Posted by nigel1 on June 09, 2002 at 13:56:09:
Everyone needed protection! For years, there had been warnings. No less a figure than Dr. Edward Teller, recognized everywhere as the Father of the H-Bomb, had advised American Men to take off their tight pants, and get a little air on the balls-- free them from their cramped confines, their overheated crotch environments, or there would be hell to pay in times to come. No one paid any attention, except a few ban-the-bomb freaks who thought the good doctor was talking about fallout. But he wasn't. And then no less an authority than Ashley Montague, the anthropologist whose advice was so often sought by the movie industry, added a warning of his own, but in an area where Dr. Teller should have spoken. Men and women, he said, were soaking up abnormal doses of low level radiation via their radium and tritium painted luminously dialed wristwatches. He even knew men who put their watches in a front pocket! And you know what that meant! And that warning went unheeded too. Who the hell paid attention to a couple of old dorks? There were plenty of obvious threats, like commies and mobsters. Who was going to worry about men's fashions and wristwathes? Besides, a lot of those watches were presents from loved ones, like graduation gifts. Meanwhile death rates due to cancer of the left wrist continued to climb. But the real danger and threat was from mutation! Heat and radiation were potent mutagens. How long would it be, given the craze for tight pants and big watches, before a generation of mutant babies arose, to make a mockery of the American Dream? True, an anencephalic zombie would make a great consumer, and work tirelessly in a Ford plant, BUT WHO WOULD COMMAND?
He was no ordinary young man, even though he was the last of a long and illegitimate line. Thirteen years ago, his mother, feeling the last burgeoning of lust just preceding menopause, conceived him. He was the son of a truck driver who'd decided one night, in Corpus Christi, to get himself a piece of ass. When he pulled his big rig, loaded full of radioactive wristwatches into the Acapulco Truck Stop & Motel, the first thing he saw, before he even stepped out of the cab, through the big plate glass window, behind the counter, was a middle-aged waitress with big tits. Years of experience told him she would be an easy lay. So he set his sites. She had orange hair, piled high on top of her head, and heavily rouged cheeks, like a "Charlie Girl", and her lipstick was bloodred. He assessed her as he swaggered across the parking lot. He reckoned she'd be getting off her shift soon, as it was nearly midnight. As he drew closer, he decided the guy she was flirting with must be some kind of salesman-- a little runt of a guy. Mechanically, before he pushed himself through the door, he slicked and patted the brushed back wings of his hair-- plumping the duck's ass. Also, with his other hand, he pulled at the front of his levis, which were incredibly tight. He liked them like that, since it put his goods on display, and let everyone know just how big he was down there, where it really counted. Little did he know, that the piece of ass he contemplated had swalloed her Daddy's wristwatch when she was a little girl. She'd been fascinated with the brilliant glowing hands. It had lain in her lower abdomen for five days, irradiating her eggs, before they took her to the hospital to have it removed. It almost killed her.
His sexual perceptions were acute. She was middle-aged allright, maybe a little over-ripe. Her nose had little wrinkles in the sides. Beneath her white waitress uniform, with its chest-to-navel zip front unzipped enough to show a little cleavage and glimpses of her plain, white, cotton bra, she carried a nicely rounded "fuck belly"-- the sort of female gut he'd always wanted to stick a switchblade into. That always turned him on. If he murdered this woman, he knew he'd torture her boobs first, twisting the point of the knife into her nips to make her hurt and cry and get a nice flow of blood. Oh yeeeeah. Then those pretty things she'd say, like: please don't hurt me! Oh no, don't kill me! Please! Yes yes yes. He felt his tool struggle against the inside of those tight, tight jeans, getting hard already. She had cow eyes, beaten down but not out, and still hoping for a man. She'd had plenty of hard use and she was always ready to try again. She was not too chubby, apart from the tits and belly. She had a rearend big enough for him to butt fuck and cut his initials in, after she was dead. Her face was puffy. She was short. But he was right about her wanting it. He was conscious, after entering and strolling lankily to a booth, of her eyes on him, measuring him. Go right on ahead babe, he thought, you ain't gonna find nothing else this good around here. That faggot salesman never had a chance. He didn't realize that the sweetly rounded "stabbing belly" he liked so much foreshadowed uterine prolapse. He wouldn't have cared. Her name was JEAN. It was written on a piece of paper and pinned just above the point of her left breast. Come to think of it, if he killed her with a .22, her name tag would make a good target. Of course, he'd have to shoot her in the bellybutton first. He grinned.
An easy lay was a nice find after a long day on the road. He could relax and let the bitch do all the work. Before he took her to his room, he polished off two orders of "Chili Rio Bravo". He knew it'd give him the farts, but he'd learned that with some women, farting in bed was a way of being gentle and playful in a sexual context. Sharing toilets, showers, stinks was intimacy, man. And if they didn't like it, to hell with 'em anyway. He sure as hell wasn't gonna cramp himself trying to be delicate. It didn't bother this gal. Nothing fazed her. Having been married long enough to have grown children scattered all around the state, she'd learned to make allowances for a man. Besides, she knew all too well what just one order of Chili Rio Bravo could do. If he'd tried to be delicate, after downing TWO orders, he'd have been in too much agony to do anything but hold his gut and scream.
Once, one of her lovers had prayed for the horrible pain to go away. That man had been damned henceforth. It had been a vulgar request. God disclaimed all responsibility for the human asshole. That very night, a malignant tumor sprouted in the man's large intestine. He would learn the true meaning of pain.
Thirteen years and nine months later, the child concieved that night jacked off in the bathroom of his mother's home. She had had him at tremendous cost-- a near deadly ceaserian, and a brief, shattering, marriage to the town's resident idiot, who happened to have inherited a ton of money from wealthy parents. They died in a car crash, run over by a drunken oil man. The trucker was long gone and it was the best she could do to provide a father for her child. The man had roamed the streets of Corpus Christi handing out religeous tracts. But when he got to the truck stop, Jean was the only thing he could see. It was her belly. He'd go to a booth and wait for Jean. And when, resignedly, she'd take her order pad and stand at his table, he'd stare at her belly so much it was embarrassing. It was much worse after she got pregnant and started to show. The man's tongue actually hung out. Instead of ordering a Big Red, he said: "Miss Jean, you are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen." He was thinking about how it might be, to have her naked and tied to a post in the ground. He was thinking about sticking an icepick in her bellybutton, and torturing her by wiggling it around, and pulling it out and sticking it back in, and then, eventually, with the icepick sticking in her, and blood running out of her punctured navel and into her pubic thatch-- strangling her. "I hope I'm not being rude," he continued, "but I really would like to buy you a cup of coffee-- can you take a break?" Jean was astounded. And she thought, well, the guy is filthy rich, and even though he's loony, he's not bad looking, so...
And it was getting bad for her. How long could she do waitressing with her tummy growing like that? And all the usual men in her life were turning decidedly cool. Yes, by God, why not? Go for it!