend’s cunt open in preparation to lick it.
Casey walks over to me and closes the magazine while I’m still holding it. A naked bitch on the cover grabbing her own tits is still plainly visible to anyone walking by. Casey says, “How could you be looking at that right now?”
“It was the most interesting thing on the stand.”
“My mother’s going to be here in”—she checks her watch—“ten minutes. You can’t be looking at that.”
“You were the one who wanted to come look in the gift shop.”
“Just put it back.”
Even though I decide it’s not worth getting into a fight over and put the Hustler back, the angry dissatisfaction I felt last night hits me tenfold and the thought of spending another second with Casey without fucking her makes me want to kill somebody.
She puts her magazine back and I walk with her to the baggage claim area, where we’re supposed to meet her mom. I see at least a dozen other guys standing with girls. I wonder how many of them fucked their girlfriends last night.
