Jason Forbes
Lust in the Woods
I
The next time you kiss a twat, give a thought to me. I just got through lapping a muff juicier than any you've ever laid eyes on, buddy.
Jealous? Don't think it was easy. I don't mean the lapping. I mean meeting up with it. I had to drag my ass clear across the country. And suffer and suffer before I got my lips planted on it. Was it worth all the trouble? You tell me, after you've heard the whole dirty story.
It began with a leak. Not plumbing.
If you hafta take a mean piss, believe me, you're better off in the city. Out in the sticks, a guy never knows what'll happen. Honest! Like, for example, the time I unloaded in Mercer County, Iowa.
I can hear you ask the question. “What was a sophisticated stud like you doing in Mercer County, Iowa?” That's a tale too long to put between covers. Besides, my Parole Board would raise its fucking eyebrows. So we'll omit details that tend to incriminate me. I'll describe only the legal tidbits. If fucking and sucking and hailing and reaming are illegal, I'm giving up my goddamned citizenship!
There I was in this cornfield-or maybe it was a wheatfield. I can't distinguish one frigging blade of grass from another. The field stretched in every damned direction. The nearest town lay four miles behind me. My night's lodging could be under the next tree that hit my fancy. Long hours till nighttime. Long hours since I'd stowed that beer under my belly. Time to get rid of it.
Not a soul in sight. Since I had a natural sense of delicacy, I sought cover. A clump of bushes. Pissing in the middle of a field smacks of exhibitionism, whatever the fuck that means. I found the bushes. I faced them, unzippered, and pulled out my whacker. I directed the stream where it would do the most good-somewhere between the roots and the leaves. It had been a long, dry summer.
“Ma, there's a naked man making wee-wee.”
The unseen Mistress of Ceremonies was a fucking liar. I had my pants on. Chinos, shirt, and sneakers. The childish voice had come from the other side of the bushes. I tried to peer through, but couldn't see much. The stream zigzagged, dried up. I rezippered. Just as I turned away, I realized I had a companion.
She was too young, except for the most dedicated pervert. Not more than five, at the outside. A plump little girl with shining blonde hair, barefoot-wearing grubby calico. She looked up at me with wide eyes as if she'd never seen a 6-foot stranger. Before she could interrogate me on my urinary habits, or my country of origin, a voice called.