Pout Erotica

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Saturday, January 08, 2005

Pout Erotica-2

All About D’BNJMN


It was one of those days where I actually considered suicide.
Oh, not for me…for other people in my life. Like the folks at the job that want me to work harder, faster and stay later, but go mentally retarded when I ask for a raise. Then the kids, who I’m convinced are autistic since they only know one word—“Moma!” –screamed at the top of their lungs every thirty seconds or so, waiting to pounce on me the moment I walk in the door.

Today, I try to block them out as they beg for the one thing I don’t have in the house—pizza. Did I say they were autistic? Well, I should have said they have Attention Deficit Disorder. They can only focus their attention when they want something but become deficient when I am demanding them to “Clean your room! Take out the trash! Go to bed!” Damn! Why did I cook the last Digorno two nights ago?

And let us not forget the headliner in this serial called “Life”—my husband. Deaf to their pleas, probably since the television’s volume is turned up to Sonic Boom level, he throws out words of encouragement. “Just go on back to town before you sit down and get tired.”

Can’t he see I’m already tired?

“And pick me up a six pack while you’re there.” Fixing his eyes on me, he leers. “Don’t take too long ‘cause I’m gonna take you in the back room and release some of that tension for you when you come back.” Great. More work.
Here I am living the Great American Dream—medium sized house, two cars—Lexus for him; minivan for me—two kids and a dog. Why does it feel more like the Great American Depression?

My hands clenched and unclenched the steering wheel—a pitiful substitute for my spouses neck. Ohhhh! I’m so frustrated. Why do I always have to go to the grocery store? And why does some must-eat-tonight food always pop up on a day when none can be found in the house?

I looked over the pasture, wishing I was a cow. Nothing to do but graze grass all day, drop a load of shit wherever I wanted to and nobody said nothing. Just let the earth do its thing. I laughed as I remembered the downside—the slaughterhouse. Well maybe I don’t exactly want that life, just a less stressful one.

As I continued my pity party, I noticed a bright red convertible edging up behind me, D’BNJMN on the front license plate. The top was down and I could see a White man wearing shades relaxing, one arm over the back of the seat as he drove.
Damn, he looks cool.

As the car grew closer, I realized that he was a lot older than I originally thought and amazingly, he had his shirt off.

That’s strange.

Looking in the rear view mirror, I could see that he was a tanned man with salt-n-pepper hair buzz cut in military style and his chest was coated in a thick layer of white hairs. His fingers were tapping to the beat of some song I couldn’t hear. Just chillin’, as the kids say. I smiled in spite of my deflated spirits.

I don’t know why, but as I drove, I kept glancing back at him. Staring. Driving. Staring. Staring. Driving. Maybe it was the car…or maybe it was because he was such an unusual site. Most men don’t drive around with their shirts off around here. I don’t know why, but they don’t, and especially not older white men. But there he was sure as the sun was shining.

Reaching a stretch of road that widened into straight-a-way for about a mile, I saw him turn on his blinkers to pass. I tried to act nonchalant as he slowly edged out onto the oncoming lane, taking his time.

As he came abreast of my van, I took a good look into the car. Girl, I almost flipped my vehicle!

Not only did that man have his shirt off, he didn’t have a stitch of clothes on at all! Nothing but skin being fanned by the air. And, he had a humongous erection! It must have been at least eight inches because it stood tall above the bottom of the steering wheel.

This man can’t be white! He must be mulatto or something Latino. Hah! Like I would know what a mulatto or Latin man’s erection looked like.

He glanced at me and lifted one finger in greeting—a pleasant, common how-you-doing everyday kind of greeting—before turning his attention back to the road.

My mouth dropped open at his lack of embarrassment.

The arm draped across the seat was removed and a hand placed around the base of his root. Caressing. Stroking.

Damn! I veered off the road, almost kissing a mailbox. Recovering quickly, I steered back onto the blacktop—estrogen surging; vaginal cells mass-producing coochie juice in milliseconds, the moisture leaking between my lips.

He looked momentarily startled then…he smiled.

My attention was drawn back to the tumescent protuberance as he gathered the tip in his hands, squeezing and encircling it with a fist.

Do you see this shit here?

His car kept pace with mine—twenty-five miles per hour. No faster, no slower. And my eyes kept pace with his hands while occasionally diverting their attention to the road.

His fingers stroked and pulled at his member in leisure. Without me being conscious of it, my fingers begin rubbing and pulling at my own crotch. I wouldn’t have realized it at all, but I suddenly needed to turn on the air conditioner and I couldn’t understand where my other hand was.

Memories of life before the husband and kids sprang to my mind.

Oh, how I remember all the times I rode down this same stretch of road with James, Henry or Bryan, stroking them while they drove and letting them stroke me. One time, I even sucked on one of them…I can’t remember who right now and it doesn’t matter either… and when he came, he drifted into oncoming traffic. The blare of the oncoming car’s horn made him open his eyes and swerve back into the correct lane. It’s a wonder we didn’t kill ourselves back then. Just strolling down memory lane…I tell you, I could have laid back on that seat and brought myself to climax in seconds.

I looked back at the man.

His hand was moving faster now. My hands moved faster, too.

His tongue darted out of his mouth, licking his lips. I followed suit.

He seemed to really be enjoying himself. Me too.

On we drove for what seemed like forever, him giving me the show of my life—free—and me trying to prolong the entertainment indefinitely.

Girl, what if he pulls over and asks you to sleep with him? my mind inserts through my lust-fogged brain.

That thought slowed my rubbing hand momentarily.
What would I do?

Hey, it’s not like it’s something I haven’t done before and with the goods I’m looking at…Stop it! Stop it right now! I shake my head.

Looking back at him, I realized that his car was no longer even with mine. I could barely see the object of my fascination and I felt a pang of longing. I pushed down on the gas and my body quieted when I spied his member again.
You are sick!

No, maybe a Peeping Tom, but not sick. And I’m not really a Peeping Tom since he’s got his body on display. I’m just taking what is being freely offered. Nothing wrong with that, is it?

Suddenly, he sped up, trying to get in front of me.

Uh, uh! I ain’t ready for this show to end just yet! I sped up, cutting him off.
He began waving at me. I waved back. Then he waved some more. I waved some more, too. He pointed at me and then down the road.
Is he propositioning me?

My mind was made up in an instant. I pointed at his hard erection and leered like a fool.

As I saw the car abruptly decelerate, I swung my head to look back at it, wondering what was going on then…BOOM!

That was all she wrote until I woke up in the hospital.

The nurse said I’d been in a car accident with a cow. One had walked in the road and apparently I had hit it. The van was absolutely totaled.

When she asked me if I had seen it, I truthfully replied, “No.” Of course I hadn’t seen it because I was looking at the man, hung like a bull, riding in the red convertible. Thinking of this, I asked who had called 9-1-1. I almost fell out of my bed when she replied.

“It was our new pastor, David Benjamin,” she answered nonchalantly.

New pastor! That was a man of the cloth riding around buck-naked, stroking himself in the daylight? That ain’t even right! What kind of God does he serve? Ain’t nobody but the devil! Why, if this got out, he’d be run out of town! Just hog-tied naked and put on the first SUV moving…hog-tied…naked…eight inches hanging free… scared…begging for release…willing to do anything a helpful person wanted for freedom…any thing at all…Oooh! My body squirmed involuntarily.

Clearing my throat, I asked in my most mildly interested voice, “Now what church did you say he was pastoring?”
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