by Betsy Poole
Unlike most men in their 40’s, I actually like women my own age. I like how their mature bodies look in a sexy black dress. I like how they’re driven and know what they want and aren’t afraid to ask for it. I like that they can actually hold a conversation without looking down at their smart phones every thirty seconds to check their Facebook status or scroll Instagram feeds. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not one of those guys who thinks millennials are a worthless, bubble headed generation. They’re actually one of the most connected and socially conscious generation to come about since the greatest generation who went through the Depression and World War II. The only difference is that millennials have so many different things vying for their attention. Hell, chances are if I was their age, I would be just as distracted, but because I’m a Gen-Xer, I like a little substance to go along with a woman’s good looks. But like I said, I was looking to blow off steam, and it had been awhile since I’d had just a one night stand, and with my vodka goggles on, this way too young of a girl was going to fit the bill just fine.
Her name was Kara and she was a student at ASU. She’d come to the Valley Ho to party with her boyfriend, but he’d wandered off with a few of his buddies and left her on her lonesome. (Now this is my one pet peeve with millennials, their lack of prioritization. If you have a gorgeous girl like Kara on your arm, you don’t go wandering off with your pals to go watch the game or play grab ass. You stick by your girl so sleaze balls like me don’t walk away with them.) I bought Kara a few drinks and then we headed up to my room.
I won’t say that sex with Kara was exactly what you would call mind-blowing. In fact, it was pretty boring. This is the other reason why I like older women: They know what they want and they know what they like and they aren’t bashful about telling you. The young girls, well, they tend to just lie there and look pretty and think of how grateful you are to be getting naked with them.
I pushed her to her knees and he quickly stripped her out of her clothes. She took my stiff cock and began stroking it, marveling at the shape of the head and at its girth, which was so large my hand didn’t fit around it. He grabbed a handful of my hair and guided my mouth onto it. My mouth drooled with the heady, musky taste of it. Richard began to roughly thrust it deeper down my throat, causing me to gag. Normally if a man treated me so roughly, I would have clamped down with my teeth and seriously hurt him. But for some reason, I wanted Richard to use me however he wished, I wanted him to degrade me.
He continued to fuck my mouth and I could feel my saliva coursing down my chin and onto my breasts. Suddenly his thrusts became more frantic and then the tangy saltiness of his cum filled my mouth and I swallowed of much of it as I could. As he stood panting and catching his breath, I continued to stroke his cock and I rubbed at my clit, hoping that he would finally take me. Instead, he pulled me to my feet and then positioned me on all fours at the edge of the bed, and he buried his face in my cunt. He thrust his long tongue deep inside of me and moaned as he rubbed at my clit with his fingers. I could feel my orgasm building, my body humming with the anticipation of it. As he continued to tease my clitoris with his finger, he turned his tongues attention to the rosebud of my ass, turning it slick with his spit and my juices. He then gently slipped his thumb into my sphincter and I came hard with a gush of my own fluids that soaked Richard’s face.
As I was riding the wave of my orgasm, Richard grabbed my hips and finally slid his cock inside of me. I shuttered and screamed out as he buried it to the hilt in my cunt and began furiously pounding me. It was as if with each earth shattering stroke he was trying to bury his entire body inside of me. He filled his hands with my tits and playful pinched at my nipples which sent small electric shocks up and down my spine. I came again even more violently than before and the entire lower half of my body went numb with pleasure.
I then pulled out of her and rubbed the slick head of my penis against her asshole. She wanted to do nothing but please him, so I reached behind me with both of my hands and spread my ass cheeks apart, inviting him to do what he will. As he pushed himself inside of me, it felt like I was tearing in half. I had had anal sex many times before, but he was just large that I could barely take it. He buried himself to the hilt and he used my arms to bounce me off his hips, and I came once again. Finally, his thrusting became more frantic and he pulled out of me and I moaned with delight because of the sudden physical emptiness I felt, and I came across her back and ass.
And if I was eighteen or nineteen-years-old, you can better believe that I would’ve been drooling all over her. But, you know, 40-something-year-old who’s been with dozens of women just as gorgeous as Kara, and I’ve even been part of some real debauchery like 20 person orgies, so she was just another body in my book and I more or less treated her like a breathing sex doll. And the thing was, she actually seemed to like it because I was pretty sure she’d always been treated that way. Well, hopefully as she got older, she’d learn her true worth.
The next morning, I took her to breakfast at the hotel restaurant, which was a bit of a sight considering that Kara was only wearing her bikini top and a pool towel around her waist. After we finished our overpriced pancakes and eggs, we ended up running into her boyfriend, and he was exactly how I pictured him looking. Gym built muscles, salon streaked hair, a $70 manicure, and slightly gay. The kid tried to get in my face a bit, but I gave a quarter of a shove and he figured out quick that I wasn’t just some frat boy and he slinked away. I made sure to give Kara an extra long kiss with plenty of tongue while he stared at us from across the room.
Carefree, AZ is a postcard of a town.
I shit you not, if you’ve ever seen a postcard from Arizona that didn’t feature the Grand Canyon, chances are the photo on the front of it is of Carefree. The town is set in a valley of pink and coper stone and dotted with ancient, monolithic cactus’ and desert pines. It’s truly one of those areas that you can describe as breathtaking.
Along with the beautiful scenery, it’s dotted with multi-million dollar homes. Well, you can’t exactly call them homes, I think fortresses is probably a better way to characterize them. Scottsdale is considered to be where the ‘upper-class’ of Arizona lives, and if that’s true, Carefree was where the truly privileged 1% lived. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve been around a lot of rich people, and I’ve been around a lot of people who thought they were rich, but as far being around folks who are truly wealthy—and I mean they could support a small country wealthy—the closest I’ve come to meeting this type of person was Junior, and the fact of the matter is Junior’s wealth could be taken away with a well placed wire tap or someone in his organization getting flipped. So I’ve got to admit, I was little intimidated driving out to the Stills place unannounced, because as far as I knew, their house would be surrounded by a ten foot wall and a mote.
I was pleasantly surprised to discover that my nifty little GPS system led me to a rather humble ranch style place without any high walls or security systems or armed guards. It was just regular house.
I pulled in front of the garage, got out, straightened my tie and buttoned my jacket attempting to look as professional as I possibly could, because despite the humble house, the couple’s little armadillo books had sold over 40 million copies just in the states, so these folks were solid gold on the money front.
I rang the bell, which from what I heard played the opening chords of The Grateful Dead’s Not Fade Away. I’m no Deadhead, but I knew these folks had to be pretty laid back if that song was their doorbell. A tall, goof looking older man with salt and pepper black hair opened the door. From the pictures I’d seen of him online, I knew this was Michael, the author of the armadillo books and former investigative journalist. He wore a lose fitting white t-shirt, jeans, and his feet were bare, and I felt suddenly very overdressed.
“May I help you?” He asked.
“Mr. Stills, my name is Jerry McGee and I’m a private investigator.”
Stills smirked a little at the mention of my name.
&n
bsp; “You’re a private eye named McGee? Seriously?”
“Um, yes sir.”
“Could I see some identification?”
I reached into my back pocket and handed over my license.
“Holy hell, your name really is McGee.”
“Is there a problem, sir?”
“You’ve never heard of Travis McGee?”
I gave him a blank stare and shrugged.
“The PI Travis McGee? He was a character created by a favorite writer of mine named John D. McDonald. His McGee lived in Florida and was kind of a beach bum. McDonald wrote like 40 novels featuring him, they were really popular for over thirty years.”
“I’m sorry, sir, I’m really not that much of a reader.”
He handed back my license. “That’s okay, most people aren’t, these days. What can I help you with Mr. McGee?”
To be blunt, I really hadn’t thought of how to approach the Stills, so I started winging it.
“Well, I’m here about your son, Nicolas …”
“I figured as much when I saw that your license was out of Illinois. I’m sorry, I’ve forgotten my manners, please come inside.”
I stepped in and it felt like I had been transported back into the 60’s, or my Hollywood crafted idea of the 60’s. I was born in 1973, so I really had no idea what actual hippies were like. I’m sure the Stills didn’t know either considering that they were both born in in 1969. But they’d obviously spent some time following around bands like the Grateful Dead and Phish, because the walls of their home were lined with concert mementos and framed and autographed concert posters. The air stank of incense and potent marijuana, obviously the Stills had their Arizona medical marijuana cards, or they were just so rich that they didn’t give a damn about who knew about their habits.
I stopped and stared at a black and white picture of Mr. Stills and the singer from the Grateful Dead, Jerry Garcia. Both of them were wearing sunglasses and smiling from ear-to-ear. Garcia was holding up one of the Stills children’s books.
“Are you a fan of the Dead?”
I turned and politely smiled: “No, sir, I was more into punk when I was actively listening to music. Black Flag, Minor Threat, that type of thing.”
“I’m a punk fan, too. I don’t like it as much as I do the Dead, but when I’m in the mood for it, punk’s all I’ll listen to for months at a time.”
I turned back to the photograph.
“That picture is from when mine and my wife’s first book came out. I named one of the characters after Jerry. It was a turtle named Garcia. Garcia The Turtle. He got a real kick out of that.”
“So you actually knew him?”
“Oh yeah, we were very good friends for ten years. When he died, my wife and I decided to kill off the character, too. It was our highest selling book to date. We were even featured in Time magazine when it came out.”
“Impressive.”
“Yes, impressive, but very sad. Something died a little in us after Jerry was gone. We probably would’ve stopped writing the books if we weren’t signed to such an ironclad contract with our publishers. But life goes on. Please sit down Mr. McGee.”
“Thank you.” I sank into probably the most comfortable couch I’ve ever sat in. I don’t know if it was because of the hangover or what, because I could’ve fallen asleep right then and there.
“So what can I help you with, Mr. McGee?”
Time to turn on the bullshit:
“Well, Mr. Stills, like I said, I’m here about your son, Nicolas, and I was wondering if I could speak to both you and Mrs. Stills.”
“I’m afraid that’s not possibly at the moment. She’s in Chicago attending to Nicolas. I would be there, too, but I’m working on my first adult novel and I’m on a very strict deadline. I suppose you already know what happened?”
Why, yes, sir, I’m the one who turned you son’s nose inside out and crushed his face with my bare hands.
“Yes, sir, I do know about the incident at your son’s apartment. In fact, I was hired by the building’s owner to look further into the attack.”
“So you work for Mr. Vecchio? Man, that guy is a character.”
You don’t know the half of it.
“He is, indeed, sir. But he also cares very much for the well being of his tenants. You see, there were some things found at the scene of the crime that Mr. Vecchio found somewhat concerning.”
“Such as?”
“Well, namely, other than the damage done to the apartment, there was a disturbing amount of some kind of substance found at the scene. Mr. Vecchio believes it to be some kind of narcotic.”
“And what, Mr. Vecchio was wondering why he wasn’t getting a cut of what the boys had?”
I tried to keep a pokerface, but he could see my surprise easily enough.
“You have to remember, Mr. McGee, that before I started writing children’s books, I was actually quite a good reporter. I started off my career working the crime desk at the New York Times, so despite the four hundred pound weight gain, I know who Junior Vecchio is. Outside of John Gotti he was the most famous gangster in America. And he may be on the up-and-up now, but I know who he is.”
“Let me reassure you, Mr. Stills, Mr. Vecchio is very much on the ‘up-and-up’,” Yeah, I made little quotation signs when I said up-and-up. I felt like such a douche. “And he is simply concerned about what your son and his roommate were doing in their apartment. He, of course, is very concerned with the buildings reputation as well as his lease holders.”
Stills blew out a long breath and eased back in his chair and shook his head.
“I’m sorry to be so rude, Mr. McGee. I’m sure you can understand that it’s been a very stressful week. We never thought Nick and Patrick would get into this kind of trouble. It’s been very jarring to say the least.”
“What can you tell me about you son’s roommate, Mr. Stills? Would it be at all possible to speak with his parents as well?”
“The Myers? Fat chance of that happening. No, the Myers are the type of people who will only talk to you if you have a court order, and even if you have that they’ll fight you tooth and nail. The Myers are much like your employer, Mr. McGee. Publicly, they’re pillars of the community and have been for as long as we’ve known Patrick. But Patrick’s parents come from two very well known crime families in New York.”
“I thought their money came from finance and the garment district?”
“I see you’ve read their Wikipedia page? Good for you, Mr. McGee. No, their money only comes from finance and clothing if you consider loan sharking and union busting to be part of those industries. Don’t get me wrong, they’re good people, and Nick and Patrick have been friend’s their entire lives, but they’re from a long, long line of dirty players. I suppose you’ve heard about Patrick’s injuries?”
“I haven’t, sir.”
“Really? Well, he’s paralyzed from the neck down. He’ll never walk again. In fact, he’ll never eat solid food again.”
Dammit. Goddamn it.
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“I guess Dorothy and I are just lucky. Nick will make a full recovery. He’ll go through a few years of very painful reconstructive surgery, but he’ll be relatively normal.”
“I’m sorry for your troubles.”
He waved me off and wiped a tear from his sun browned cheek.
“No, no, thank you for listening to me. I’ve had all of this bottled up for days now, thank you for listening.”
“No problem whatsoever, we all need to vent now and again. But, as I was saying, there was a substance found at scene that Mr. Vecchio found concerning. He also thinks it might be the reason why your son and his friend were hurt so badly.”
Stills rubbed at his eyes for a minute and then looked back up at me. I suddenly noticed how raw and unkempt he looked. It seemed like he hadn’t slept in days and he wore a coarse gray stubble of man who hasn’t put a razor to his face for a week or longer.
“Let
me ask you, Mr. McGee, what Mr. Vecchio found, did it look like little green rocks?”
“Yes, sir, it did.”
“Shit … God damn shit …” his face was starting to turn a bright, burning red, and I thought at any second he would start tearing apart the house.
“Do you know what the substance is, Mr. Stills?”
He shook his head, and croaked out an answer.
“I’m afraid I do, Mr. McGee. It’s called the green ruin. Have you heard of it before?”
“No. No, I haven’t.”
“It’s narcotic manufactured by a … by a cult called the green ruin. They use it to supposedly slip into these hypnotic states where they apparently have sex for hours or days …”
“You seem to know a lot about it, Mr. Stills.”
“I do know a lot about it, Mr. McGee. Way too much. You see, my daughter, Ila, she’s a member.”
“I thought she was going to school?’
“She was for about a semester, but then she met these people and just disappeared. She pops up every now and again, but for the most part, my wife and I haven’t spoken to her in close to a year. And the last time that we did, she … she started having sex with the man she brought to the house with her right in front of me and her mother. It was unbearable. I told her to leave and never come back. It was just too painful. Obviously, she was still in contact with her brother.”
“What else can you tell me about them, Mr. Stills?”
“Not much. I know they live out near the Superstition mountains on the east side of town. They have ranch or a farm or something like that. Or maybe they’re just squatting on government land. The whole area is national forest, so I wouldn’t doubt it.”
The man was starting to cry. Big, blubbery snot filled tears.
“Do you have children, Mr. McGee?”
“No, sir.”
“You try so hard to do what’s best for them, and you think you’re doing all the right things, but then it just blows up in your face, and you’re left with nothing but the memories of sweet and kind your children were when they were little. It’s a nightmare.”
