The Dirtbag Vernacular [Original Novel]

ENTRY 21

On the way to band practice, Frank drives the Peugeot south on Third Street with me in the passenger seat. Michael and Wes are in the back.

“Did your girlfriend get back from New York yet?” Michael asks me.

“Yeah, but I broke up with her a couple nights ago.”

“What the fuck?!” Frank erupts in surprise. “You fuck like, one chick in New Orleans. You get out here, get a girlfriend right away, a nice girl, then you break up with her?”

“Dude, her legs are like this long,” I respond holding my arms out the length of a yard.

We’ve got a gig, our first gig after relocating to S.F., playing with a couple of bands at The Chameleon in the Mission District this coming Saturday afternoon. Kurt’s band from New Orleans is playing this gig too. His bass player, Paul McCourt, had been Luv Nub’s bassist. Also, he’s the husband of Sara Frazier, the rich woman Frank and I had had the dream job working for in New Orleans.

When Saturday rolls around we are ready. We’re not really tight, but good enough to play. Everyone who has made the move to S.F. from N.O. is at the show. Including Matt Risner who had worked with us at Sara and Paul’s house. Conspicuously missing is Kurt and Paul’s drummer, Duke. A guy named K.P. sits in on drums and it’s pretty obvious the group is not well rehearsed.

Afterwards, outside in front of the club, I smoke a cigarette with Dylan, a workmate of Frank’s. I take a drag then share a long look with Molly who stands across the sidewalk from me leaning against Frank’s Volvo.

“Lets’ do the deal! Let’s do the deal!” Frank does a gangster voice after pulling Kurt’s van around to the front of the club double parking it on Valencia as we rush equipment into the vehicle.

After we take the equipment back to the practice space I end up back at Frank and Molly’s. The three of us share a bottle of Jameson’s and me and Frank are amped out on the post-gig excitement. Also, I’m doing whatever I can to be near Molly. While Frank takes a leak in the bathroom I sneak a quick kiss from her in their tiny kitchen. Molly has some Vicadin left from her dental appointment in Arroyo Grande and we all eat three or four getting really fucked up.

The painkillers mix with the whiskey and we end up rolling around sloppy, wasted on the futon in the studio apartment while PBS plays on the TV. The more drunk Molly gets, the more flirty she gets with both of us. She makes a trip to the bathroom and Frank almost excitedly exclaims, “Dude, I think she wants to fuck both of us!”

“Hello boys…, I’m back,” Molly slurs after returning from the bathroom. She stretches out between the two of us on the bed then rolls up against Frank while caressing my hair, “I just love the both of you guys.”

The flirty shit continues and when Frank heads into the bathroom Molly turns to me and whispers, “I think he wants to have a three way or something.”

Frank returns from the bathroom to the bed and Molly moves to an upright position, pulls her t-shirt up over her head and off. For a few seconds she sits naked from the waste up letting us stare at her tits. I can’t hold back any longer and with my courage fortified by booze and drugs I forget for a second about the potential chance I’m taking with Frank there. I start pulling Molly’s pants off and she immediately joins in helping me complete the task.

Wearing only a pair of flowery cotton panties, Molly now rolls back and forth rubbing up against both me and Frank. Soon she’s completely naked and I end up molesting her as she lies back making out with Frank.

I’m fucking Molly from behind, doggy style, while she sucks Frank’s cock. I close my eyes not wanting to look at Frank. Even in my state of pain killer inebriation it is just too weird of a situation. I close my eyes and enjoy the tight wet warmth of Molly’s pussy, but soon I realize I’m about ready to come. I’ve been enjoying her sweet beaver too much. If things continue like this I will soon have to pull out and end up spraying cum all over Frank which would not be a good thing.

I frantically search for something in my mind to take my thoughts off of the situation at hand. “Sports, think about sports,” I tell myself. I fixate on football, my favorite sport, and my thoughts wander to my favorite team, the Detroit Lions. “No! I like the Lions too much!” I think frantically. “Those blue jerseys and the silver helmets they sort of make my dick hard.” I switch to my hatred for the Cowboys and their recent Super Bowl victory. Somehow this is not quite enough.

Down below, things are really getting ready to burst. I panic a little trying to find something to concentrate on. I can’t imagine the fury that would come from Frank right now if I covered him with cum. Just the frantic search for an object of distraction helps a little. But that pussy is so tight and wet, I really need a place to put my thoughts, instead of on it. Something to meditate on. Some things are just too big of a turn off. Anything family oriented is out I realize, after trying that. Something someone, there has got to be something. Nothing depressing though. My thoughts race around, I think about work a little, what I will be doing on Monday. Still not enough. The idea of making my rounds at work brings me up to the courtyard near the executive offices. And then there it is, my salvation. I can see it now, or I should say her, the perfect turn off.

I think about the San Francisco Art Institute’s president, Ella Stiglitz-Fulham. A disgusting elitist yuppie-fuck if ever there was one. The enemy of everyone who isn’t executive staff at the school: teachers, students, and manual laborers alike. I envision the horrifying task of fucking that big boned woman. Thoughts of her big ugly ass up in the air fill my mind. The odor of her putrid bunghole wafting up to my nostrils as I give it to her from behind. My ears are filled with the moans of a cow in heat. All of this fantasizing works and I’m no longer at the point of premature ejaculation. I don’t have to worry about things going soft down below, friction takes care of that as in my mind I ride the pompous, yet revolting, Ms. Ella Stiglitz-Fulham, the woman who rules the San Francisco Art Institute with an iron rod.

“Dude, I gotta bust a nut,” Frank rides Molly hard and fast in the missionary position. I jump up naked from the futon, do a three-sixty mid-air, land, rip off a big ‘brrommpp’ of a fart, run towards the bathroom to take a leak, and with effeminate affectation joke, “Go ahead! Bust a nut! Thee if I care!”

Frank, after finishing Molly off goes into the bathroom. Still naked, I sit relaxing in the Eames chair. Molly, nude also, slinks over towards me, pulls herself up onto my lap and gives me a full-on tongue kiss.

“Hey! Knock that shit off!” Frank roars after emerging from the bathroom.


Photo by Hoffacurse