You learn a lot about a person by spending a night in the same room with them. The person; one Manon Melanie Marie Champlain, is currently snuggled up so close to me that I can feel her clit throbbing against my leg and smell myself on her breath. The room; the master bedroom in her suite at the Coach House is in disarray and spattered with a myriad of fluids bodily and otherwise while the message light casts a blinking red eye overall. And I‘ve learned that Manon is able to divine more consecutive orgasms out of me than I’ve managed since I was sixteen. In a perfect world, this is all that I would have learned.
Fuck my luck.
See, she’s sleeping with her hand on my ass and I’ve been needing to crack a mean shit since just after we started into the flavoured lubricant. By now my bowels have been brewing through four hours and another five rounds of vigorous sex (read akin to Dutch porn on meth) I really need to go before I leave the recipe for a proper case of pinkeye on her dominant hand. So, I kiss the top of her head and pull the covers up so that she won’t miss my warmth while I’m gone trying the while to wiggle out of sheets made sticky with wet spots like sun warmed puddles after a summer storm. She stirs and mumbles a bit before pulling the down filled duvet up to her chin while I get my legs working again. It’s a good twenty feet to the bathroom and every step of it is an exercise in semi-viscous fluid retention so I quick step it hoping not to lay any runny eggs along the way.
It’s the kind of shit that makes me treat the toilet like a rape victim - poor thing never saw me coming and will be changed forever. There’s a porcelain hard plug of digestive enzyme parched pot roast to pass first and it pings off the bowl before the load floods out. Ten minutes in and I’ve dropped two protested flushes down her already but she doesn’t know what more to expect when I pause for breath and the effort. Around the time my arse hole starts heating up is the time I take a look around to find the swamp haze of my monster shit playing in front of my eyes like heat shine on the Hershey highway. I can’t reach the venting fan switch from my seat and I’m nowhere near ready to leave it yet.
I’m also in Manon’s bathroom and within reach of the vanity. Sure enough, it’s got three drawer’s down the left side and I know the bottom one’s where she always keeps a few personal items - like air freshener to cover the smell of pipe seshes. There’s no lock and the drawer slides easily but it’s not a micro shot bottle of lilac Oust that catches my eye first but the industrial black rubber foot long model cock still glistening with…
W T F?
By the time I’m wiped and off the toilet the ceiling vent’s howling aginst my funk and the hunt for clothes begins. A nightmare memory of my armour being sent down for laundering floods my head and I know how the toilet felt. Manon’s robe’s lying crumpled and fuzzy on the floor by my feet and it’s big enough to cover my shame but I still have no wish to parade down to the lobby desk looking like a late cut from “Shorty Robes and Hairy Lobes.” Ah, but there’s a phone in the bathroom with it’s idiot eye winking red to remind me that I have a direct line to the lobby - so I press “0” for assistance.
“Front desk, Ashley speaking. How…”
“Hi Ashley, sorry to interrupt but I was hoping you could have the laundry for this room sent up right away, please.” The rubber stunt cock’s poking out of the drawer so that it doesn’t close when I kick it violently with respectable volume.
Maybe it’s the gunshot report of the drawer or the near panic in my voice but Ashley sounds a little shaken. “I’m afraid that the laundry service won’t be open for another seven hours, sir….it’s one in the morning. I realize that Miss Champlain put a rush on the service and we tried calling several times and even knocked but…”
“But we were otherwise engaged, yes, I understand. Thank you, I’ll call again at a more appropriate time.” My mind’s racing faster than my pulse as I try thinking my way away from the glistening evidence of my own inadequacy in the bottom left drawer. “How would I make an outgoing call?”
“Just dial ‘9’ to get an outside line, sir,” Ashley replies with renewed professionalism in the face of a customer’s unexpected understanding. “Is there anything else that I might be able to help with.”
“Nope,” is all she gets before I kill the connection and jab 9 for an outside line. Time to call in the cavalry but doesn’t it just figure that I can’t remember my own fucking phone number. The dial tone in my ear shifts to the fast busy hey-your-phone’s-off-the-cradle whine before it hits me and slam the prongs for another try. One ring, two, three and sure enough…
“Ronnie’s line, Tyler speaking.”
“It’s me man, I need a huge favour.”
(About Tyler, since you’ve never met; he was born in a yurt on the steppes somewhere over in butt-fuck Mongolia - I shit you not. His folks were both regarded field anthropologists with yens for Genghis Khan. They weren’t expecting the possibility of Tyler (something to do with a botched veterinary vasectomy) and his arrival was a joy for his parents and their hosts. Tyler could ride a horse before he could walk and rode rough with the scions of a world changing man. He can still remember parts of the good old days but mostly dwells on one night.
Best anyone can figure it, the band ran afoul of smugglers and there was a firefight. Tyler can remember his dad going down early and his mom screaming curses with a shotgun blazing from each hand. She died on top of him and no one bothered checking under the madwoman. When he crawled out from under cover Tyler found himself alone on the vast steppes with only darkness and carrion birds for company.
Since then he’s kinda’ developed a fear of open spaces - duh, ya think? Best Tyler can figure is that he clung to a horse that found water and people. Through various charitable organisation he was granted means to reach Tibet where he lived in a Buddhist Monastery where he “trained kung-fu and meditated upon the meaninglessness of life” - his words. When he left for reasons he’s never offered all he had were the robes on his back and a pair of antique eyeglasses to correct farsightedness. How he ever managed to find himself here is his story to tell but now he spends most of his time in my kitchen where he drinks tea and answers my phone. Sometimes, I think he’s a butler who would rather tidy up after me than go outside and find a real job.)
Tyler listen’s carefully to my predicament and the accompanying request, considers for only a moment before agreeing and I hang up feeling both relieved and worse for asking. But he’s knocking softly at the door where I’ve been waiting in fifteen minutes. I open enough for him to pass through the bundled garments he’s grabbed and signal two minutes. I dress quickly in the bathroom, try to ignore the warm slumbering woman lying in bed for me and join Tyler in the hallway within the promised two minutes.
“Wanna’ grab a beer seeing as you’re out anyway?” I ask him.
Tyler squints behind his antique glasses and nods a second later. So it’s back to the Breach where I hope to drink enough to forget the blacksnake nesting in my dream girl’s bottom left drawer.
* * * * * *
My next conscious thought comes out in a choked yell against a mind crushing clanging just beyond my protective womb of drunken oblivion, “Cut that fucking racket!”
The reply comes cutting back in the maniacal hate that squeals a particular brand of bacon. Fuck me, I’m in the Pig Pen. The fact’s enough to trigger a few basic instincts that fire up enough endorphin to get me staggering up before he can finish, “On your feet, One-nut!”
The world’s aspin around me and it takes a few seconds for my sodden brain to register the fact that I’ve suffered a head injury in the not too distant past. My traitor brain realizes it has no reasonable explanation for why I should be standing and translates the message to my rising gorge. Vomit jets from my mouth in an arc that connects me with the stunned pig in a rich fragrant stream of half digested liquor and chicken. There’s more but the jet torques out and the rest soaks my shirt front while I lock eyes with an arsehole.
“Better get some club soda on that before it sets, Bacon.”
(About Officer Brian “Fryin’” Bacon: the pig hates me for no good reason other than I piss him off. Yes, I used to cause a lot of hell downtown and, yes, I’m not shy about voicing my opinion of his profession but if he ever tells you that I knocked him cold with a pipe wrench you can tell him he’s a fucking liar. That was all a case of mistaken identities as there are lots of Rotten Ronnie look alikes in this damn town. To whoever did knock this donut fed Kojak wannabe’s head in, kudos. If I’d done it there would have been cause for a real brassy funeral. Areshole.)
One hand moves towards the truncheon he wears on his hip and he’d fly at me in a second but a voice calls out from the corridor behind him that makes me cringe behind a bilious mask. “Is there an issue, Officer Bacon?” (I know - right? It’s his real name.) “Monsieur Archembault assured that Mr. Weaver’s release would be immediate.”
“Lawyer bullshit. He’s heaved guts over me and the whole place and…”
“And it won’t be the last time, I’m sure.” Manon’s voice has got that cool mean tone in it for which her mother is internationally renowned and right now I would rather have the bars between us, thank you very much. Instead Bacon waves impatiently to someone behind the scenes and my cell door cycles open without anyone touching it.
“Step out.”
Grin. “I’m pretty sure he’s supposed to say that, Non-non.” But I step to regardless and the pig scowls. “I could put a towel to use about now. So could you, for that matter.”
“I’d give you a mop…” Bacon spits and leaves the unspoken “up the ass” implied by a brief pursing of lips.
“A warm towel and the laundered garments please, Officer Bacon.” Manon doesn’t even look at the pig when she talks. “See that we’re not disturbed and tend to yourself as well.”
“I’d actually prefer a female officer be present.” I blurt before the pig can protest. He’s so far away from wanting to do me any favours that I’d cross oceans of time before smelling Bacon.
He takes a glance at the daggers Manon‘s shooting me with her eyes and pulls a cylinder off of his belt. “Only if Ma’amselle consents to hold my pepper spray,” he says with a conspirator’s smug satisfaction. “You’re friend here’s got a temper. Four big guys all by himself.”
“I do. And he does. Thank you, Officer. I’d also like Mr. Weaver’s property prepared while we wait. ” She accepts the non-descript still without looking at the pig who gives me one last longing look before doing my lady’s bidding. I hear him grunt something to his buddy and their laughter stops behind a closed door. She hasn’t taken her eyes off of me since entering the room nor smiled but when she speaks to me her voice isn‘t so much angry as sad. “Are you fucking stupid?”
My head crack wants to widen when the questions hits. “Right now or generally speaking?”
She’s not amused. “Answer my question with a question again and I’ll mace you.”
“Bacon said pepper spray.”
“Seriously, Ronald.” And she’s so serious that she’s shaking. “How the hell did you go from lying in bed next to me to a jail cell? And what you left in the toilet…” (Fuck)
Alright, she wants serious. “You really don’t want me to tell you, trust me.”
A tear escapes the corner of her eye and runs like hell down her cheek. “If you don’t tell me you’ll never see me again.”
There‘s a card that I never hoped she‘d play but it‘s on the table. Time to put it all in. “Right-o then, you wanna’ play that way - the bottom left drawer of your vanity.” It takes a second but I can see the pieces fall together behind her damp eyes. “Yup,I was looking for Oust and found your glistening foot long dildo instead, the presence of which made me flee your vicinity tout suite. The thought of you needing to use that after our first time together hit me kinda‘ hard. My fucking head hurts less than that did, truth be told.”
“Ronnie, I…”
“Save it. My head wants to split in half, I’m sick and you don’t need to explain anything to me that I don’t already know, thanks very much.” She’s not saying anything and the hand holding the pepper spray’s still at her side so why not put the other foot in my mouth. “I understand why I’m not enough for you, Non-non, but seeing exactly how not enough just...” My own confined tears want to make a break for freedom and she sees the chin alarm go off.
“Ronnie, you don’t have a god damn clue. Last night was awesome and you don’t have anything to worry about.”
She’s trying to sound sincere but I don’t want to hear it. “What do you care?”
“You can stand here in a police station, dripping vomit, bleeding from the head with all charges dropped, looking me in the eye and ask that?” Seems the answering questions with questions rule only applies to me. “You have no idea what you did.”
She’s got me there and making some sense of my current situation is a lot better than what we might still have to talk about. “Last thing I remember is Tyler and I ordering hot wings and tequila shots. There was a group of guys in the booth behind me being a little loud but that’s all. What do you know?”
“Tyler told me that you drank like a fish fighting for life to beat last call until one of those guys said something that set you off. Witness reports verify that you got up and asked them to watch their mouths but that one sounded off right before you smashed a pint glass across his cheek. Tyler lost sight of you in the scrum and jumped in to even the odds. Did you know that he’s got the good kung-fu?”
“Yeah, he learned some during his stint in Tibet.” Fucking guy - I’m glad he’s on my team.
“Well, he managed the others while you dealt with yours rather harshly.”
She wants to tell me what I did but a raised hand stops her tongue. “I don’t need to know, Manon. What happened to Tyler.”
“Tyler scampered before the police arrived and came to the hotel. If he hadn’t I never would have known what happened to you.” She looks like she might start crying again but covers it with annoyance. “Where’s that cop with the towel already?”
Bacon returns as if on queue with a damp threadbare towel and a garment bag. He passes both to Manon who gives me the towel and I take a moment to hide behind it and wipe my face. There’s a curtained alcove in the cellblock and Bacon motions me towards it while I feed him a shit eating grin. Behind cover I decide my shirt’s worst off and change it right away because Bacon and Manon have started exchanging a few words and I don’t want to miss much. By the time I’m back he’s looking fundamentally pissed off. “I can guess at what you spent to make this mess go away, Ma’amselle Champlain, but if ever I learn you did anything illegal we won’t hesitate to bring you in.”
He’s picked the wrong morning to piss her off, boy howdy. I’ve only ever seen Manon lose her shit twice before and I’m anxiously awaiting World War III but she holds it back. “Officer Bacon, there was no one in that restaurant who remembers seeing Mr. Weaver suffer a head injury.” He wants to jump in on his own defence but Manon won’t have it. “No doubt you’ll claim that it could have happened in the fight but the supposed victim of assault himself denies inflicting that injury. So, before you launch an investigation into my activities I’d consider your own conduct and the investigation and Internal Review Body might conduct when I have brutality charges filed.”
Bacon’s face has darkened to the point of explosion during her speech and there’s a vein on his forehead keeping time to an accelerated heart rate. “Every word you’ve said has been recorded,” he whispers. “Miss Rich Bitch with your fancy lawyers and flunkies panting to lick your ass…” He stops once he realizes what he’s been saying.
“Actually,” Manon says clearly, “this rich bitch’s fancy lawyer will insure that any recordings are erased as a matter of fact. Now, if you’ll show us the way out I‘ll see to my friend‘s medical needs.”
Bacon doesn’t know whether to eat more shit or sputter defiance and settles for silence. Scowling, he leads us down the corridor to a metal door that opens at his knock. He points towards another door marked exit and the property clerk waiting for me with an large manila envelope and an itemized list of it’s contents down to the condom in my wallet. No one stops us leaving and we step out into a bright winter morning with our breath frosting the air.
“Was the guy I beat down black?” I ask knowing full well that I’m taking a conversational trip into my own private hell.
“Yes,” she says without looking at me.
“I figured he must have been.” Neither of us moves so I fish around in the envelope for cigarettes.
“Did what you found really make such a big impression on you?” she asks while I’m not looking.
“A bigger impression than I ever could on you,” I say, pretending not to have found my smokes.
“Ronnie,” she coaxes and I don’t look at her. “Ronald Weaver, look at me, please.” I do, but not before finally lighting a smoke and taking a deep drag. “You found my back-up plan - that’s all.”
“Your back-up plan is twelve inches long, Manon.”
“It’s a toy, Ronne - grow up.”
“You’re not making sense.”
Still, she levels me with a stare that makes me feel I just fell off the short bus without a helmet. “It means that I came to town with every intention of fucking your brains out. I brought Armand along in case you didn’t check your messages.”
“It has a name?”
“Ronnie, I only brought a toy in case I couldn’t get the real thing. I knew exactly where I wanted this weekend to take us.” My eyes must not be saying I buy it because she elaborates, “Carole used to always brag about how good you were in bed, especially with your tongue, and I’ve never been able to put those stories out of mind.”
“Bullshit,” pops out of my mouth before I can stop it.
She ignores it and takes steps in close enough to hold me. Chin resting on my chest, looking up at me with those emerald green eyes, Manon smiles. “I remember one in particular she told about the time you went down and made her squirt on her parent’s bed. And when she proved too slick for traction afterwards she let you take the back door.”
“Is nothing sacred?” I mutter to her shoulder since I can’t seem to meet her eyes.
“Not when women have cause to brag about their men.” I grunt, still not looking at her and she grunts back to draw my attention. “You maybe want to head back and give me some more bragging rights.” By now I’m poking her like a horny sixteen year-old at a school dance and it’s all the answer she’s getting because Manon’s helping to teach me another important lesson about my penis as the world shuts down around me.
Respectable erections and massive head injuries don’t mix well.
