Back in Fido’s bar at midday it all didn’t seem to matter too much...she had that crazy momentum of being twenty and ravishing with a bad nicotine habit but the body of a supermodel and an ease in keeping it that way...and because what happened over the next twenty four hours was just more of the usual I won’t bother to waste words...we couldn’t bed together till the following night, which was going along like any given guess, and that’s precisely when we decided to leave the bar and take a walk down the beach…a starry night, moon sliced and tropic...so we walked out on a lone pier that went at least 100 yards off-shore...chosen for just that reason...most of the piers had their boats or small buildings and were either gated or occupied but this one was empty...We sauntered out in the Jesuit manner, careful to escape notice yet full of ourselves and our mission—
The planks of the pier were old and grey and loyal to the sun and the salt water fading by the former and soaking up the latter—our clops upon them both sententious and age-worthy, hers delicate and shilly-shally and mine sore of purpose—and sure we reached the end and laid our bodies down to peer up from that pier at the stars and the moon and the dark pitch steeling with Bodhimind’s vast action—we were happy & alone—and to my delight the mechanics of the loins were operational as was my predilection to show Ramona, which I did to her embarrassment—so I chose to leave it all where it stood. It was standing. ALL WAS STANDING. OUTSTANDING. Some say I was like a proven pony pump. The problem may have been a function of time as I stood there bedazzled above the matron of Night honor, but no clock halt decrease in blood flow along and in my trainful-of-heroes cock would have me—not a minute of hesitation and I was over-confidently down between her legs abandoning all repartee and smiling through her walls and lapping vaingloriously at the seam in time feigning to be desperately in love, opening my eyes enough to see her head more akin to her chin jutting up in the air at the point of leaving, leaving behind all hang-ups, missteps and strap-ons...leaving her body for a moment only to be brought back in wonderment to the question at hand, the question of my staff of life and whether it was flying its red flag and believe me when she pulled me up by my ears to her mouth where I was greeted by that lovely tongue in my esophagus I could feel the hardness, the bold and vital firm repose of my cockateel and she reached down in the spirit of cooperation and gave it a couple honks before guiding it slowly to the intimate Ramona Santiago de Castilla...
-Michael Price
