Hamtrack was tired of sitting on a testicle when he went to take a crap. For once, he wanted to sit down and do his slow toilet business the way he did twice a week, and not worry about buying black market Viagra to satiate the two nubile thirty-somethings who'd agreed to share his life and bed in the month before, neither knowing about the other.
Okay, he said to himself—one nubile thirty-something. Diana, whose blue eyes, teeny strawberry-topped titties and voracious appetite for oral pleasure were matched only by the significant dollars he'd accumulated in the twenty years he'd spent sending criminals to be deflowered anally by the inmates of the Elmira Correction Facility. He knew what she wanted because she told him in her little girl-sized sarcastic twitter; she knew what he wanted, and so far they matched up all right. But he had his eye on her and her sticky eyes, the way they glommed onto the antique highboy in the corner and the seemingly simple equations of philately and numismatics he'd locked in the corner safe, unobtrusive under his ex-wife Phyllis's ornate yellow doily. He had Diana's number, all right. It was odd. He kept his drugs locked in the safe because he thought she'd steal him blind.
The other thirty-something was barely that age, Sandy-Sue, a thirty-year-old fencepost-legged girl with ginormously outsized thigh muscles, who graspled at him when they fucked with the ardor and ferocity of a six-days-unslept tweaker earning the next ice-cold ripple of methedrine. Except she was stone-hammer sober, only hungry for a spark of affection in the way unjustly ignored women get and he was glad to give.
He closed his eyes and relaxed his first night under her, when she had swung her legs over his and popped her hips once sharply into his groin and again and again, and then continued, grabbing his hands hard in hers and pumping like a woman possessed, her ample bosoms swaying over him like lost souls. Sandy-Sue had rolled off him at the finish with a sweet smile and a long kiss as she pulled the condom out of herself. She tied it off at the end and tossed it in the garbage among the peanut shells and the empty Fanta cans.
"Bye, swimmers," she said, cracking her knuckles.
"Well," said Hamtrack. "How about that?" He had blissed out thirty seconds before and observed her in that loose-limbed way he had after the main event, as she pulled her sweat-thick shoulder-length hair off her flushed neck and knotted it behind her head.
"Make sure I clean that garbage out before you go, or else the dog will get in there and eat it."
"You bet," he said, and rolled over toward her again, hoping the Viagra would hold out and his thin old pecker would rise to the occasion.
It had been quite a night, Hamtrack remembered as he finished his business with a sigh. He'd have to find a way to keep the two of them apart for a while yet. He didn't want a catfight on his hands. He'd see Sandy-Sue on Sundays and Thursdays, in order to give his groin a little less whacking, and he'd see Diana on Tuesdays and Fridays. He reserved his Saturday nights for gathering at the Rusty Nail and throwing darts for five-dollar bets with the old swaybacked men of the bar, eating the pickled pig's feet and peppered jerky that gave him the shits. He wondered how long he'd be able to keep it up, both literally and literally.
They were both good girls, he felt in a sudden magnanimous rush of emotion. He was lucky to have one of them, let alone both.
The doorbell rang, and he answered it, expecting to see Diana in her nun outfit with the sheer stockings and the riding crop up her habit, but what he saw to his surprise was Diana and Sandy-Sue both in black sweatshirts and jeans. Diana had a baton in her hand, and Sandy-Sue a set of handcuffs, and before he could say yea or nay or what the fuck Diana had crumpled his knee with one well-placed blow. As he cringed in agony, Sandy-Sue yanked his arms up behind his back and locked them together, the key between her teeth and a small silver cross hanging between her breasteses.
"You dirty old fucker," Diana said, squatting over his chest as he tried to grasp what was happening. "You think we fucked you for fun?"
"But nothing old man. We'll be through here soon." He thought he saw Sandy-Sue slip him a sympathetic glance, but before he knew it the two of them had popped his safe open—he knew he'd been too open with them—and took his stamps, his coins, his small stash of Viagra and his pot, and for good measure they took his Cumidin and a three-month supply of Vitamin-C.
He couldn't move well, but he heard them dump his ex-wife's silver. He heard them boot his laptop down, and finally he heard them in the bedroom where they must have lifted his wallet and credit cards from his bedside table. It couldn't have been more than fifteen minutes for the whole operation. Diana paused as she walked out the door, sneered back at him like he was some kind of filth.
"You going to leave me here like this?” Hamtrack asked. Diana snorted and walked out the door with a duffel bag full of his entire life, never saying a word. Sandy-Sue paused too, and with her smoky-blue eyes pitied him a bit. "You wait, hon. Just wait." Then Sandy-Sue slammed his front door. He heard a car engine cough to life, and fade away like his youth. He couldn't get his balance to get off the floor.
Three hours later it was near midnight. His hands were numb and cold. He heard the snick of the key in the front door, and there was Sandy-Sue. She unlocked his arms, and grabbed him tight, like a woman who loved him, and she pressed him to her chest, to those magnificent thundering bosoms he had taken so much pleasure in, and she held him tight, tighter, so tight he felt as if his world had shrunk to the size of two cantalouped breasts, and his ducts opened, and he cried for his loss, for the women he'd loved and left and even for the cold semen in that abandoned condom, lives, multiple many thousands of potential lives he had affected with his basest, grossest, needfullest needs, and snuffled there. Sandy-Sue held him, patting his back too hard at odd intervals the way you might pat a child who had hiccups.
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