Sometimes a Man Needs Saving

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an excerpt from the (7,500 word) article:

“Do you have many stalkers?” I asked it lightly, half chuckling, but the answer he [JJP] gave sitting back down was quiet and serious.

“A few. That one I do not count. She’s harmless.”

“How can you tell?”

“That woman doesn’t seriously want anything from me, bringing her family in here. Psht. It’s the quiet little freaks sitting in the shadows, they’re the ones that you wake up to, standing over you holding a giant Maglite, wearing only a smile.”

“Personal experience?”

“It doesn’t get much more personal than that.” He laughed and lit another prohibited cigarette. The place was emptying out slowly and a lady in one of the nearby groups coughed and waved a hand in front of her nose. She homed in on his cigarette smoke and gave him her look of death. He flipped her off. She huffed up and practically ran out the front door ahead of most of her people. “No, that little honey isn’t stalker material. I bet she just wants her man jealous. Maybe that gets stuff going for them. Who knows?”

“She clearly wants to fuck you.”

“Doesn’t everyone?” Cue his canned sexy face, bedroom eyes and a mischievous grin.

“I wouldn’t count on those guys.” The three old guys were at the bar sipping liquor and none of them looked very happy that JJP was still sitting with me and blowing off whatever discussion they had been having when I first appeared onto their scene.

“Oh no. They definitely want to fuck me. And ten ways on Sunday.” He had held his rocks glass in front of his mouth while talking about the men and now he downed the rest of the liquor and waggled his eyebrows at me. “But not tonight, I’m playing hard to get with them. Can’t give it up too quick or they lose interest, right?”

“I couldn’t say. I’ve never played hard to get in my life.”

He stared at me hard, head tipped slightly, brain and dick obviously warring for control of his mouth.

My mouth, on the other hand, was on and running. My mind and libido gleefully pursuing the same, within-arms-reach goal. I said the next in a terrible Scarlett O’Hara impression because I have the unfortunate tendency to pick up southern accents when I’m around them. “Why don’t you use my fate provided assistance to help you get away from your unwanted suitors?” I did my own eyebrow raising and his small smile seemed hopeful.

“You think you can get me away from them real easy, huh?”

“I think they’d get the picture if we left together. Yep.”

“So if I told you I was sleeping on the bus tonight, that it’s out back and I’d just love to give you a tour, you’d say?”

“I’d say,” I raised my voice to carry over to our interested observers, “Gee, a real live tour bus!” I did my best groupie squeal (which is amazing, btw) and sat back, quivering and shaking in my seat, colt-like with feigned excitement. “How was that?” I murmured for his ears alone, smiling huge.

“Well, let’s get to it, sugar.” He stood and held his hand out to pull me back up onto my heels. “Did I mention that you look good enough to eat?”

keep reading for the entire (M rated ~ 7,500 word) article as it appeared on TFP


A note to the reader: All names have been changed and/or abbreviated to prevent years of lengthy and embarrassing litigation. All persons mentioned herein are fictional or caricatures, and any resemblance to an actual person is purely coincidental.

Sometimes a Man Needs Saving

Avenging angel acts involving body fluids are a bad idea.

I knew when I typed the words admitting to my disinclination toward household pets that I’d get a new sort of hate mail: preachy snuggle crap from you PETA pushers. What I hadn’t expected was the outpouring of well wishes from those of you who also dislike most animals, only in secret. It seems many of you are too polite, or scared, to voice the pleased superiority you feel as the apex-predator topping the resource chain. Trust me when I tell you it feels good to admit this truth. Real animal lovers can tell you’re faking it anyway. Despite what many of you took from my last article, I don’t wish Petey the pudgy pug any ill will. In fact, his disgusting nature helped me out by turning a mundane trip to the dog park into a scatological adventure. I’ve checked, he’s been placed with a foster family who’ve been given strict dietary instructions. Hopefully he will make a speedy recovery from his grossness and be adopted to people unaware of his former facility for bowel evacuation. And to my negative, hate filled critics, all atwitter over the deception involved in nailing my latest young conquest: calm down. He’s probably bagged three or four wannabe starlets by now and could care less about my ramblings. LE may be young, but he’s hardly a babe in the woods. Speaking of stupid musical rip offs, have y’all heard of Branson?

I’d been back from my European vacation for over a week and I was already bored with vapid (completely fucking elusive) LA actors. As I had slim to no leads on any eligible Hollywood hunks, the monotony of my everyday life took over and I began to wonder if my fabulous new life screwing movie stars had all been some hyper realistic dream. Thankfully, a member of my family (no, I did not spring, fully formed, from your forehead, sir) informed me of a family crisis. Happy to be of service to my loved one, even if it required travelling to Missouri, I immediately hopped a plane. Little did I expect to find JJP, and his forever fondling fingers, on my emergency, humanitarian, mission of mercy. But find him I did, and he found me right back.

The family issue cleared up a few days after my arrival in Branson leaving me free to celebrate with a hot celebrity—if I could find one. I carefully researched the local music scene and planned a night out on the town listening to the pride of Nashville croon for buzzed up, Christian seniors. Knowing that Branson often toasted minor celebrities, albeit it from the country and western set, I dreamed of having a wide selection of cowboy-hat-wearin’, famous for riding a horse, good-ole-boy penises to choose from by the end of my evening. I’d recently let my styling team dye my hair an absolutely stunning platinum blonde in anticipation of my surroundings. For my adventure that evening I left it down in carefully fixed, loose curls. My hair seemed to spring endlessly out of my head while I labored over each section. It took forever. Sick of primping, I put on a quick five minute face, all mascara and lipstick, then carefully applied the musky perfume that I had bought for myself in London. I put on a tight, bright green dress with a plunging neckline, empire-waist with a silver belt, the skirt flared slightly out in tiny crinkles shot through with silver thread. The tiny, uneven pleats wriggled and caught the light as I moved and created the most eye catching effect. Six inch silver heels and a little silver jewelry completed the package. Grabbing a large metallic bag which contained my modest arsenal of travel packed sex aides (and my ID), I set out to free the stallions, then burn the barn.

After prowling my way through two ‘happening hotspots’, it seemed that Branson was devoid not only of celebrities of any kind, but also virile men under sixty. No one looked like they were actively trying to get laid. Two more bars for one drink each and the crowds at both places were old, slow, and pasty. There was one more destination on my night’s itinerary and for a good five minutes in the cab I debated skipping it and heading back to my room for some premium cable. Only my cabbie smelled like room temperature cheese, and I didn’t want his odor to be my last interaction for the night so I decided to brave my way through one final destination.

I cruised into The Goose Trap expecting nothing, I hadn’t even bothered to read the name of the band on the marquis out front. Rockabilly Night was all the paper had promised, at the time I figured it was close enough to my hotel that I’d slap it on the end of the list, just in case. I simply couldn’t believe my ear when it identified the singer on stage as world-famous, award-winning, actor, writer, director, and now honkytonk crooner—JJP. I figured it was some young hot shot trying to steal his schtick. When I rounded the corner, and caught sight of him on stage, my heart slammed hard against my ribs. I’ve dreamed of getting him alone since first seeing his debut, auteur, indie film back when I still had braces.

The band’s music was sharp but the lyrics were shit. I wouldn’t normally listen to anything as pedantic and crass as that drivel, but his voice, his distinctive and throaty rasp, ringing through the speaker system, growling some of those cheesy lines had my blood racing. With chills running down my arms I found the bar and took a seat quickly, trying to catch my breath. Just when I had nearly given up for the night, a real, live movie star. Sure he’s fifty-eight, and yes, he was singing with this ridiculous band, the stage ringed with privileged, aging baby boomers and their mooching adult children. Still, I knew I could make it work. I ordered a drink and attempted to gather my wits and plan.

After two songs filled with country music bullshit, I moved from the bar to a well lit table about fifteen yards from him. He was right up front on the stage, of course, dressed like Gene Autry (that’s Hollywood’s singing cowboy from the nineteen-forties, little TFP weirdos), fringe and everything. The other guys in the band were nearly identical to each other and dressed in orange jumpers, like prison uniforms. Dirty ones, too. I did not understand what kind of group presence they were going for and the weird visual presentation of it all really undercut the performance.

Most of the club’s patrons were elderly and in groups of couples. There was one family with two adolescent kids a few tables over. The Dallas cheerleader wife looked like she’d died and gone to JJP heaven. The fuck me pheromones were rolling off her in waves as she mouthed the words to his music and gyrated in her seat. Her daughters were buried in their cell phones and her husband looked pissed off. There was one group of four women who looked like soccer moms out on the town. Two of them seemed fairly drunk and they were laughing loudly with each other and ignoring the band completely. Finally, there was one other woman there alone. On the hunt, so to speak. Much older than me; she was near his age. To give the old gal credit she looked really good, and he was singing to her when I sat down. But just as I struggle when competing against twenty year olds, so must she suffer in comparison to my firm skin and well toned body. His eyes were on me in under twenty seconds and I don’t recall him looking away until the song ended. I took it as a promising sign.

The band shuffled off stage after JJP panted, “back in ten” into the microphone. I set the timer on my phone and ordered a second drink from my server, Don. As he spun away to earn his tip, my only serious competition, the unattached older female, strolled over to my table. She stood over me, a power move that forced me to crane my neck to look up at her, dimmed stage lights burning hot behind her head. I wouldn’t want to misquote her, and I couldn’t hear her well enough to catch every syllable, so I’ll just give you the gist. She warned me off, citing dibs since she got there first. She insulted me, and my future progeny while I laughed a lot and then mostly ignored her, which, for some reason makes some people believe they’ve won an argument. She stalked off satisfied, tail swishing as she sashayed her (pretty nice) old fanny through a door marked by a plaque I couldn’t read from my seat. Don must have seen our encounter and me eyeing her as he returned with my refill. After I tipped him 100% (expense accounts are handy for that), he squatted down next to me conspiratorially.

“Helen,” his eyes swiveled toward that back hallway door, “she arrived last week with the band, poor thing. Can you imagine living in a shit motel like a groupie, with these guys, at her age?” his stage whisper was catty but it seemed like the whole thing saddened him.

His pity for her was obvious and the corollary between she and I made me defensive of her behalf (sorry Don!).

“Seems to me like it’s none of your fucking business.”

He looked genuinely upset that I’d taken offense. “Sorry diva! You seemed interested.”

“I was. I am.” Even I know when I’ve gone too far.

“Sorry. Just feeling a little touchy for some reason. They’ve been here a week, you said?”

“Or so. Tonight’s it for their run here. The bus is already out back.”

“I see. Thanks. Again, sorry for—”

“Don’t worry about it sweetie. Be back to check on you.” He hied off to another table and gathered up a round of empty beer bottles to take back to the bar.

My phone timer was running down so I redid my lip gloss and tried to look sexy as I waited. And waited. Anxiety started setting in while I trolled through bits of gossip about JJP on my phone. The general behavioral trend in these items was flakiness and grandiose, self-indulgent narcissism. It would be just like a guy like that to ditch his last set for the promise of tour bus road head and Helen had not returned. The house music spun through the rest of the extended version of a popular, twangy song and I sucked down the last of my drink. Trying to look unaffected but filled with turmoil at the thought that my silver screen silver fox may have flown the coop clutching that overdone bird, I got up and headed for ‘the restroom’ to see what the hell was going on.

Once I got close, I realized the door was marked private but that did not slow my step and I walked through like I owned the place. It opened onto a lonely hallway. The Goose Trap had continued to go overboard with their country western decor even here, backstage. I had no idea what the hokey symbols on the doors were supposed to indicate. Is a cactus a store room or the pisser? Hoping that no one was having intestinal distress, I started checking all the doors. The first two were locked. The third one was a broom closet. I bypassed the next one (clearly marked office) and was rewarded halfway down with an unpopulated, unlocked dressing room. Counters filled with personal stuff, including a laptop, which whispered to me that they were not gone yet. Had Helen cornered the whole three man band in the men’s room? This I had to see.

The employees’ mens’ room was next and it was fancied up enough that it clearly had been available for customers’ use sometime in the past. It was huge and nearly empty, except for one disgruntled old man there was nary a soul. That left only one door, which I figured for the lady’s. When I first entered I thought it was empty as well; neat as a pin and quiet. As I swung the door open again to leave, however, I distinctly heard open mouthed kissing. I crept back in silently. It sounded hotter and heavier the closer I got to the stalls. The doors were tight fits against the sides of the booths. Classy joint. There was still a big opening beneath each door. The booth on the end was a bingo. Helen’s fantastic heels, check. But, it was an orange jumpsuit pooled down around thick, hairy, white ankles and dirty, size huge, lace-up boots. Definitely not the snazzy, gleaming, white cowboy boots JJP had been wearing. I didn’t need to look at more than their feet to see that things were getting pretty active behind that partition. I backed away as quietly as I had entered.

Were JJP and the other guy outside smoking? Locked in one of those first couple of rooms? Back up onstage without their buddy? I wasn’t totally sure how long my bathroom spy mission had run, or how much longer it would take for this place’s lax security to figure out they had an intruder backstage. The only door left was the one marked ‘office’ and in a last ditch effort to leave no stone unturned I snatched the handle and threw it open. Thoughts of blending had not occurred to me. The office was L shaped and I heard forced male laughter ring out from the hidden-around-the-corner end. I approached cautiously calling out, “Hello?” ahead of me.

Rounding the inside corner of the room I finally saw JJP. He was talking rapidly and gesturing to three paunchy, even older men in thirty year old suits. Two seersucker, one pure, snowy white. The geezers were all clearly angry. One of them was so red-faced I thought he might be having some sort of cardiac episode. JJP spun on a heel and shot me a look of relief. He started toward me and I absently noted that he was much shorter than I expected. Goes to show you should not believe everything you read. One of the men’s nostrils flared and he extended a hand, inching forward as if to stop JJP’s departure. But white suit laid a quiet hand on his arm and let JJP leave their conversation to deal with me.

I didn’t know what in the hell was going on back here but suddenly I wanted out. Not really understanding the dynamics I went with an improvised, entitled fan persona. “You said ten minutes a half hour ago. You boys planning on getting back on stage sometime tonight? Some of your fans out there want to see the show.”

“Damn, honey, I’m sorry. Aren’t you pretty as a peach?”

I smiled, as if pleasantly amused and taken aback by his flattery. “Thank you. Sorry to barge in here like this,” I started backing away. “So rude of me. Just wanted to make sure y’all were coming back out for the last set.”

“Why don’t you stay and keep me company honey?” He reached forward and caught my elbow loosely. “We can rustle you up a drink. I want a drink.”

I may have already mentioned that I don’t enjoy private parties where I am absolutely the only woman in a room thick with angry, mostly heterosexual men. No matter how unlikely an assault seems, my flight reflex kicks in and I backpedal, hard. Call it a character quirk, call it a flaw of my charming personality, but I just can’t trust the group male mind. The geezers were all whispering and cutting eyes at each other like I’d broken in on a long con planning session or a kidnapping in progress. Crooked eyebrows were flying everywhere but they weren’t saying much, as if I’d be oblivious to the bad mojo going on with their body language.

“So nice meeting you JJP!” I gave him a warm, eyelash fluttering smile. “Look guys, I’m not trying to interrupt the fun. I just wanted to hear more music from JJP here. If the show’s over, no problem. I’ll just split.”

“No sweetie, no.” He looked near panicked that I might leave for a second. His arm slipped smoothly up and around my back to come to rest around me, gripping my other arm tightly just over my other elbow. “We’re going back on in just a few. As soon as my bass player finishes up his meeting and collects his brother from the bar. Two shakes, I promise.” His face flipped again and seemed relaxed, sweet even. This was the person I had expected. He turned me around to face the geezers with him.

“Gentlemen, let me introduce you to my new friend. . . .”

“Regina.”

“My new friend Regina.”

The men nodded at me and said nothing.

“Can one of you clods,” he chuckled nervously a little, “get this little girl a drink? Y’all have to have some kind of alcohol back here. I mean this is a bar.” Chuckle, chuckle.

Before any of them could move JJP’s drummer miraculously materialized (wearing wing tips) to inform us all that the bass player had been found. They were ready to go back on.

The meanest looking of the old men, wearing the pristine, boss hog looking suit pointed a finger at JJP. “Thought you said he was in a meeting.”

“Who?” JJP asked, looking muddled.

“Your bass player.”

“He’s what now?”

“In a meeting.”

“But he’s not.”

“That’s what I just said.”

“We agree then.” Still holding tight to me, as if I were some kind of lifeline, he turned sharply and started for the door.

“Hold on JJ,” the man in the white suit cautioned, and our combined retreat slowed. “You may think this is over, but it’s not. We’re gonna talk after the show and settle this thing. I need this notice initialed and the papers signed.”

“Sure, Merle. Sure. I’m going to see that this little thing,” he wiggled our bodies together in a strange dance to indicate to the men he meant me, “gets settled down in front and sing my heart out to her for forty minutes. Then we’ll get right back into this.”

He winked at Merle and whisked me out to a front and-center table. Before I could sit he pulled me in toward his chest and inhaled my perfume in a smooth, practiced move that sent shivers up my spine. “You could stay after the last set, sugar. We could finish up then?”

I nodded slowly, watching him lick his lower lip and lust bloomed crimson in my black heart.

He whispered thanks against my cheek and smiled like a spoiled dog before kissing my hand sweetly and strutting up on stage. He strummed through six more terrible songs while I kept a plastic smile on my face and pretended to find his dull crooning transfixing and romantic.

He returned to my table after the last of the applause finally died away and sat down next to me. He dug a smoke out of his pocket and lit up in the fresh air of the non-smoking establishment. It was near closing time and the crowd began to file out. Chatting with me took up about twenty-five percent of his (flirty) attention while he signed a couple of autographs for some of the soccer moms. A lot of these women seemed around my age, but looked so much older. Perhaps I have access to better clothing because I live in the city? Don’t rural women shop online? All I can say is that club wear in that part of Missouri is not up to reasonable standards.

“I know just all of your songs.” The super perky mom (who had actually dragged her children into the bar) had approached the table. Her girls and their dad were waiting by the entrance, impatiently.

“Oh that’s really nice, sweetie.” He shook her outstretched hand and she held on to his for a long, uncomfortable time. He finally yanked his away with a nervous giggle and exaggerated eye roll. “Is there anything I can sign for you?”

“Oh yeah. Of course! How silly!” she was shaking with excitement and was obviously thrilled beyond belief to be occupying the same space as her celebrity crush. She pulled a small folder out of her giant bag and took out a few pictures of him printed on glossy. Handing him the pics with the blue sharpie she brought, she made sure to touch his arm and leg. “Do you mind signing them to Daisy?”

“No problem.” He began scrawling some illegible crap in tiny print all over the first of her three pics, carefully not obscuring his face in the frame.

“We’re in town on a family vacation. Me and the mister brought the kids down to see the shows. But when I saw that your band was playing here tonight. Oh my God! I just had to throw everybody in the rental and fly right over here. I’ll be staying here in Branson for ten more days. Are y’all going to be playing here again?” as she spoke she leaned in and tugged the bottom hem of her shirt, popping her cleavage and the top of her black, lacy bra out.

He looked up to answer her and the words stuck in his throat. His eyes bulged a little at her exposed tits and he looked at me as if I should be the one to shut down this gushing gal.

I said nothing out of sheer perversity.

“Last night. You’re lucky you caught us.” He told her standing up. He gave her a gentlemanly hug which he rigidly maintained even though she practically melted all over his body.

“You better hustle honey.” JJP laughed as the lusty gal’s husband stormed out dragging the kids in his wake. “Your man looks mighty upset.”

“Oh, don’t mind him. He just doesn’t understand me.” She made no move to vacate JJP’s arms until he started giving her little shoulder shrugs to prompt her.

“They never do sweetie. See you later.”

She beamed a sunny smile at him, glared real hatred at me, and then jogged away after her family.

“Do you have many stalkers?” I asked it lightly, half chuckling, but the answer he gave sitting back down was quiet and serious.

“A few. That one I do not count. She’s harmless.”

“How can you tell?”

“That woman doesn’t seriously want anything from me, bringing her family in here. Psht. It’s the quiet little freaks sitting in the shadows, they’re the ones that you wake up to, standing over you holding a giant Maglite, wearing only a smile.”

“Personal experience?”

“It doesn’t get much more personal than that.” He laughed and lit another prohibited cigarette. The place was emptying out slowly and a lady in one of the nearby groups coughed and waved a hand in front of her nose. She homed in on his cigarette smoke and gave him her look of death. He flipped her off. She huffed up and practically ran out the front door ahead of most of her people. “No, that little honey isn’t stalker material. I bet she just wants her man jealous. Maybe that gets stuff going for them. Who knows?”

“She clearly wants to fuck you.”

“Doesn’t everyone?” Cue his canned sexy face, bedroom eyes and a mischievous grin.

“I wouldn’t count on those guys.” The three old guys were at the bar sipping liquor and none of them looked very happy that JJP was still sitting with me and blowing off whatever discussion they had been having when I first appeared onto their scene.

“Oh no. They definitely want to fuck me. And ten ways on Sunday.” He had held his rocks glass in front of his mouth while talking about the men and now he downed the rest of the liquor and waggled his eyebrows at me. “But not tonight, I’m playing hard to get with them. Can’t give it up too quick or they lose interest, right?”

“I couldn’t say. I’ve never played hard to get in my life.”

He stared at me hard, head tipped slightly, brain and dick obviously warring for control of his mouth.

My mouth, on the other hand, was on and running. My mind and libido gleefully pursuing the same, within-arms-reach goal. I said the next in a terrible Scarlett O’Hara impression because I have the unfortunate tendency to pick up southern accents when I’m around them. “Why don’t you use my fate provided assistance to help you get away from your unwanted suitors?” I did my own eyebrow raising and his small smile seemed hopeful.

“You think you can get me away from them real easy, huh?”

“I think they’d get the picture if we left together. Yep.”

“So if I told you I was sleeping on the bus tonight, that it’s out back and I’d just love to give you a tour, you’d say?”

“I’d say,” I raised my voice to carry over to our interested observers, “Gee, a real live tour bus!” I did my best groupie squeal (which is amazing, btw) and sat back, quivering and shaking in my seat, colt-like with feigned excitement. “How was that?” I murmured for his ears alone, smiling huge.

“Well, let’s get to it, sugar.” He stood and held his hand out to pull me back up onto my heels. “Did I mention that you look good enough to eat?”

“No, but thanks!” I snuggled into his side and we made for the back door. The men looked pretty stunned. White suit was seething, nostrils huge, his jaw clenched so tight I worried he might be having some sort of episode, but none of them approached us. I’m not all that sure what I’d have done to stop them if they’d really insisted on ‘meeting’ with JJP. Linked arm-in-arm we looked like long lost lovers; or a girl walking with her beloved grandpa. Either way, it was a picturesque pickup.

We went out the back door and crossed a small, employee parking and smoking area before climbing up into his tour bus. The front sitting area was kind of small, but that usually equals into slightly bigger bedrooms, so I wasn’t about to complain. Especially as we had it all to ourselves. He pushed a few buttons and an extensive bar folded itself out of an innocent looking sideboard.

“Drink?”

“Sure.”

“What’ll it be?”

“Vodka rocks please.”

“Really? I have,” he gestured nervously at all the supplies, “everything.”

“Really.”

“Ok.” He made my drink first then poured himself a whiskey neat and lit another cigarette before taking a long sip. He slid down into the booth across from me and shot me his cocky grin, head tipped down and eyes devilish. My heart stopped and melted into a gooey puddle that dripped through me, settling somewhere near my panties. “You sure aren’t talking much now that we’re back here, all alone, where it’s quiet.”

“What would you like to discuss?”

“You know what I do, and that’s boring anyway. Let’s talk all about you.”

Shit. “Got any cards?”

“Ah. A lady of mystery.”

“No.” Shit, shit, shit, Cassie thought. “That’s not it at all. I guess I was hoping for the full tour.” I glanced back down the short hall where his room must be.

“Now there’s something we do need to talk about. I can’t sleep with you.”

My mouth popped open to protest, but he held out his hand to pause my thought and continued. “I want to make love with you in the worst way, sugar. Believe me. You’re the finest girl to come knocking in a long, long time. But one,” he ticked the points off on his fingers, starting with his left ring finger, “my bitch of a third wife is nearly finished divorcing my ass. Curly in there, the guy staring at us leaving in total disbelief, will soon be my newest ex-brother-in-law. He’s going to tell his sister about all this shit. When her lawyer confronts me I’d like to be able to look the battle-ax in the eye and say ‘I did not have sexual relations with that woman.’ The only reason I was even seen leaving with you brings me around to numero dos, I’ve been impotent for the better part of a year and the thought of cock failure while touching your gorgeous naked body is almost more than I can bear. The reality might drive me over the edge.” He downed the remainder of his whiskey after ending his declaration and slammed the glass down onto the flimsy table.

“So cards then?”

He chuckled again and got up for a refill. My glass was half full, but he topped it off anyway.

“What about Viagra?” I asked him hopefully. There was a sample pack in my bag.

“Heart condition.”

“Oh.”

He lay down a pack of cards and we commenced finding a compatible game. Not an easy task with the age gap. We ended up playing crazy eights and drinking happily for a while. Soon, I realized he’d asked me a question and I hadn’t even noticed.

“Sorry. I’m just too distracted to keep up my side of the conversation.”

“What’s distracting you, honey?”

“That moustache ride you offered me back there in the bar.”

“Did I?”

“Of course. ‘Good enough to eat.’ I’ve been dreaming about it ever since.”

He blinked at me for several seconds.

“I already told you I can’t perform. Wouldn’t you be disappointed?” he demanded in a put on snarky voice. “Unfulfilled?”

“Your tongue seems to work pretty well. And if that doesn’t get us there,” I pulled my rabbit out of my bag, turned it on and set it in the center of the table, vibrating away, “this is always fun.”

“Why are you so determined to seduce me?” He said it quietly and didn’t look up from my loud massager.

I frowned at him for a pouty moment while figuring out how to not drunkenly spill my undercover beans. “While you wrap your head around how attracted I am to you, I’m going to go shower.” I grabbed the bunny and shut it off. I threw it back in my bag and jumped out of the booth.

“I wonder what’d you say to a washed up old man you’d never heard of.” He sounded cynical and tired and I was glad I was forcing a venue change. That booth was becoming a pity party.

“How could I talk to someone I’d never even heard of? Are you drunk? You’re not even making sense now.”

I popped into the tiny bathroom and started up the shower. Whipping off my dress and panties, and hanging them on a convenient peg, I got a pony from my bag and was just securing my loopy curls into a tight topknot when he knocked on the door.

“Sugar.” He knocked. “Hang on sugar. Can I watch?”

I swung the door open wide and posed; tall, naked and proud. There was lust all over his, slightly weathered, charmingly familiar face. “That’s not a problem.” I told him in my no nonsense voice.

“Did you say something angel?” His grin was slow and lazy, and when I’d see this look in his films I knew the heroine was about to get something really dirty done to her. I prayed he wasn’t cycling out his best moves on me just to get me redressed and toss me out of the bus on my ass.

“Well you gonna come in and watch, or what?” I moved closer, leaning fully into the door frame, close to touching him. I was trying to get him to make the first physical move; it’s always tricky but I hate it when men fall back on their asses and expect me to do all the heavy lifting. With older men especially, when I climb up on top of them too fast, they just lay back and enjoy the ride and I was having none of that this evening.

“Can’t think straight with a sight like this before me.” He leaned against the wall and seemed tired, maybe a bit tipsy. We just stared at each other for a minute. I backed away from him and turned on the shower, climbing in and rinsing off while he watched me from just outside the open door. I lathered up my tits then my ass still maintaining pretty steady eye contact. He watched in a sort of daze and part of me worried that I might be frizzling his synapses. Just as I finished rinsing off the last of the soap his roaming eyes settled back onto my nipples and finally snapped back into sharp focus. He growled playfully, “my bunk is in the very back. You go get comfortable on the bed and I’ll bring back some supplies.”

“Supplies? Is there something I should know?”

“Just take your bag of tricks with you.” He nodded at my open purse on the pristine bathroom floor. “I’ll join you shortly.”

By the time he joined me in tiny, but well appointed master suite I had already appropriated his laptop (guessed his easy password on the fourth try: 123456) and started up some classic rock. I figured he wouldn’t object and I couldn’t imagine getting romantic to whatever someone with his musical taste was likely to pick out. He walked in carrying a tray of assorted items which included an ice bucket, tequila, a bottle of Hershey’s syrup and a giant bowl of marshmallows. Quickly sliding it onto the only available horizontal surface, the tiny dresser, he wasted no time in hopping right next to me on the bed fully clothed. “So, whatcha wanna do?”

“Nothing with those marshmallows,” I may have shrieked. After the pudding, I was off any and all food play.

He grinned at me again, shaking his head as if he was amused by my silly antics. Then he kissed me slowly and thoroughly tasting of cigarettes and whiskey. I’ve kissed much worse breath, and this was after all, JJP, so I forgave him and tried to ignore my taste buds. His tongue played in and out of my mouth expertly and his hands were indescribably active. When I concentrated on the sensation, it felt like he was caressing me very slowly, but as he stroked and stroked his guitar callused fingers all over my back and breasts and arms and legs, I felt those small touches everywhere at once. It was like being pleasantly molested by a gentle octopus. He started to kiss his way down while sliding a long finger slowly into my labial folds. When the tip of his finger grazed the opening of my vagina I moaned into his mouth and he withdrew his finger just as slowly. Raising his hand to his face he licked my juices off his hand, looking at me with such heat that my toes curled.

“Aren’t you going to strip?” I half demanded and started to tug off his ugly Roy Rogers costume.

He stopped me and pushed me higher up onto the pillows at the head of the bed. “Not yet, sugar. Just lay back and let me have my fun.” This time he didn’t bother to kiss his way down. With experienced swiftness he slid a powerful hand down my left thigh and pushed both my knees wide. He pressed my clit hard against my pubic bone with his nose and started licking the opening of my vagina lightly and rhythmically. Every fourth lap his tongue would dart out twice as long and sweep up to catch my whole clit, then right back to lap, lap, lap; his nose providing plenty of clitoral pressure. I came to a shuddering climax in under five minutes.

“Whoa!” He roared into my pussy appreciatively and squeezed my ass in counterpoint with my throbbing that continued around his tongue driving in and out of me. I pushed on his shoulders feebly and he rolled onto his back next to me, stopping halfway there to plant a very wet kiss on my hip bone. “That’s a personal best for me.” He was smiling and either I came much harder than I thought, or there were tears in his eyes.

“Don’t let your head get too big, Casanova, I’m everybody’s personal best.” I stirred my muscles long enough to slide my hand into his lap to see if there were any tents being pitched.

“Oh honey, don’t even reach down there.” He sat up sighing and lit a smoke. “Fucking depressing.”

“Sorry. Just wanted to check.”

“Well, leave it alone. Shit.”

“Fine. Sorry.” We sat in silence while the room got hazy. “If he pops up though be sure to just stick him on in.”

“I will.”

“Here’s some condoms.” I grabbed a handful out of the special compartment in my purse and threw them onto the tray. He didn’t reply and the silence grew cloudier and more awkward by the second.

“You want a smoke?” he asked sweetly, sounding so much like a shy kid that I almost accepted.

“No way. I heard they might be bad for you.” I closed my eyes and stretched long and lean, catlike then curled up onto my side and watched his weathered face pull drafts off his cigarette. He crushed out the butt and got up off the bed. He wiped his face with a washcloth from the tray (prepared!) and ran his fingers through his hair straightening it enough to not scream deep ditch diving.

“I heard one of the guys come in,” he explained, about to head out into the common area. Shit, I hadn’t heard a thing. “Be right back.”

Damn, I’d been hoping for a clean getaway and his bandmates presence could mess with that. I lay there ranking some of the weirder sex-with-a-stranger moments I’ve ever experienced and this was shaping up to be one of the oddest. Then I realized my dress still hung in the bathroom off the hall, on a peg behind the door and I dove under the covers in a sudden rush of vulnerability. I heard some loud voices, raised but not shouting and some laughing on JJP’s part but I couldn’t make out what was being said. The door popped open a minute later. JJP rushed in all nervous energy and slid off his jacket, sliding it over the back of a tiny chair. He started unbuttoning his shirt and my heart picked up its pace. He was soon down to boxer briefs and looked less old and wrinkly than I had expected from his reluctance to disrobe earlier. In fact, he was thin but in good shape; his arms were particularly buff. He slid onto the bed next to me again and wiggled his eyebrows at me.

“You up for another round, sweet thing?”

“Sure. Did you lock the door?”

“Oh yeah. Nobody’ll come back here.” He sucked on my right nipple until it hardened painfully tight. He lay down with his face near the center of the bed. “Climb up over my shoulders, beautiful. I can’t stop thinking about looking up your whole body while you ride my mouth.”

Turning the music up, I took a second to gulp down my whole glass of water. “Don’t have to ask me twice.” I kissed him and then straddled his head, my shins getting a real stretch and my thighs quaking with anticipation.

He started tonguing me gently. Probing here and there and feeling me squirm. I stayed raised up high, rocking my hips slowly back and forth to the music.

His arms circled around my upper thighs and hips to grab my ass and pull me down full force onto his tongue and the bridge of his nose. He rattled his head back and forth rapidly, his thick and perfectly trimmed moustache inflaming my clit and making me cry out with the abrasive pressure. The sensory onslaught continued unabated. Trying to hold off my orgasm as long as possible I would try to buck off of the intense pressure building as he sucked and fingered and licked me as if my pussy was his salvation. He growled and moaned with pleasure, intensifying his grip, pulling my gushing orifice down onto his lips and mouth for more sucking and swipes from his tongue. I was about to give up and let my second orgasm burst when he suddenly pushed me down onto my back and rose up over me like a conquering god. His face was a mixture of triumph and glee and I realized he must have gotten a boner just before he slid it all the way into my over-ripe coochie. He let out a war cry that shook the windows in the bus and then fucked me like a man possessed.

Realizing belatedly that JJP had the presence of mind to wrap up his fuck stick with the latex I’d provided earlier, I settled my hips deep down into the mattress and enjoyed being fucked. His bulging arms held his thin frame over me easily as he grunted and labored, grinning from ear to ear. I quickly reached a point where it was all just a little too much for me and my orgasm peaked roughly, giving me a few squeezes before dulling out into a low throb around his still pumping phallus.

“Did you come, baby?” His voice was rough and thrilled.

“Oh yeah, daddy.” Smack, smack, smack. Our skin made a clapping noise as he rode my bucking hips. “I came so hard for you.”

“Oh fuck. Keep it up. Tell me again. Call me daddy again.”

My bad. “Yeah, daddy, yeah. You made me come so hard. Did you feel it?” Smack, smack, smack. “I’m still coming. Fuck me. Yeah, daddy. Oooooooooooh.”

“That’s it, baby. Fuuuuuuuuuccccckkkk.” He stutter pumped a little and I knew he was filling the condom.

After he finished ejaculating he pushed all the way in and collapsed onto me. I held him as tears rolled down his cheeks freely onto my breasts. Unashamed, he finally pulled out but didn’t go far.

“Can I touch you some more?”

“Ummm, sure?”

“Are you hypersensitive after you come?”

“Not really.”

“Oh good.”

He lubed up his fingers and starting stroking my slit slowly while his eyes roamed my face and body.

“Aren’t you done?”

“I did nut, if that’s what you want to know. But I’m nowhere near done.”

He slid two fingers into me and sighed with pleasure when I made my vagina squeeze them. His movements were long stroked and slow. His middle finger tip found my g spot and began rubbing it just the right way on every pass. This went on for two or three songs and this time I came screaming his name, most of his magical, long-fingered hand still inside of me.

He held me while I shattered and then reformed, handing me a moistened towel to clean myself up. He hopped up and lit a cigarette, and I got to watch him pace around the small space nude, filling it with smoke. He tossed back a drink and then lay back down, stroking my back lightly and whispering sweet and poetic words as I drifted off to sleep.

I’m not left with many words of wisdom from this little adventure, my crazy fawners. The only unfortunate occurrence was that the driver took off for the next city after I dozed off and I had to take an enraged and expensive taxi ride back to Branson and my hotel room. I’m still not sure how an entire bus full of people boarded without waking me, but several orgasms really take a lot out of a person and I guess I needed the rest. JJP was very appreciative that I had awoken his ‘sleeping giant’ (more like a drowsy, five-inch ramrod), and he only let me go with extreme reluctance and the forfeiture of my (totally fake) cell phone number. I’m gonna miss him.

Remember horny devils, if you have any info on some available celebrity cock, my ears, and everything else, are always open. Send all your dirty little tips and secrets to TheTinseltownTemptress@tfp.mag. I swear I can keep a secret, as long as I don’t have to hold it between my knees.


More articles and the rest of the story can be found in the upcoming erotic novel Screwing Around, available Nov 23rd, 2016.

Screwing Around pre-order link

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Haven’t read Screw Up (TT#1) yet??? What are you waiting for a written invitation?

about the author

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Alexis Wilder loves living near a lake with her patient husband, their mermaid children, and a deranged dog.

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