Good Samaritans Finish Last

"One of the Columbians, who must have been an ex-painter, asked Mick, "You got a good quality paint with primer, and final coat mixed in one?"

"Nan, I'm old school, first primer, the final coat."

Then a low growl of a voice,

'Hey gramps, where's the bitch with the nice tits. I'd give her a hundred for another blow job."

"Don't disrespect my daughter, you goons," Mick shouted, "Come closer I can't hear you."

Totally confused by Mick's comments and the paint can story, the Columbians took two steps forward.

There was a muffled explosion, then a second louder than the first.

I wasn't in the room, but from what I could hear, I guessed Mick had pulled out the shotgun and fired two rapid shots of double zero buckshot. It must have caught the lugs right in their faces. I could hear them fall. The gunpowder blasts filled the room with acrid smoke, but the noises had been muffled. It all came down so fast. They must have died instantly.

"You OK, Mick?"

As soon as I shouted, I knew I'd made a mistake. If Mick was dead, the two thugs knew someone else was in the next room.

"Hey kid, don't come in," I heard Mick's voice.

"You don't gotta see this."

"What happened? Are you OK?"

Mick shouted back, "It's all done. It's a mess. Just sit tight. Whoever their boss is will figure they beat it with the dough. Don't come in."

I was feeling sick, so I went into the bathroom, dropped my pants and underwear, and sat on the toilet. The plastic seat needed replacement. I leaned back against the cold porcelain and dropped a Deuce with accompanying farts. That seemed to cure my upset stomach.

I could hear Mick talking to someone, but I figured the two dead guys weren't hearing anymore. A third guy, Mickey's helper, had come in the door. I'd never seen another person, but I suspected it was Joe, from the bar. He must have been waiting outside. I'd heard the door open, someone entered, and I imagine the two of them were busy rolling up the bodies.

When I heard the door slam, I knew Mick and whoever was helping him were gone. I went back into the room. Mick must have taken the $5000 off the tall guy. I found it later on my desk and pocketed it. If Mick had wanted payment, he would have taken it. Money was the last thing the famed author might have needed.

I knew not to ask Mick who his helper was. I assumed it was the bartender. Someday I would ask about Joe, but not now. Joe remained a mystery man.

-----00000-----

Marge showed up the next morning. She was wearing a crisp white blouse and a colorful pleated skirt. I felt so horny looking at her when she walked in. I shouted to Margie,

"All is OK. Could you come in here?"

She arrived with a big smile. "What is that smell. Was something on fire?"

"It's nothing, the coffee maker overheated."(Of course it was the smell of gunpowder."

"Babe, You ook so good. I want to fuck you."

"Let me lock the front door," volunteered Margie.

She returned quickly before my erection lost any steam.

"But the new couch hasn't been delivered."

"Get naked and lean against the top of the desk."

She lifted up her skirt, pulled down her panties, and bent over.

"God, I love a woman who does as she's told." I thought to myself--that is rare.

I quickly dropped my trousers and underwear. My erection looked enormous. I slid behind Margie and ran my tickler up and down the groove in her ass, teasing her before I lined it up.

"Where do you want it? Ass or pussy?"

"Wherever you want, do it. "

"How about both, pussy first, and I'll finish in your butt."

"If that's what you want, I'd never deny you."

I lowered my cock's head to enter her vagina. I slid inside so smoothly it was as if she had pre-lubed, but I knew from past experience her pussy was always wet. Maybe it was the anticipation of sex, or maybe her puss was like a running faucet. I never figured it out. But this was no time to set up a biology experiment.

I slid in and started pumping, she dropped her blouse, and her bra was down about her waist. I grabbed each of her bassoons with the nipples between my second and third fingers. I squeezed her till she went, "Oh-oh, ooooooh."

Listening to her was half the fun. She chirped like a cricket, sang like a canary. I kept humping her, thrusting in and out. I grabbed my cock still inside her and twisted it to the right, then the left, up and down. How long could I hold out? I could feel my balls beginning the click together like one of those toys that the kids play with, that thingy toy with two orbs on a string.

Then it was, do or die. I pulled out of her vagina. And if one needed proof she was the perfect lover, She reached back to guide me into her tight ass hole, where my dick spurted cum like a whale shooting rainbows through its blowhole. I let go of her tits and grabbed her waist pushing her ass tightly against me, and I counted the eruptions, one two....four....five...six.. and one more oomph for good luck.

I paused embracing her, my hands holding her soft tits,

"So good, so good."

"You fuck me so good, but do you love me? She asked.

"Of course I do. I'd die for you."

"You better," she said and was silent.

I stayed inside her until my cock began to downsize and then it sort of flopped out of her ass hole on its own. I grabbed it to keep from dripping cum on the floor as she raced off to the bathroom, no doubt to flush out the thousands of sperm seeds tickling her butt hole. I've been told by previous lovers that my sperms are an angry bunch that causes mislaid periods and perhaps worse.

I sat on the chair out of breath and wrapped a tissue around my dick that quickly became sticky. I poured some water from a bottle onto a few fresh tissues and wiped myself clean. I was well aware that this hygiene exercise came along with fucking but was well worth the clean-up. When Marges blew me, she sucked my dick as clean as a stripper pole, but blow jobs, as great as they are, rant, in my opinion, second rate to a good fuck, and third rate to a pussy-ass hole encounter. That experience was equal to discovering the Holy Grail.

-----00000-----

I called Mick several days later. He said he was just back from a fishing trip in the Long Island Sound. He and Joe had rented a fishing boat and caught a bunch of groupers. His first words were,

"But I have nothing to say."

I understood the message and responded,

"Just hello and thanks--for picking up."

"Yeah, you be good," said Mick.

Margie and I had an uneasy feeling about staying in that office. The year's office lease was up in two months and although we could be easily traced, We decided it would be best to pull up stakes and move closer to the Westchester line. Finding another store space wasn't difficult, we rented a new place within the week. It used to be a luncheonette. The fast-food places were putting all the Mom and Pops out of business. We took our pertinent legal papers, the typewriter, office files, and a few smaller items and abandoned the rest.

We found a furniture store near the Grand Concourse run by two Italian brothers. It was next to a large busy fish store. Their terms encouraged us to buy more modern furnishings. We placed an order and when we exited we were surprised to see a large barrel of snails sitting out front. The snails in the hot sun were busy escaping and a few small kids would catch the errant wanderers and toss them back in the barrel. Much like those of us looking for a new direction, acted on by unseen events.

-----00000-----

I spoke to Mick two months later. He was back in North Carolina. He surprised me asking,

"Do you want to say hello to your cuz? She's sitting here next to me."

"Where's Sherry?"

"She's off for a week, what she don't know won't hurt her."

"Is my cuz wearing anything?"

"Don't ask. Not much."

"How are her tits looking?"

"Pretty damn good."

"Well, say hello for me. I don't want to disturb. Mick, you take care of her. Give her my best."

"Oh, I already will, already have, more than once."

"Sounds good. Bye.Talk to you soon."

-----00000-----

Margie and I continued on our merry way for the next few years. It seemed like our blissful passion would never change. I've seen what goes up, also comes down. What starts out as perfection eventually ends in chaos. I guess it was six months into the new year when Marge brought up a new twist after warming me up with one of her great blow jobs. When she came back from gargling in the bathroom, she said,

"Honey, I got to tell you sum-thin."

"Sure Margie, go for it."

"My husband told me last night that he just completed his 20 years at Rikers, and he wants to retire and move to Florida."

"Ok."

"You've said you wanted to marry me lots of times, so now I ask you, if you want to marry me, I ask for a divorce, and I stay here with you."

And at that moment, I hesitated. It was as if my mouth was filled with cotton. Before I could get a word out, she looked at me with an expression of disgust.

"Forget it. I quit."

And she was gone before I could respond.

I wanted to run after her, but there was a client seated in the waiting room. I couldn't run out the door. I composed myself, pushed back my tears, and dealt with the client. The elderly client had put her house up as security for a bail bondsman when her son was arrested on a drug trafficking charge. Now the son had failed to show up in court, and she was afraid she'd lose her house.

I called Marge several times on her mobile, but she'd blocked my number. I even drove out to her house with her paycheck, but I had to leave it with Gaston, who eyed me like a Mastiff waiting to eat from a bowl someone had hidden.

Two months later, I flew to Florida. I'd gotten her new address from the post girl who served her old neighborhood. I'd rented a car at the airport, and drove to her area. It was night time, and it took about a half hour to get there. The airport was filled with tourists. There were gaggles of prostitutes outside the poorer hotels near the airport, but I had no interest.

I stopped and got a coffee at an all night place on Collins Avenue. I rested a few hours in their parking lot until it was light. Then I drove to Margie's condo and waited in front of the Surfside complex. There were two lovely buildings with grand balconies where you could sit and look out at the sea.I imagined they were just settling in, maybe waiting to buy furniture. Did escrow close already?

I waited outside until I spotted Margarita leaving. Whatever the situation, I was ready to accede to whatever her wishes were. Before I could plead my case, she pushed me away, saying,

"It's too late, too late."

When I saw my plight was hopeless, I flew back to NYC that evening. I bought a bottle of Irish Whiskey, and just about finished it. I was hungover and sick to my stomach the next day.

My depression was severe. I realized I could not keep my legal practice going in my current state of mind. I made contact with an old classmate from Law School to help out. When I realized he was interested in taking over the practice, I gave him sweet terms, nothing down, and so much a month. The arrangement worked for both of us.

I applied for a job with the Metropolitan Transit office as a legal overseer of their internal affairs. The pay was good, and their retirement benefits suited me. I couldn't keep my legal practice in my present state of depression. My hesitation had cost me the love of my life and the sexual object of my desire. It was as if my cock had died. I had no sexual interest at all. I spent my evenings watching television and drinking.

-----00000-----

A year later, still in a funk. Desperate to improve my situation, I took a walk and noticed a Latin Nightclub. On a whim I went in. I was sitting on a barstool watching the show when a beautiful Brazilian girl sat down at the bar next to me. She looked like a young Sophia Loren. I didn't hesitate to talk to her. I began to feel alive.

We talked and drank and became friendly. When the club was about to close I offered to drive her home. We made love that very same night. It wasn't until the third time we made love when I worried about my performance. No matter what foreplay I performed, she didn't seem to climax. That was when she explained to me that she was a sex change, that is to say, she had undergone gender reassignment surgery.

The beauty's name was 'Gloria.' She was sweet, gorgeous, and a bit high maintenance. I took her shopping and when she could not decide which pair of $800 boots she wanted, I bought her both. If we went out for dinner, it was always first class. This girl never heard of fast food. Still, despite her high cost we had a lot of fun together. I figured I'd ride this horse until I fell off. She spoke English quite well, Portuguese and Italian, and was smart "as a fucking whip," as Mick observed after we'd gone out for dinner together, "but she ain't no Velma."

She showed me how to get her off, and it wasn't difficult, sort of like jerking off a guy in tight trousers, but what the hell. I was now able to pleasure her. After a week of great sex, she apologized for the look of her vagina. I didn't see anything wrong with it. It was not yet perfect, Gloria said. She was scheduled for a retouch in six months. She explained that the touchup was performed six months after the surgery. I flew out to Colorado to accompany her to where they did her transformation. I met the famous Doc, and as soon as her vagina was healed, we fucked that same night.

"We gotta try it out, honey," she'd insisted.

When it came to dressing, Gloria was stylish and immaculate. Physically her hair, tits, and ass were fantastic. When it came to sexual endurance and an enthusiastic partner. She could go all night.

Her pussy was now a work of art and she was available for vaginal or anal at any moment. Women have their sexual down cycles, but her level of sexual interest was more like a man, ready to go at the drop of a hatpin. When you undergo all that painful surgery to become a girl, you get very girly. Sex is an affirmation of your identity and proof of how much you are desired.

Life is ever-changing. We find new things that divert us when we least expect them. Gloria moved in with me. I got her a new cell phone with a new number. I couldn't take the constant ringing from her exes or old clients. I never questioned her on that. Everybody has to earn a living. Of course, I knew she'd had another life before me, but we all do, but Gloria was ready to settle down. I had learned what a moment of hesitation can cost and it was not going to happen again.

-----00000-----

Mick was back in town. We wanted to touch bases again and we met one afternoon at Spillane's Bar. Joe was working but at his side was a younger guy, probably being groomed to take over. Joe was still robust for a man of advanced age. When asked how he felt, he said,

"Yeah, I keep getting older, but I feel good and everything still works."

Sure he had a belly that had swelled with years of beer drinking. There was always a half-filled glass of suds next to the cash register that rang, "No Sale." Still, I'd seen him pick up a heavy keg of beer and raise up to his shoulders as he substituted a new keg for an empty one.

I recalled Joe's behavior, years back at Mick's impromptu late-night orgies, with a black ho, taking his time as he penetrated her from behind. You needed a long dick to pass between these shapely girl's legs and big asses and still hit the target. I'd seen the look of satisfaction on the faces of women who relished his penetration. One even remarked,

"You fill me up like a nigga. You sure you is white?"

But it wasn't all animal sex. I saw how Joe would hold them in his arms and talk to them when they were done making love. I'd seen the same women come into the bar to ask advice or a free drink, offering unclaimed blow jobs to square the tab and leaving with Joe's ten-dollar bill in their hand to ease their way.

A few months later, Mick and I took off the day and ended up fishing in a small rented boat out in the Long Island Sound, I'd asked Mick a few questions about Joe. Mick had been drinking beer from the ice cooler for a few hours. Perhaps that made him more loquacious. The sea was tranquil, the sun was warm, we were wearing baseball caps. A faint breeze flickered on and off. Between scant fish bites, Mick told me the following story

"I first got to know Joe when he worked for a restaurant over on 8th and 60th. It ain't there no more."

"The bar had two wooden swinging doors like you'd see in the cowboy movies. The place was filled with paintings of the old west; tumbleweeds, cactus, wild mustangs. There were even scenes of western shootouts; the Earp brothers and the Clancies at OK Corral. The artist was the owner's wife. She had done well with the landscapes, but the gunfighters looked more like local hoodlums than cowpokes-- that may not have been an accident. She was often sketching customers on a white paper pad with a charcoal pencil."

"A fire in the 1950s destroyed the business. It never reopened. Some said it was a mob hit to collect the insurance on the place. The owner was an Armenian with a penchant for sports gambling. His wife was a Greek, a dark-haired beauty. She'd sit in a corner. People would come in just to stare at her."

Mick continued, "It was late at night, the restaurant was closed but the bar remained open. I came in with 'Perky Allen,' a kid I grew up with. Joe, who had us by at least fifteen years or twenty years asked,

"You's old enough to drink?

Back then, you had to be twenty-one. Perky was a bit of a snot, and rather than lie, he stood his ground."

"Do I look like I'm twenty-one? I'm enlisted in the Marines. I'm shipping out in a week so give me a fucken beer."

"Sure, kid," and Joe set two beers on the bar, "No charge, kids." So that's where I got to know Joe.

"A few days later I saw Perky off at the induction center on White Hall Street. He joined a bunch of young guys and the bus took him, God knows where. When I never saw him again, I asked his Mom how he was doing. She said he was killed at Iwo Jima. The tears started rolling down my face. The old gal smelling of boiled cabbage and potatoes took me in her arms, saying,

"Patrick was a good boy. He deserved better."

At that time, I worked for a cartoon comic book company, writing summaries and different stories to be printed in the comic, usually on the last page. For a comic book to meet the Postal requirements, it had to have a certain number of words. So I got a five-spot for each treatment. I wasn't making big money, but I'd slip the old lady a few bucks whenever I saw her.

"Oh thankee, God bless ya," she'd say in her Irish brogue."

"No need, Perky was my buddy. May he rest in peace. How is Alice doing, Mrs. Allen?"

Alice was Perky's sister, one of the first girls I knew who let me play with her tits. I always wanted to fuck her, but she was saving her virginity for an eventual husband. But, I gotta say, she was generous with the hand jobs. I eventually got to see her and her big boobs pushing a baby carriage in the old neighborhood."

"Alice married young. Once the war was on, the older guys had their pick of the young chicks. Their competition was being slaughtered in the jungles and on the battlefields. Fred Turner, a fireman whose wife had died, leaving him with two young kids, married Alice. I'm sure he didn't have to go to sleep horny. She was very talented. when it came to milking cocks."

Mick, "you mentioned Rockefeller. What's that story, he died fucking some young bitch he was shacked up with?"

Mick took a drought of beer and said, "Yeah, that was a ripe cunt named Megan. I met her years later when she was working for WCBS, and they called me over to the studio to do an interview. I knew who she was because I got this gift. I remember faces and names. Right off the bat,"