Travels of My Aunt

Years ago I would receive occasional emails form my Aunt Betta Dudoit. I don’t believe we were even remotely related but I looked forward to tales of Aunt Betta’s exploits with and without her husband, Footsie. I recently found I still had some of those missives saved on an old computer and I share one of them here. 

My dearest one,

Why is it that Betta takes a holiday and all hell breaks loose?
Wars break out, terror plots are unveiled, David Beckham is “let go”…. Must Betta always keep the world spinning?
Betta cannot always be there making things “betta”! Ha! See what I did there? But Time away was needed and my darling Footsie and I made the best of it. The Algarve shall never be the same.

Footsie and I always try to get away at least seven times a year to rebuild, refresh, and reconnect. Life can be so tiresome don’t you agree?

Happily this midsummer foray was relaxing and uneventful. Not at all like the year we took advice from a shady acquaintance and actually ventured forth to spend a week on the shores of North Carolina’s outer banks.
North Carolina! Can you imagine?

What could we possibly have been thinking? There is a reason God invented passports and not to use them is a sin. North Carolina is home to all sorts of pests and vermin and in no time our relaxation was ruined when Footsie was attacked by chiggers!

He suffered terribly from those vile beasts, but Betta suffered too!
“Darling”, I would say, “don’t scratch at the chiggers!” It was so tiresome.
His scratching was bad enough, but it was the eventual oozing that really was too, too much to bear.

Of course these chiggers were nothing compared to the conger eel fiasco of ’95.
I’m sure you’ve heard the story for it is legend. Betta is on shore enjoying yet another coating of Bain de Soliel when suddenly Footsie pops out of the surf screaming, “Conger! Conger!”, at the top of his lungs.
Can you imagine?
What was Betta to think? Why should Betta think this is a call for help? Being wild for the dance as he is, Betta naturally assumed he called for a dance! Conga! Conga!
It was only about 20 minutes later, as the impromptu conga line twisted its way past Footsie’s contorted body in the sand that Betta realized something might be wrong. After all Footsie had called for the conga and it was only polite to join in, but there my Footsie lay.
Later that evening as the doctor explained that it was the worst conger eel attack he had ever seen, Betta did begin to feel somewhat sheepish.
The one positive side to all of this is that some of the infections from the chigger bites did seem to bring back feeling to those places that had lost it to the conger attack.
Kind of like that man who goes blind when he gets hit on the head and then years later regains his sight by being conked on the noggin again.

There is always a silver lining, yes?

Be well my love we’ll talk soon,

Betta

The Implication

The darkness was like a blanket that provided no warmth. The alley stunk of rotting garbage and human waste. There was no cleansing from the recent rain. Wetting things down only served to magnify everything bad about the place.

How can there be sand? It feels like sand. Footsteps shouldn’t grind.

This better be quick.

What am I saying? It is always too quick. If I could make it last I wouldn’t be here.

Is he even still with me?

You’d be surprised how many don’t have second thoughts. They left their perfectly normal, warm life and find themselves at the mouth of a piss stinking, rat maze of an alley yet have no inner voice telling them to stop. Or maybe they have that voice but just ignore it? Either way it’s because they want this. They want this more than they want anything at the moment.

I should talk? I’m here too.

I always smile when I think of someone wanting to know why.

Were you compelled?

Was there compunction?

Dramatically I could sob how I was compelled despite my compunction but the truth is I do it because I want to. It makes me happy. No further justification is there?

Here he comes, all backlit and horny.

“Damn this place stinks! Are you sure it’s safe?”

Rather than answer I stepped forward to press my mouth to his. His slight surprise relaxed into surrender. I love that. The surrender to the moment. The surrender to the pleasure. His tongue was nimble and thick and he tasted of milk. I took his hand and led him into the black.

My pace was not urgent as there really was a lot less light than I anticipated.

I pressed him to the wall and as our eyes adjusted to the dark I caressed his cheek with the back of my gloved hand.

“Are you gonna wear gloves? I mean for the whole thing?”

I reached between his legs and kissed his neck. The point became moot.

“Really surprised a well dressed guy like you even knows a place like this. That hat is like something out of an old movie.”

I took his hand and splayed him out against the wall, pressing and grinding, and finally covering his mouth again with mine just to shut him up. He pulled his mouth away long enough to utter some expression of pleasure.

Finally getting into the spirit!

I took his hand and rubbed it on my throbbing hardness. Letting go of his hand he just stood there. Some need more encouragement than others.

I reached down and released myself. Damn it was cold.

Putting my hand behind his head, I pressed downward. I nodded as well to make sure he knew what he was supposed to do.

His knees bent quickly and he was suddenly on me. The cold was no longer a concern. All hesitation was gone. From zero to sixty in nothing flat.

The repeated gagging sound was becoming a bit much so I held his head to slow him down.

He was blond. Dirty blond I guess you’d call it.

So engrossed in his task he didn’t notice me take my hand away and reach for my coat’s lapel. They will always comment on my hat or gloves. Or that they’d seen me before and I always wear grey. But no one, not one, had ever noticed the clasp on my lapel. Maybe they noticed, but they never said.

The gagging had started up again.

I placed my left hand of the side of his head cupping his ear and reached down ready to press the clasp into service.

I still haven’t mastered it yet. No matter how often, swift or stealthy I think I am, something gives it away. It’s sharper than it’s ever been. The edge is true. The cut will be clean. I pierce and slice thinking it is all too expert to be a surprise. But it is always a surprise. The pressure, the pain, the release…something…something always gives it away at the crucial moment.

And invariably, they always look up.