Still Trying To Understand Whoring

Just a whimsical quickie for the few who appreciated my last oxymoronic non sequitur...

(All fiction. Never knew anyone like these characters. All countries described are fictional. Surely you can't believe a constitutional republic called the United States of America ever existed. No one with flickering intelligence would bother imagining the extant 21st Century London. All sex objects are at least 18, even the whore pretending to be an intern. Perhaps this is better described as a paean to routed, rattled and reeling white men wherever they are. Never let them sine die you, Dr. Savage.)

PROLOGUE

NO JURISDICTION,

RULED JUDGE JEANINE

Judges are not supposed to be called cute.

Most 21st Century judges would hold such an admirer in contempt. Having inferential carnal knowledge of a judge must violate some law.

As she dismissed my murder case, however, Judge Jeanine was celestially beautiful. Understandably, all of the government lawyers, FBI agents and CIA spooks disagreed.

Without a doubt, I owed her my heart felt apologies. I had maligned her when I had stuck pins in her feminist image before the opening day of my murder trial.

Within five minutes of the "Hear, Ye, Hear Ye," Judge Jeanine had dismissed my case.

If I had heard the judge with any degree of auditory efficiency, I had just gotten away with alleged multiple murders. At least in the eyes of eight angry prosecutors and 69 FBI agents, I had committed deeds of savagery only a conservative senator could conceive.

These bitter haters of conservative senators had charged me with a toilet full of heinous crimes. In the words of their indictments, I had brutally murdered three Americans, including my wife and sister, and attempted to murder a moon rocket full of foreign nationals who were fecunding my wife and sister.

Only one problem plagued their case. My alleged crimes had been committed in a dense jungle somewhere in a region encompassing Nigeria and seven other African countries.

"What were these white people doing in a jungle clearing in darkest Africa?" the Judge had asked rhetorically before reading her astounding, unanticipated decision.

Then, too, the fevered officers of the court had no corpus delicti, no witnesses and no confession. They also had a sensory deficit when it came to any sense of humor.

But Judge Jeanine sparkled as she rapped her gavel in her courtroom not too far from the Jefferson Memorial. She most certainly was snickering.

Apparently she had reviewed some of the more titillating features of my deposition. My pulling the wings off some important people on The Hill must have interested her.

"I have no jurisdiction in Nigeria or Chad or Moondanistan," Judge Jeanine had ruled. "And the prosecutors can't even be sure when or where the murders were committed or where the defendant was when the murders were committed."

Now, for the rest of the story...

*****

OF "CAPTAIN WIMPY'S BONG

AND THE QUEENS OF COMMERCE

"Captain Wimpy" Sixuus was soaring above San Francisco Bay again. Sucking increments of hemp induced psychoses from his office bong usually began much later in the day.

Wimpy had failed to take Dr. Morgan Bancroft's calls, triggering a crisis for his personal assistant. Niger Bantu furiously massaged Wimpy's arms and legs and dunked his head in ice water.

Keeping the diminutive gangster's lawyer sufficiently cogent to talk to hired facilitators like Dr. Morgan Bancroft was the PA's only reason for being. Wimpy, however, drifted in rainbow contentment.

"His blood pressure dropped, Morgan, and a can't get the bong tube from between his teeth," howled Niger Bantu. "He's dead for sure this time, rigor mortised for sure."

Niger's cell phone dropped into the ice bucket. She swore in Swahili as she fished it out of the crushed ice. Essentially, she screamed that she was going back school to get her PA certification.

"There's no such thing as a Prostitute's Assistant, Niger," Dr. Morgan Bancroft sighed in abject incredulity. "Niger! Is your phone still working?"

Tears of frustration streamed down Niger's ebony cheeks. She had begun to pummel Wimpy's torso mercilessly with her fists.

"I'll mutilate this little creep if he dies," she hissed. "I need this job 'til I can buy a ticket to go back to Portland."

"Your little creep is not dead, Niger," Morgan Bancroft said wearily. "Can you see his balls?"

"They right here on the edge of his chair in plain sight," responded Niger, sniffling and wiping her nose on her sleeve. "So what?"

"Stomp his balls!" Dr. Morgan Bancroft rasped.

Wimpy screamed.

Knowing Dr. Morgan Bancroft, banker extraordinaire, is to never forget her.

Incredible in the extreme, this magnificent specimen of 21st Century feminine pragmatism had called Wimpy Sixuus from the bedroom of her company provided Gulfstream 650. As the sleek craft touched down at Dubai's Al Maktoum Airport, she howled in the throes of "la petite mort."

"La petite mort?" Yes! I am told that French women actually die for an interval of time when orgasming, so potent are French men. Yes! "La petite mort!"

At least that is what Khan, the Arab Stud with the Oxford degree, called the orgasmic culmination of his fervidly executed coitus. In a deposition, he said that his sexual prowess always produced "an unconscious ecstasy only comparable to a small moment of death."

Determined as she might be, Morgan had found that she could not talk business and orgasm at the same time. Obviously my wife had not achieved Super Woman perfection, but she was working on it.

For the moment, Morgan's cell phone connection with Niger Bantu and the Golden Gate gangster's lawyer had been lost.

In the process of orgasming as the Gulfstream 650 touched down at Dubai, Morgan involuntarily had flung her cell phone into the aircraft's salon, striking her sister-in-law upside the head. Connie, my sister, had become my wife's companion, confidante and alter ego.

Connie had been concentrating on applying her makeup while chatting with Dr. Helga Seinfeld, a sublevel minister in the German Ministry of Economic Influence who traveled with Khan.

Both Connie and Helga dropped to the deck defensively aafter the cell phone missile slammed Connie upside the head. As if by magic, ugly pistols had materialized in the fists of both women.

Oh! To be sure, Connie did much more than write checks and make restaurant and theater reservations. Her whore accounts bulged with verification of her virtuoso status.

My point in this descriptive foray lay in the fact that my wife and her protégé-assistant, my sister Connie, were whore bankers without borders. Attending their business on The Pacific Rim while 8000 miles away had posed no logistical problem.

Multitasking on their backs at midnight in the land of The Arabian Nights while taking care of business with The Wimp back at Baghdad by The Bay had become mundane. It twisted my mind to realize that during their hours serving nature's Eros on the tarmac, they would secure a variety of venture capital commitments totaling at least $200 million.

My point? Just this! Pussy power in the 21st Century has no boundaries or limitations, apparently.

While orgasming at touchdown on a runway in North Africa, my wife, a Silicone Century perfecto pussy, interacted by the miracle of the cell with a weasel lawyer in San Francisco who fronted for billionaires. My wife, Dr. Morgan Bancroft, served as the vital action chip in cultivating and growing massive wealth.

Her title, vice president of global initiatives, so benign in the offing, could never convey the importance of the synergies of her brain, pussy and Silicon Valley soul. To many global merchandisers, my wife and sister were the essential reality catalysts. They made it possible for the media serfs to make the bizarre world of sexual calisthenics in a Jetstream bedroom imaginable for millions of sophomore whore trainees.

At any given tick of the grandfather's clock in my office, essentially 100,000 jobs and paychecks could hang precariously upon the effectiveness of a Morganesque orgasm. I would never buffoon about such a vital element in the survival of that which passed for civilization in the 21st Century.

In the estimation of global hedge fund marketeers, my wife and my sister had been sent by Zeus. Their ethereally pretentious conduct of orchestrated climaxes arguably would insure that the Empire of The Quim would continue.

"Bless the outrages of The Bloat" was sung orgasmically at the opening bell of hedge fund Chaos each morn. We dutifully must ding the glorious death dong over the bloody streets of Chicago and San Francisco. We must beat the drum slowly.

From my depreciative perspective, it didn't matter. So what if their sixty-million-pound flying-phallic-symbol had come to rest with soft graciousness on a foreign tarmac 5000 miles from my committee's hearing room in D.C.!

Distance did not make the difference in their Cyber Civilization. My wife and sister would survive as triple threats in the mechanistic universe of the 21st Century, come what may.

They were uncreated sexual atoms always quivering in whore mode.

As I began my narrative, I attempted from the outset to clarify my attitude toward Dr. Morgan Bancroft, my wife most of my adult life. To be sure, by my narrow definitions of core values, she was feces seeking a place to stink.

But I was absolutely certain that her love for me had never ceased. Not that it mattered since I had not seen her during the passage of the past four seasons.

Of course, my acknowledgement was not to say that my assessment of our marital calamity left any leverage for maintaining the marital fictions.

To be sure, I had floated in a stupor of soured resolve far too long. Something had to break, and it did.

There they were, my whore wife and whore sister, arriving in Dubai to tinker with the secret accounts of clients from around the world who had skimmed profits or misappropriated jointly owned assets. No denying it! Dubai had replaced Zurich as the "go to" city.

Up on the flight deck, securely partitioned from the cabin, Morgan's pilot logged midnight as his landing time. He told the co-pilot to be ready at 7 a.m. to fly out to Jakarta.

Frantically applying calming cream had failed to sooth Morgan's bruised, inflamed and pulsing vagina. My sister's standing in the doorway shrilling invective at her boss had not helped. Connie had hissed incredulously that Arab Stud's refusal to use condoms undoubtedly preordained Morgan's miserable death from AIDS. No, I do not believe my wife died of AIDS.

Arab Stud had arisen in compulsive anger in response to my sister's attack. Had he not become entangled in the bedding and fallen on the floor on his face, my sister undoubtedly would have suffered severe injuries.

Helga calmed the ferocities when she produced a one-week-old lab report from a London clinic declaring Arab Stud "free of any communicable diseases.

Morgan attempted to swing from the bed to wash her mouth with fresh Champaign; but Khan, the magic Arab Stud, heaved and twisted her into yet another unique position. She shrugged and rolled her eyes as Arab Stud efficiently began his eighth round of rabid three-hole pounding since their lift-off at Gatwick 12 hours earlier.

Helga answered her ring tone. She cringed and her eyes widened in panic.

"Khan, your uncle is here!" Helga gasped. "Get your Ali Baba's wand out of Morgan and put your pants on."

"Oh my lord!" Connie shrieked. "I forgot to tell you, Morgan, that his you know what was scheduled to be here as we landed."

"Damn! Damn! Damn," Morgan stammered as she ran to the toilet and began scrubbing her vital parts. "You probably just shot our $200 million deal in the butt, Connie."

Khan, the Arab Stud, dressed in a flash. Helga whispered nonstop near his ear as she read from business notes.

As he pulled on his Oxford blazer and straightened his tie, the Arab Stud's smug set of features had returned. Once more he was the swaggering force, the image of power for which he was born.

"Calm yourselves," the Arab Stud said, winking at Helga, who turned her face away to smile. "I shall meet the royal entourage as they disembark from their Limos and save the day for you."

"Send in the lawyers with the contracts first," Morgan commanded. "After we do business, we'll see what the party agenda holds."

Young Arab Stud spontaneously responded with a conditioned fury as he heard her peremptory inflection. With amazing reserve strength, however, he willed a wave of toleration for Morgan's violation of his genetic and statutory superiority.

Swallowing his pride for an hour or two as he humiliated the Empress of Whoredom would be fun. Helga nodded that she understood and would do nothing that would interfere.

"I will serve your best interests, dear one," Khan said, his voice soothing and conciliatory.

As Khan stepped down to the tarmac, he blew a kiss to Morgan; but he winked and curled his lip in an inscrutable smirk as he waved to Helga, who grinned and winked as if saluting."

In the distance, Connie and Morgan could see the glare of headlights of three vehicles approaching the aircraft. Their eyes revealed that, momentarily at least, they were disconcerted.

"There must be half a dozen or more getting out of those cars," mused Connie. "Their text message said it would be the big cheese himself."

What did Dr. Morgan Bancroft make of these developments? Morgan remained deep in thought as the occupants of the seven vehicles scrummed and moved toward the Gulfstream 650.

"I count nine," Connie said.

"I don't see you-know-who," Morgan said doubtfully.

"You won't see him," Morgan said. "He can't afford to be seen, but he'll be here."

Khan broke away from the group and preceded them to the plane's entry where Morgan, Connie and Helga stood watching. Khan breathlessly whispered that the dignitaries insisted that the party must precede the signing of the contracts and fund transfers.

"You have no choice if you want to consummate your transaction," Helga said, her voice stressed with empathy. "But nine will be of no significance for you two."

Just do it and get on with the business! Morgan signaled Connie that she would accept the inevitable.

"You must turn off the cabin lights," Khan the Arab Stud said, his voice low and conspiratorial.

Connie shrugged and flipped the light switch. Only the dim sleep mode remained to give working light.

"I don't like this change in the arrangements," Morgan said thoughtfully. Then she sighed and turned toward the bedroom, saying over her shoulder, "Let's get to it and get the money in the bank."

When the nine had gathered in the salon awaiting Morgan's and Connie's exquisite favors, Connie halted abruptly and raised her hand in a warning gesture.

"Let me see the contracts!" she demanded.

As one of the nine moved to a table in the salon and began unloading a briefcase, Connie exchanged knowing glances with Morgan and Helga. Morgan had become more chagrined as she admitted that she should have thought of checking the documents.

"I'm slipping," she muttered as she acknowledged Connie's signal that the documents were in order. She turned back to the bedroom waving a hand over her shoulder for the gang to follow.

"We'll do this in tag team times," Connie called to Morgan. "Less wear and tear."

Morgan would do two, and Connie would finish as Morgan initiated two more. Connie turned to Helga. Did Helga want a turn? Helga shook her head "no" as she turned to Khan and once more winked.

For the next three hours, the two-hundred-million-dollar bang raged like a pivotal battle, a decisively momentous event. All of the client participants made appreciative noises and praised Morgan and Connie religiously.

At length, just after 4 a.m., the last page of the contract was turned and signed. Connie had clutched the wire transfer orders for the funding throughout the arduous carnal negotiation.

Bowing and kissing their hands, the scrum of financiers returned to the cars. They waved and respectfully called to Connie and Morgan who stood in the doorway of the Gulfstream 650 seeing their clients off.

It was when the Limos had departed and Morgan turned back to Khan and Helga that she realized they had inveigled her. She calmed her impotent anger and fell into the cushioned seat of the salon's café booth. All present began to laugh as she thumbed through the pages of the venture capital agreement.

"Okay! Which one was you-know-who?" she asked tonelessly suppressing a giggle.

"Well!" the Arab Stud replied as he poured his Scotch. "My uncle couldn't make it this time, but you got what you came for."

"Who were they?" Connie demanded, beginning laugh uncontrollably. "Were they even lawyers?"

"Only one was a lawyer," Helga interjected. "The others were drivers and clerical assistants."

Young Arab Stud began to disrobe. Connie sighed wearily as she and Helga refreshed their derisive laughter.

"Oh no! Never," Morgan shouted as Arab Stud seized her wrist and dragged to the bedroom.

Supplemental introductions beg the question. After 12 years as a United States Senator, I remained simply "Stew," that is Stewart Dallas Bancroft. My hayseed demeanor was no pose.

Though I had earned a respectable law degree and cut a clean lean almost six-foot figure in a tux, I loved to whittle and whistle and run my coon dogs. They were magnificent primal creatures.

Come to think about it, the coon dogs' pure primitive instincts reminded me of Morgan. You could never decide if Morgan were a soiled work of art or simply an incredibly vile though interesting creature from a black lagoon.

Much to my dismay, as I have said, the Dr. Morgan Bancroft cell phoning Wimpy Sixuus that gray morning was my wife. As pre millennials were prone to say, she had been my lover and best friend for almost half of my 52 years.

Fortunately, my role in this morality school for grave diggers gained significance as a lateral and subordinate issue in my wife's incredibly busy life. I considered my being marginal in her life to be fortunate in light of what transpired.

My committee's oversight of an appropriation request for $100 million put me in the cross hairs. Apparently, the insidious global investors, people in my wife's orbit, somehow had plugged into the Somali relief package. Corruption rides supreme, you know, in obverse ratio to the effective strengths of the civilizing process.

Since my wife served the banking interests of the suspect cartels, she had a vital interest in my committee's decision. To be sure, this had become a moment of truth, or perhaps more accurately the breaking point. Perception told me we would move off high center in our stalled marriage.

Morgan was a specialist in "International Affairs." This was just one of her many majors and academic certifications. Peripatetic venture capitalist bankers wore many hats.

"International Affairs" as an academic major in the 21st Century boiled down to one not so academic question, "Who is sodomizing whom and whose money does the butt plugger want to steal?" It was as simple as that.

Unfortunately, it was my time to chair the committee with oversight of the humanitarian aid to strife ridden Somalia. If only I could have swallowed my anachronistic aversion to corruption. All would have been well, and I ostensibly would have been very rich and even more incredibly sexually satiated.

ONCE MORE CALLING

SAN FRANCISO

AND LAWYER WIMPY

Almost six hours had passed since Dr. Morgan Bancroft had made her aborted call to the San Francisco gangster's lawyer. She must try again. It was of critical importance that she report the results of her efforts to fund his associates' Mexico ventures.