Authors: Gregory Shultz
After ten minutes of foreplay on her breasts, one of my hands ventured south to discover a freshly waxed and moist pussy. But she grabbed my wrist and said, “Hold on, handsome. I’m ready to give you your surprise.”
As Rachel Draper stood before me, I beheld her washboard-tight tummy and the slickness between her thighs—her juices were practically dripping. Her erect nipples were moist and candy apple red from my suckling. There was a thin layer of sweat forming on her neck and chest. She was as tough as nails, with a tanned and world champion physique any forty-year-old woman would have killed to possess. And at that moment I was plenty ready to possess Rachel-fucking-Draper.
She reached for my hand, and then we walked side by side toward her bedroom. Her smile was devious—I had the feeling I was being led into a nefarious trap. Seconds later she opened the door to her bedroom, and lying on the bed was a woman dressed in nothing more than a red silk teddy. I instantly recognized the face on that devilishly voluptuous figure.
It was Esmeralda, the Hispanic woman who had felt me up within seconds of meeting me at 52 Palms, and who had also declared to me her love for the taste of another woman. She was a classic Latin beauty. But in her eyes there lied . . . the Serpent.
Suddenly my heart raced so fast I thought it was going to blast out of my chest. I just then noticed that I was shirtless and that my jeans were unbuttoned.
The Serpent slithered off the end of the bed. . . .
The woman was beautiful—there was no doubting that. Any man that turned her away could only be called flat out fucking crazy. I couldn’t, however, get the thought out of my head that she was somebody’s daughter. But my troubled heart was conflicted, because I wanted all the female flesh I could possibly consume. Something truly evil in me wanted to show these two women that I didn’t care anything about them. I could take both of them down, right here and right now, and then walk away with a conscience as clear as a fucking bell.
I then remembered what I had said to Sidebottom regarding threesomes:
“Listen to me. How about letting it go at this? Let it be good enough to know that you
could
have done it if you really wanted to. Don’t go down this road.”
Esmeralda was now before me. Slowly and sensuously she kissed my lips, which now felt frostbitten, but I guess the Serpent wasn’t really in tune with my feelings because she kept on with it for a good two minutes. She then turned her affections to Rachel Draper. When they began to kiss I closed my eyes.
Within my heart and soul I felt the fierce battle between good and evil. The goody-two-shoe in me wanted out of this room and far away from this city, away from every one of these wanting and fucked up lost souls. But the destructive side of me wanted to burn down everything in my path. Committing this act, this ménage à trois, would be a self-betrayal beyond comprehension, but my dark side didn’t care about that.
Back and forth I felt the tug-of-war raging inside of me. Sweat beaded on my brow as I felt two hands touch my crotch. I opened my eyes to see that they were both massaging me, ravenously panting and purring in the process. Rachel Draper kissed and licked my neck, and at that moment I felt myself becoming so hard that I thought my missile would soon ignite and explode from the launching pad.
But, deep inside, I longed to be flaccid.
They kept up with the vigorous massage as Rachel Draper’s tongue darted into my ear canal. Then the Serpent took my hand and drew me to the foot of the bed. She dropped to her knees and pulled down my jeans.
Outside, it began to rain. . . .
As Esmeralda slid my underwear down to my ankles, I looked across the room and there was His image again: a large color portrait of Jesus Christ, the Brad Pitt version. As much of a sham as was the notion of Christ looking like a Hollywood poster boy, so too was the notion that Rachel Draper, the Water Girl, could thank the Lord for a mouth-watering steak in one instant, only to commit such a sinful sexual act in the next, right in front of an artistic rendering of His supposed image.
As Esmeralda’s tongue caressed me below, I could hear and even feel the thunder rolling outside. It was as if it had come from out of nowhere, drawing closer and closer. The seconds between the thunder and the flash of lightning were few . . . and soon there was only a one-second gap.
I looked at Brad Pitt again, and hoped with all my might that Jesus Christ didn’t really resemble him. . . .
Then Rachel Draper dropped to her knees, sharing me in her mouth with Esmeralda.
Save me from Your followers, Jesus Christ. Just this once, please save me from myself and from those evil souls who profess to carry in their hearts Your spirit and Your teachings.
I wanted lightning to strike through that window so my soul could be saved. I remembered, though, something my father had once said to me. This was the first time in my life that I had recalled that particular moment. He’d told me that miracles don’t always happen in such obvious ways:
“Son, the miracle is already inside of
you
. It is the strength the good Lord gives us all when we are born. The true miracle is that we have the power to save ourselves.”
That memory made what I did next very easy.
I gently tapped each woman’s shoulder and asked them to release me from their mouths. They complied. Each of them looked puzzled, as if such a request were incomprehensible.
“A lightning strike won’t be necessary,” I said to them. I smiled, feeling warmth from within that is still difficult for me to describe. If God had touched my soul, it hadn’t been with a strike of lightning. Instead, He had reconnected me with my beloved father.
I quickly rummaged about for my clothing. In just seconds I was dressed and running out of the apartment, then down the stairs to the parking lot. The rain was pouring down in a biblical deluge. At my car I pulled out my keys and used the remote control to unlock the door. But before I got into the car I stopped myself.
I may have felt sober, but in fact I was legally drunk. I had no business driving, especially in weather like this. I stuffed the keys back into my pocket and began to walk in the direction that would lead me home. The rain continued, already pooling on the roadsides and on the sidewalks. Within seconds I was completely soaked.
I turned my walk into a run, and I ran like a son of a bitch. I ran and I kept running, and then I picked up the pace and ran even faster, faster than I ever had in my entire life. The infernal noise that had been building slowly inside my head since I’d come off of the meds began to diminish, decibel by obnoxious decibel. And then I started to cry. I cried and I cried as I continued to run, looking to Heaven above, silently asking God to remove all of my pain. I finally came to a stop, still looking up at the stormy sky, and then I fell to my knees, grunting and growling as I tried to purge the evil from within. This must have taken five, maybe ten minutes. Then finally I dropped and rolled to my back.
At that instant something from within me came alive. Something I hadn’t felt . . .
ever
. As the rain cleansed my body, and as the last of the voices ran out of my head, I took to my knees and cried some more, but this time they were tears of joy.
“God,” I said. “Thank You. Thank You for saving my soul. Thank You for delivering me from evil. And please, please, please forgive me, for I am only a weak man.”
Though I wasn’t a very religious person, there was no doubt in my mind that my spirit had been reborn. I prayed that I would soon rediscover my peaceful meadow. My fear was finally leaving me. Maybe now it would be possible for me to return there.
From my knees I promised God I would do whatever it took to redeem myself.
I felt certain that peace was soon to settle upon my weary soul.
My time for healing had arrived.
Part Three
Blow Up The Outside World
31
W
HEN THE MUSIC STORE opened at ten the next morning, I was the first customer through the door. Since I hadn’t even tried to sleep after returning home from Water Girl’s apartment last night, I’d had about twelve hours to surf the Web to learn all I could about electric guitars. One hour and three thousand bucks later, I walked out of that store the proud owner of an Eric Clapton model Fender Stratocaster. I bought a high-powered Marshall amplifier to go with it, along with other accessories that included picks, slides, guitar cables, effects pedals, extra strings, a guitar case, a guitar stool, and a digital tuner. (I passed on the “South’s Gonna Rise Again” bandana.)
I was home by noon. Once I had settled into the living room—which I now called my music room—and got everything plugged in, hooked up, and ready to go, I planted my ass on my new guitar stool and kept it there all day long, only taking a short break for lunch and another for a light supper. I had restored an old desktop PC to serve as the Internet connection for the music room. Between YouTube, the online instruction site, and another website that had a massive archive of guitar tablature, I was more than adequately set up to learn and progress in my musical studies.
I was jamming up a storm. I had the amplifier cranked up loud enough so that Gonzo across the street could enjoy hearing me go through my musical growing pains. Printed music was spread all over the place, mostly sheets of easy-to-learn rock songs for beginners, and a few at the intermediate level. By six o’clock my fingers were numb, but my new calluses were holding up quite well—the skin was nice and tough now. As opposed to my acoustic guitar, I found that the electric guitar was much easier to finger and fret, so there really wasn’t much of a learning curve for the new instrument.
Feeling happier and more content with myself, I turned my cell phone back on. I was ready to face the world again. I had dozens of voicemail messages, but I didn’t bother checking any of them. I made a note to call Vernon to tell him I would be back at work tomorrow, sleep or no sleep. I was ready to get back to work and stay at work.
I called Sidebottom and wished him a happy Monday morning. I’d never wished anyone a happy Monday morning in my entire life. In the past I’d always wanted to wring the neck of anyone who’d say such a crass thing to me. But today I felt differently about it. Sidebottom didn’t seem to notice my improved mood, so I told him about my previous evening with the Water Girl, and how God had sent me a message from my father, right directly from Heaven. He didn’t believe me at first, but when I finally sold him on it, he did say this:
“Well, bubba, you know what? I’ll give this one to you. But God didn’t deliver you that message from your dad because of the pending threesome itself. He only did so because it wasn’t the right thing for
you
. I think you should be careful about reading too much into it. Don’t get the wrong message.”
I didn’t know if Sidebottom had gone through with his planned threesome from the other night, and I didn’t want to know. And, God bless him, he didn’t burden me with it.
Then I told him about my phone call with Caitlin.
“Okay,” he said. “I did a little investigating on this, because it was out all over the place that Caitlin had made a big scene at the library. I don’t know if she told you or not, but the Orange County cops ended up questioning her out in the parking lot. They let her go, but not without embarrassing her first.
“Anyway, Caitlin had gotten wind of your dinner date with Glory from that crazy masseuse roommate of Glory’s. Turns out old Tricia works a second job at another spa where a lot of the Disney chicks hang out. So Caitlin goes into the library and starts screaming and yelling at our friendly neighborhood librarian. Caitlin just went ape shit on the poor girl, telling her that you were a diagnosed schizophrenic, and that you had a criminal record.”
Oh boy, I thought. I’d told Caitlin early on in our relationship of my troubles with the law as a juvenile in Oklahoma. That much was true, even though my juvenile record had been expunged a long time ago. But I was never diagnosed with anything other than bipolar disorder. So she was just flat out lying to Glory.
Sidebottom continued: “But Smith, here’s the thing: I think there’s been a misunderstanding. Word is, your sexy librarian got right back in Caitlin’s face and told her if she ever came around again, she’d kick her ass. I know how much you like ballsy broads, and bubba, the sexy librarian is right up your alley. And I tracked down Tricia the crazy masseuse, and I got her to confess that Glory wasn’t the slightest bit fazed about anything Caitlin had said.”
“Oh man,” I said. “What time does the library close?”
Sidebottom laughed. “You got till nine, bubba. I was just there a while ago. She
is
working tonight.”
“Look, I gotta get off the phone. I haven’t stopped thinking about Glory, not for one second. All day long, as I played the guitar, I envisioned her as my audience of one. Even though I was peeved with her, now I know my anger was unjustified. . . . Well, look, gotta go. We’ll talk later. I love you, my brother. I really do.”
I quickly performed the three S’s—a shit, shower, and a shave—and hightailed it to the library.
…
I got out of my car and made a dash for the library’s entrance. But then, like a chicken shit, I stopped dead in my tracks right when I hit the front sidewalk.