by Steve Lowe
We pull into a parking space near our room and I move to get out but Mongo grabs my arm and says, “You go slowly, yes? We are not drawing attention to ourselves.”
I nod and force myself to casually walk to the stairs leading up to the second level where the room is located. I notice a dark, blackened spot at the bottom of the stairs, soaked into the cheap Astroturf carpeting covering the steps. Jesus, I think that’s my blood. I still don’t remember anything about Muffy-Mandy-Misty whatever-her-name-is and the sanchez.
We get to the room and Mongo unlocks it. Despite his warning to act nonchalant, I push past him and rush into the room. “Carrie? Are you here, Carrie?”
“Where the hell else would I be?”
She’s sitting on the edge of Mongo’s bed, wearing nothing but a short silk robe that hardly goes past her waist. I’m momentarily stunned by the soft curve of her uncovered ass. “Uh… Are you, you know, are you alright?”
She looks nothing like the damsel in distress I had pictured when I heard her over the phone. She’s not crying and pulling at handcuffs anchored to the bedpost. Instead, she’s sitting demurely on top of the bedspread with her legs crossed, wearing little more than a very familiar look of impatience. She completely ignores my question and looks to Mongo. “Are we ready to start, or what?”
Mongo busily moves around the room, checking the numerous cameras I’m just now noticing. At least five are set up in the room at different angles, all pointing at the two beds. I’m trying to understand what’s going on here, but as usual, I feel slower than everyone else.
“You… You mean you’re not hurt?”
Carrie looks back at me and says, “Well, duh.”
Mongo finishes fiddling with the cameras and claps his hands together. He looks very excited and he’s talking quickly. “OK, time to get show on road. Dennis, sit on bed next to whore and we begin film.”
“Hey,” Carrie says as she edges her robe down her shoulders. “Watch who you’re calling a whore, you Commie douchebag.”
I can’t move. I think I know what’s happening but, at the same time, I can’t rationalize it.
“Well, come on,” Carrie tells me. “Take off your fucking clothes and get over here.”
“What the hell are you doing, Carrie?”
She’s completely naked now, leaning back on her hands. “What does it look like I’m doing?”
Mongo stands next to me, much closer than I’m comfortable with. He smells like garlic and oily medicine. “Lovely ex-wife has agreed to help us. Isn’t that good news, homo?”
I’m speechless.
Mongo sees that some explanation is necessary and starts filling in the blanks. “We are finishing contest today, OK. You only need last four challenges, and just so happens I know what last four challenges are.”
“You do? How?”
“Last night at bar. Strange little sickly man with thick glasses sits in booth with me. He tells me many interesting things. He tells me he wants you to win contest and can give me final challenges. Says he knows all about dirty sanchez and finds girl for you. Even sends her over to speak to you. And when I look, there you are, with Misty whore.”
Jack Mehoff. The weirdo that sicced Pauline on me.
“Little man was funny,” Mongo continues. “He asks to be cut in on prize money. Can you believe balls of that guy? Good news is we do not have to worry about him turning up again. And now that we know final challenges, is time to end this game and get paid!”
I turn to Carrie and say, “And you agreed to this?”
“Fuck yes, I did. Because when you win, half of that money is mine.”
“The fuck you say.”
She laughs at me. “Alimony, dumb ass. I’m a single mother and my ex-husband just won a huge pile of cash. Who do you think the court will side with?”
Mongo shoves me toward the bed. “Enough with blah, blah, blah,” he says. “Time to take off clothes and prove you are King Pervert. First challenge is rusty trombone.”
Mongo turns to the laptop behind him on the desk. “Here is instruction video for how to do proper trombone. Is very simple, you just –”
Carrie cuts him off and she gets on her knees. “Yeah, yeah, I know how to do a goddamn rusty trombone, jeez.”
I shouldn’t be shocked considering all the things I know now about my ex-wife, and continue to learn about her, but I can’t help myself. “You do?”
She rolls her eyes at me. “Jesus, Dennis, you’re so fucking naïve sometimes. Maybe if you would’ve tried some of this shit you’re doing for this stupid show with me instead, we’d still be married. I might have even been able to pretend that I was happy.”
“You seriously wish I would’ve glued my pubic hair to your chin with my cum?”
“I guess you’ll never know, now, will you?”
I feel like I’m sleepwalking as I take off my shirt and unbuckle my belt. It’s like I’ve woken up in a dream. Or maybe a nightmare.
“Why didn’t you say something to me about this instead of running off to screw other guys? How the hell was I supposed to know what you wanted if you never bothered to tell me?”
“I shouldn’t have to tell you. It’s a husband’s job to learn these things about his wife. God, you’re dumb.”
“Can you even hear yourself talk? Do you have any clue how ridiculous you sound? A good marriage is built on a foundation of communication and trust. Not mind reading, you stupid tramp.”
Mongo impatiently snaps his fingers in my face. “Save marital spat for some other time. Right now, shut stupid trap and get on hands and knees.”
I do what he tells me, but I’m giving Carrie my best stink-eye. “You’re right about one thing, my dear. I was naïve. I can’t believe I didn’t know what a nasty whore you were until it was too late.”
She flips me off and slides in behind me. She grabs my dick, which I just now realize is hard as a rock. Just before she slides her tongue between my ass cheeks, I tell her, “One last thing, Carrie… Eat my shit.”
She responds by biting my scrotum.
•
Ten minutes later, she’s still going at it. My dick is beginning to get raw from Carrie’s stroking and my asshole is numb to the point that I can barely feel her tongue, which is not necessarily a bad thing. The way I feel toward her right now, I’m more than a little repulsed by what we’re doing, so much so that my guts are beginning to roll.
And what we’re doing is the rusty trombone, which apparently is a chick licking and blowing in a dude’s ass while stroking his member, thus creating the effect of playing a trombone. I’ll let your own imagination guess why it’s called ‘rusty’. I suppose in a perfect world of two consenting adults performing acts of love and sensuality for each other, this would be perfectly acceptable. Far be it for me to judge a person based on what I myself have done over the past week. But when you’re partaking in such activities without being a consenting party, well...
It makes me think of Danielle. And Pauline, maybe to a lesser degree, but still. And the sanchez chick. And then I feel even more guilty over the fact I performed a dirty sanchez on a girl whose name I can’t for the life of me remember.
“You about done back there,” I say over my shoulder.
Carrie pauses and says, “Waiting on you, fuckhead.” Then she resumes.
As soon as she dives back in, I feel pressure. It’s not external, but something deep inside. A rumble from within, like the demons I’ve been carrying with me have decided to wake up and make some noise. What I first thought was guilt and anxiety has turned to something more.
“Um…”
No one says a thing but Mongo grabs one of the cameras off a tripod. He moves to the wall like he’s getting out of the way. This should strike me as strange but I’m more concerned with the build up of pressure very quickly making its way from my innards toward my outards. Is that a word, outards? Fuck it, I don’t know and I don’t care. Something big is about to go down.
“Uh
… Carrie?”
She halts her trombone playing and says, “What, are you finally going to cum so I can stop this?”
“Well, I’m not sure how to put this, but something’s coming, alright.”
Despite how much I hate this woman right now, there are still some things I would not consider doing to her, out of anger or spite or revenge or whatever. Things I would not do to any human being, because they’re just not right. Like farting in someone’s face. I would not do that on purpose because it’s just not kosher. And yes, I realize how hypocritical that sounds considering my recent history. I’m complicated, what can I say?
But I’m being completely truthful when I say I don’t fart in Carrie’s face on purpose. It really is an accident. She doesn’t see it that way.
“OH, YOU DICK!”
She jumps off the bed and wipes at her face, but I’m already past her and headed for the bathroom. Something dire is happening to me at this moment and I have very little time left. I race for the toilet and jump on the seat, ready to expel whatever it is that’s trying to blast forth from me, but Mongo is there, waiting in the bathroom.
“Dude, get the fuck out of here! I’m about to explode.”
“No, hold it in,” he says. “Bitch, get in here!”
“What the fuck is wrong with you? My colon is about to burst here. Get the fuck out before I –”
I don’t get further than that. Mongo smacks me in the chin with the back of his hand and I nearly careen off the stool. When I right myself, he’s in my face, pressing the blade of his huge hunting knife against my cheek.
“You are homosexual, show me ass control. Hold it in or I will make you wish you had.”
He turns to the door and yells, incredibly loud and right in my ear, “BITCH, GET THE FUCK IN HERE!”
Carrie appears in the doorway with a look of repulsion on her face.
“You prick, you splattered me.”
She’s wiping at her chin and I notice, amid the remaining stars in my field of vision from Mongo’s blow, three brownish dots on her forehead. I’m a little dazed and trying real hard to keep from shitting my brains out lest Mongo gut me like a fish, but I realize what those brown dots are. I don’t know what else to say other than a weak, “Sorry.”
Mongo points at me and says to Carrie, “Back on knees, whore. Time for blumpkin.”
•
A few minutes later, I’ve regained my bearings. During the time in between, Carrie assumed the position, took me into her mouth, and we both waited for Mongo to get the camera ready. When he pointed at us, Carrie began sucking and I let the floodgates open.
This is the blumpkin. Who the fuck comes up with this shit?
Like I said, it takes me a couple minutes, but I feel a little better, especially after I’ve filled the toilet with some of the most noxious stuff that’s ever come out of me. I wonder if I’m coming down with the stomach flu or something, then it hits me.
“Hey, Mongo, what was that pill you gave me back in the car?”
Mongo pushes a button on the camera, I’m assuming the pause button, and says, “Pill was Viagra. Drink was fast-acting laxative.” He punctuates this tidbit of information with a pleasant smile.
That would explain the raging torrent flowing from my ass, as well as the raging boner I’ve maintained through all this despite my revulsion. I look down at Carrie, who’s sucking away. She stops every few seconds to turn her head aside and gag, but she dives right back in again. I’m surprised at her conviction in seeing this through.
“Damn, Carrie, if you would have worked as hard at being married as you do at giving a blumpkin, we might have made it, you know?”
She looks up at me. Her face is a little green. She says, “When this is over and you pay me my share, I’m going to spend it on hiring Mongo here to torture you.”
Mongo says, “Shut up and finish.”
“I got news for you, Mongo, she could do this for days and I don’t think I’ll ever get off on it.”
“Only need one money shot,” he says. “Rest of this will be edited before sent. Just need enough footage and best shots we can get. Hollywood is tough business, you know?”
Carrie stops and looks up, but she’s kind of staring off into space, not at anything in particular. We all hold our breath for several seconds, listening, before a resonant rumble breaks the silence. But it’s not coming from my spent gastrointestinal tract this time.
Carrie says, “Dammit, Mongo, did you spike my drink with that shit, too?”
Mongo just smiles and scoots around her toward the door. “Give me one moment,” he says and disappears into the room.
Carrie leans back with a hand on her gut. I use the break in the action to clean myself. It takes quite a bit of paper and sets me to gagging a little myself. I don’t know how she managed to keep her head down there between my legs for so long. It smells like something crawled up inside me and died. About two weeks ago.
Mongo shouts from the room, “OK, ready, both of you out here now!”
Carrie says, “Screw you jack, I need to hit that pot, like now.”
Mongo’s at the door again. “No, out here. Is part of next challenge. Two more to go.”
Carrie and I look at each other and it’s clear by the look on her face she didn’t really know what she had signed up for. “Hey man,” she says, “I ain’t doing any of that ‘Two Girls, One Cup’ puking shit on each other business.”
“Just shut whore trap and get out here now.” Mongo motions with his knife for us to come out. We both do as we’re told. Hard to argue with a three hundred-pound Chechen brandishing a weapon.
•
I stare at the plastic sheeting covering everything for a second before responding to Mongo’s comment. “We need to do a hot what?”
Mongo shoves me onto the bed. “Is called hot karl, and you need to lay skinny, pale ass on bed.” He nods at Carrie, who’s hopping from foot to foot and looking more than a little sick to her stomach. “And by looks of whore ex-wife, we should hurry before we miss opportunity.”
Carrie’s in such bad shape she doesn’t even bother to respond to his whore comment. As for me, I’m not even thinking at this point. I’m on autopilot. Whatever happens now, happens. I feel like this is one of those out-of-body deals, like I’m hovering above myself, watching with a strange detachment while these curiously odd things happen to my body.
I watch myself lie there while Mongo pulls a box of Saran Wrap from the bedside table drawer.
I note with mild amusement as he tears off a long sheet of the clear plastic wrap and places it over my face.
I am only slightly interested when he tells Carrie to squat over my head and shit on my face.
“You want me to do what?”
“This is hot karl,” Mongo says impatiently. “And by looks of you, this will be most epic hot karl ever captured on film.” He motions to the bed and says, “Now, assume position.”
My outside-the-body self notes the look on Carrie’s face, and I can’t decide if her lips are curled in a rueful smile or a disgusted grimace. Her stomach thunders again and she scrambles onto the bed. Whether she really wants to do this or not, she’s clearly out of time. It’s either do it here or do it where she stands, but there is no more waiting to decide.
I close my eyes and feel like I’m floating somewhere between my body and some ethereal plane of self-enlightenment. I really feel like I’m on the edge of a transcendent breakthrough here. I’ve never been very spiritual or mystic. Carrie tried reading tarot and following our horoscopes and checking our star patterns once, but like everything with her, it was a passing fancy once she discovered how much work was involved with that mumbo-jumbo. But this is something more than that. It’s like I’m splitting into two separate forms of existence right inside my own head. There’s two of me in here and I seem to see and feel worldly experiences through both of them. My earth-bound physical self takes in all the rudimentary sensations and processes them, noting how t
he bed bounces as Carrie steps over me and positions her bottom over my face. The existential ethereal me notes the ironic twist my life has taken and how it seems to be coming full circle back to Carrie, who once again is shitting on me, but this time in the very literal sense rather than figuratively.
This realization might actually be amusing if I wasn’t about to become the recipient of a fecal facial.
My eyes are still shut, and I don’t think my physical self would let them open for any reason at this moment. We’ve seen some things in our lives, the real me and the mystical me, but there is one thing we don’t want to have a memory of, and that’s the vision of our ex-wife’s open rectum expelling a quart of hot excrement directly into our face. This isn’t a tangible thought in our collective consciousness, more like an intuition. We both know something bad is going on, but if we close our eyes and minds to it, maybe it won’t be so bad. Mind over fecal matter.
Unfortunately, we still have to feel it. The plastic wrap sucks down tight over my face, sealing off my eyes, my nose, my ears. It feels as though my entire head is enveloped in steaming soup. It hammers my face with astounding force, as if expelled from a hose. Plastic wrap sucks into my nostrils but I can’t really smell anything, nor can I breathe. Warmth consumes my head and filters through my hair. I feel it beneath me, pooling between my shoulders. It’s already starting to get cold.
I’m struck by how nonchalantly this is going down. It’s as though I was being drowned with a big pot of corn chowder, rather than…
Rather than shit.
My face is being buffeted by shit.
Hot, wet, thin, laxative-brewed shit.
On my face.
In my hair.
Running down my back.
The only thing keeping it out of my eyes, ears, nose, and mouth is a thin layer of plastic film.
The other-worldly me and the physical me become one again real quick. It’s a sensation kind of like my skull sucking my brain back in through my ear. The world goes from ghostly detachment to very real sensations. This is the moment the smell hits me, despite the layer of plastic protection. I suppose I could be imagining it because of what’s on me, or I’m panicking due to asphyxiation, but I don’t think so.
