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Prickly Pairs


Author's note: The following incidents are probably mostly fictional. All sexual participants are aged 18+. Views expressed are not necessarily the author's, who knows nothing about brazing. Your constructive comments are welcome. This is an entry in the 2014 Summer Lovin' contest. If you like this, join the 1%ers and VOTE!


A prickly pear cactus has nothing on these couples!

***** (Sunday evening) *****

"You really think your new Sequoia can handle gnarly roads? That sucker is pretty damn big." I took another sip of my Stan's Wicked Ale, and continued.

"Sure, you need the legroom under the steering wheel; you're such a string bean. But I don't know, Ted; I'd never take anything like that up the Turkey Track. I barely made it up there in my old Land Bruiser, and it only weighs about half as much."

Toxic late afternoon sunlight oozed through the smogberry trees -- just another early-summer day in the Los Angeles basin in the first year of the twenty-first century.

I lay back in my chaise beside Ted's. We watched our bikini-enhanced wives float in Ted and Alice's backyard pool. For once, they were not verbally clawing each other. Smoggy mountains loomed over our Pasadena neighborhood.

"Hey, they told me it would go fucking anywhere, and that's where I'm gonna take it." Ted quaffed his Tooth's Sheaf Malt and belched. "Yeah, I'm ready for the Turkey Track, I don't care about those horror stories. More power!!"

The worst road in Anza-Borrego Desert State Park, between San Diego and the Salton Sea, has multiple ascents in the outline of a bird's foot -- thus the name, Turkey Track. The best of those steep nightmare routes features huge holes and sheer drop-offs. Often, crawling slowly upward, only three wheels are actually touching the ground. My wary wife refuses to ride over those voids. She gets out and waits for me to slide to my doom. Has not happened. Yet.

"Look, Anza-Borrego just isn't a good place for a test run. I know for shit-sure you'd never make it through Fat Man's Misery. Even a Suzuki Samurai needs to be greased-up good to slide through that narrow gap in the rocks." I took another sip of the Wicked Ale and hoped he would at least consider that nugget of logic.

Ted unsnapped a fresh Tooth's Sheaf and inhaled a slurp. "Okay, smart-ass, where do YOU think we should go over the Memorial Day weekend? And don't tell me we can spin up to Angeles Crest. That's a pussy run, and it's always jammed with pussy Jeeps, and Samurais, and Troopers."

Ted's wife Alice, my esteemed cow-orker and a helluva circuitry engineer, lazily drifted toward us. "If you have pussy problems, Teddy baby, it's your own damn fault." She sent a nice, pale, freckled smile my way, then licked her lips suggestively.

My naturally tan wife Carol floated in our direction too. "Hey, you've got to give him a break, Alice baby; he's a man, y'know? Thinks motors are macho. Even the funny ones like what you guys work on." She turned and leered at Ted and then faced me. "So tell us, Bobby; what test track do you suggest? Some place not too boring for the holiday, right?"

I had thought a little about how to placate Ted.

"I know just the place. Out east of Palm Springs are some great mine trails up into the Chuckwalla Mountains. They're rough enough for a good challenge, but they probably won't kill us." I had another sip of beer. "Lots of the area is official BLM wilderness, but we can use existing roads and some of the dry washes."

"Out in the Chuckwallas? That sounds pretty good," Alice said.

"Yeah, that's pretty spectacular out there," Carol agreed.

What, an agreement between these two!? A miracle!

Two couples around a pool: We are Bob and Carol. They are Ted and Alice.

We are friends and neighbors here in Pasadena. Alice and I work together. We all caravan in our 4x4's together. Our kids play together, go to school together, and, on this already-sultry Sunday, are all cavorting together a dozen miles away at Carol's folk's place in Burbank, yeah, The Valley. We are raising a fresh crop of Valley Girls, ValGals. Grody to the max, dewd.

Are we all "best friends"? Not really; only close associates with shared interests, like their pool. We mostly got along well together. Good thing, too. Breaking-in new buds is tough work. If only Carol was not so bossy, and Ted not so flaky...

Meanwhile, we adults had this afternoon and evening to ourselves. Not a lot of privacy in this suburban tract. The homeowners association does not allow tall fences. No skinny-dipping till after dark -- and even then, we have to always keep a wary eye out for nosy neighbors. Damned prudes.

So we passed the time prudently, lounging and joking and flirting, getting a bit drunk, bullshitting, sketching out plans and fantasies. Ted and I hassled over plotting our excursion. I am not sure what the ladies planned, other than riding along, and looking good, and sniping at each other whenever the opportunity arose. Just the usual.

We planned a four-days-plus Memorial Day break together. Would it be fun?

Ted dumped his 4x4 ForeRunner for that new Sequoia last week and he was HOT to "put it through its paces," as if he even knew what that meant.

I mean, Ted was an okay (if lazy) real estate broker, but as a backroads scrambler, he suffers from delusions of adequacy. Truth was, Angeles Crest would have been the best bet for him. But NO WAY would his ego allow even entertaining that thought. At least he still remembered his First Aid stuff from his long-ago Army service, so he is not a total drone on our outings.

With our poolside alcohol-fueled interactions came a bit of bickering. Who brings what and how much; who was responsible for which foods and supplies; and the eternal personality clashes. I am focused and Ted is relaxed and lax. Carol dominates and Alice does not take any shit.

"I don't take orders from you, Carol! Save that for your peons!" Alice fumed. Carol just naturally took command whenever she could. That is the cause, not the effect, of running her own media marketing agency.

And it was a result of her heritage. Carolina Carrillo Ortega is the scion of a leading old-line Spanish family, in California since before it was Mexican. Father Serra founded the California missions in the late 1700's. Carol's caballero forbears were with him. Those hidalgo families cultivate arrogance.

It does not help, humility-wise, that Carol's folks were Hollywood studio execs, and she was raised as a privileged Valley Girl herself. She exploits her tight old ValGal clique ruthlessly in her business. She sure knows how to play the networking game.

I love her to death, but she makes me nuts sometimes. Makes everyone else nuts, too, pro or con. Guys (and some gals) go nuts for her lovely body... until she starts giving orders. Do NOT cross her!

My own lineage is almost as lofty. I am Roberto Pico Ortega, and my family used to own much of what is now greater Los Angeles, before all the Spanish and Mexican properties were stolen by Gringos. Oh well; that is history. I will not be a lizard who brags his grandfather was a T.Rex.

"Okay, it's officially dark now. Suits off!" Carol called, always eager to show off her toned wheat-tan body at the slightest excuse. Alice glared a little, but her small bits of swimwear hit the deck immediately after. I stole more than a glance at Alice's freckled full chest, capped with large, pink nipples standing tall in the evening breeze. And her ruddy bush; she was a natural redhead.

My and Ted's trunks quickly followed the girls' bikinis; we lounged back again. Alice sat sidesaddle on her husband's pale lap while Carol straddled my chaise and my hips.

Carol locked my eyes to hers. "So Bobby, will we do some more swimming now, or will you just pump some more swimmers into me?"

"What, again?" I joked, and pulled her lips to me. ALL her lips. Our oral lips engaged. Her nether lips kissed my stiffening cock with tantalizing ease and sensuous promise.

"Yes, again. But first you need to get WET!" Carol's executive voice brooked no argument. She hopped up, grabbed my hand, and dragged me into the pool. We splashed-in gracelessly. Ted laughed -- until Alice jiu-jitsu'd and submerged him. All she needed was leverage.

Darkness made the pool safe for grab-ass games. I was pushed aside while Ted and Alice tickled Carol. I moved back in and gave Alice's butt a friendly grope. I expected Ted was similarly fondling Carol. This was about as far as our transgressive interactions went, even if the girls had been chugging chardonnay. Well, maybe a little 'inadvertent' nipple-pinching, too. But no cheating, nope.

We dragged our soggy selves out of the water, drip-drying on our chaises.

Carol slid right on top of me, sat up, and slid my attentive erection into her well-lubed cavern with forthright grace. Ahhh... I glanced over to see Alice similarly situating herself atop Ted. Carol moaned, "Giddyup!" and both ladies started cowgirl riding, the pace increasing from a walk, to a canter, to a gallop. Yay-hoo!!

As a horse race, Carol won, cumming both first and second -- but Alice's third-place finish seemed to last almost forever. Damn, that woman could moan! Both Ted and I each pulled our woman's mouth to our own to stifle their wailing. We do not want to scare the neighbors.

The women also made fourth- and fifth- and sixth-place showings, almost as loud and long. I did not keep track of where Ted and I finished in the proceedings, but we both won, heh heh.

We rested a bit. That means, the women collapsed on top of their men and everybody wheezed. Damn smog...

Carol's big fine boobs squished into my chest very nicely. Her tongue did wonderful things inside my mouth. I softened and slipped out of her. We clutched each other, and kissed, and whispered.

I glanced at the nearby chaise. Alice had rolled off Ted and knelt beside him, a towel under her knees, her wiggling bouncy butt aimed toward us, busily blowing his wet wick.

Hyper-competitive Carol saw this also. "We can do better," she announced, and moved around into a 69 on top of me. I tasted my cum mixed lasciviously with her juices and our sweat. Very tangy, yes, a rich organic flavor -- nectar of the gods!

Alice apparently revived Ted sufficiently for more action. Even with Carol's thighs pressed against my ears, I heard them switch around and move into missionary position. I visualized Alice wrapping her long pale legs around Ted's back and pulling him into her. I knew he was pounding into her.

But I did not allow the visualization to distract my attention from what Carol and I did to each other. My cock was stiffening again, and her clit already protruded like a Teflon eraser; I carefully slurped her. I felt my wife groaning as she sucked me.

Ted and I were no longer young kids. No instant rejuvenation, only long, determined effort before we guys could cum again. Not that the women minded, of course. The longer our efforts, the longer their orgasms.

An alarm bell dinged. It was time to get dressed and go pick up the kids. Damn.

***** (Monday morning) *****

Another work week began. Alice and I shared our short but tedious commute to LunaDyne, a small aerospace firm not far from CalTech and NASA-JPL. My Beemer hummed along the I-210 freeway at a lofty ten miles per hour, with bursts of fifteen in the fast stretches. Fuck, I hate Monday mornings.

I am an adept Hot Guy at LunaDyne -- I design jet and rocket exhausts. Alice is a super-duper Gizmo Gal, designing and breadboarding electronic control system prototypes. She is a brilliant tech, and a lovely curvy redhead, and a great camper, but her hot temper and abbreviated social skills leave a bit to be desired. She is not smarmy enough to be management.

[We have a techie truism:

Those who can, engineer.

Those who cannot engineer, manage.

Those who cannot manage, manage engineers.
I hear this is true in other technical fields also.]

Alice and I are next-door neighbors. We work together. We lunch together. We commute together. We skinny-dip together, and play with our mates. We do not screw around together -- no affair here. We do not talk about poolside sex. I mean, we were both there, so why bother?

Our commute chats covered work, what our respective teams are doing; the usual political-religious-social-economic-cultural crap, how humanity is fucking itself over; and our four-wheel trips, past and future. Nice safe subjects.

"Are you ready for the start of summer?" Alice sipped her mocha and glared at the gridlock. "And do you really think Ted's ready for a tough drive?"

"In Anza-Borrocho? No fucking way." (We jokingly called Anza-Borrego park Anza-Borrocho. Borracho is Spanish for 'drunk'.) "But out in the Chuckwallas? Yeah, the roads I'm thinking of look rough but are in much better shape. They should be able to take the Sequoia's weight."

"Ted's been ranting for months about upgrading from our old Forerunner to a new toy. And now he's got that big Sequoia, bought it with MY money, and he's just nuts to try it out -- yeah, try it out, and try himself out. It's like back-country driving is important to his manhood, like it validates him. But he's just not outdoorsy, not really." She took another sip of mocha.

Alice and I both had scouting experience when we were young. We possessed survival and make-do skills. We were engineers, godammit; we built things. Carol and Ted were lifelong privileged urban-dwellers. They seemed to share a motto: Let somebody else do it. That is why they ran their own offices and delegated the shit work.

"I ain't really a cowboy, I just bought the hat," I sang. "Ted runs on rough roads to prove he's a rough guy. To do that, he needs a rough truck, so that's what he buys. But it's not enough." I sang again, a very different song: "But he ain't got cow-boy lips..."

Alice snickered. "Yeah, well you have those caballero lips, same thing, but look where they've got you?" She pouted at me.

"Where they've got me is a life with my Carolina, the girl of my dreams," I laughed. "Not too bad, huh?"

Now Alice sighed. "Give me a break! I know she's got a great body, but how can you put up with that bossy bitch? Thinks she's commander-in-chief of greater fucking Pasadena! Always telling me..."

"Calm down. Take a deep breath. Hold it. Exhale. Hold. Inhale. Hold. Yeah, just like that..."

"Oh, fuck you, buddy," she deadpanned. "I only have to put up with her every now and then. You get her ALL the time!"

"I'm not complaining." I poked the A/C up a degree; the day was heating. "Hey, do I ride you about your annoying do-nothing husband?"

Ted's name was on his realty agency, but he did little if any visible work there. He was officially the 'broker' but his staff kept the office going while he played golf or squash with clients (real or potential) or otherwise performed "important management duties". Right.

"Yeah, well," Alice admitted, "Ted does have a rather easy lifestyle... but he's really good with the kids, has plenty of time for them, and errands. And maybe he's a little insecure since I'm the primary breadwinner. You men have such fragile egos."

"Yeah, well, right," I said. "I call truce. How's that XJ-9E project going?"

We drifted back into the safe territory of shop talk.

***** (The week) *****

I doubt any of us did much actual employment-type work that early-summer week before Memorial Day 2001. Oh sure, we worked hard, but mostly at figuring and implementing the logistics of our trip. Alice and I ginned-up gear lists and sent our mates out to shop for the necessities. More likely, they sent their drudges to do the actual procurement. That is what drudges are for, right?

Our kids tried to ignore us, as usual, but we put them to work, too.

"I'll run through the checklist one more time, Dolly. Start at the..."

"Why do *I* gotta do this?" my younger daughter Dolores whined. "I gotta do my homework..."

"That's right, and you'll get to it right after we're done here." I sometimes think my daughters are socially retarded. They have not yet learned how to manipulate their parents. What is wrong with kids today?

"But you always make me do everything", my little drama queen sniveled. "Why can't Rosy do this?"

"Because Rosalita is busy helping your mom with her checklist. We're equal opportunity oppressors, you know. Now quit complaining and start with the camp gear. Tent."

"I don't care about your stupid..."

"TENT!" I said firmly. "Check the tent. The sooner we finish here, the sooner you can do homework and watch TV and play games and call your friends -- sure, you can whine to them about how much we abuse you. But, first things first. TENT!"

"Okay, okay... yeah, it's the Sierra Designs thing, the one that smells like moldy nylon shi... I mean, crud."

"Language! Okay, how about the poles, stakes, rain fly, and ground cloth?"

"Yeah, yeah, they're all here, all that crud... okay, there's a dozen metal stakes, and none of the poles look bent, and..."

And on and on it went, item by item. We checked the camp gear, tools, and spare parts and necessities for the Land Cruiser. Carol and Rosy were likely doing the same with cooking gear, medical kit, clothes, and consumables. I double-checked the maps and electronics myself.

Alice was as meticulous as I and no doubt had her own kids, Susanna and Keri, running the same routine, except that daddy Ted would not be much help. Oh sure, he would pretend to check over all the features of his new 4x4, but he avoided actual hands-on work or worry. Let someone else do it.

Some decisions were easy. The kids would stay with Carol's folks again, taking the pets with them -- no dogs, cats, ferrets, or iguanas on this trip. Each couple took tenting and sleeping gear, folding table and chairs, food and plenty of water and extra gas, various tools, and handheld VHF radios as backup for cell phones. Cell and GPS would be spotty in steep, narrow arroyos, and radio time was free, while the cell time was not.

Non-perishables were listed and loaded as we finished the check-offs. Careful organization, engineer-style -- that is how to make adventure survivable. Pay attention to reality.

Ah, reality. Just what IS reality?

REALITY IS A CRUTCH -- The old hippie definition. Who needs reality when you have a good fantasy?

REALITY IS A CLUTCH -- A friend has an ancient panel truck with a flaky transmission; this message is emblazoned on his dashboard.

REALITY IS WHAT REMAINS AFTER YOU STOP BELIEVING IN IT -- That should be rather obvious. Does gravity go away if you disbelieve in gravity?

REALITY IS WHATEVER BITES YOUR ASS -- If it affects you, it is real. Otherwise, why worry about it?
I always go with the BITES YOUR ASS definition when planning off-road excursions, same as when building turbines and exhaust systems. Injury and death certainly bite one's ass.

The checking and packing went slow and easy over a couple days and evenings. We were loaded, fueled, and ready by Thursday night.

***** (Friday) *****

We all arranged for half-days (or less) on Friday, to get an early start. Stroll into our offices; shuffle our papers; grab a fast lunch; leave. That was super easy for Carol and Ted, who had only to give orders to make it so. Alice and I were stars at LunaDyne so we had no problems either. We easily opened our door into summer.

Our little caravan hit the road just after noon, following the usual banal inter-domestic squabbles. Ted and Carol both deserve to have PITA tattooed on their foreheads. Pain-In-The-Ass-r-Us, for sure.

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