Chapter Eleven

Bear the Great – Chapter Eleven.

 

The blogger had a friend, let’s call him “Big G,” who liked to send photos of almost-underage redheads in panties and bras that looked uncomfortably small based on the depth of their cleavage and size of their butt cheeks. As a group, redheads did absolutely nothing for the blogger, but what the hell: He was a live-and-let-live kinda guy.

Big G was an ex-marine who in his younger days had done construction work in Arizona and liked to race dirt bikes. Alas, one day he attempted a jump that landed him on his head, nearly severed his spinal cord between C-7 and T-1, and left him – after an incredibly long and painful rehab – with a limp, the need for a cane, and a left arm that was basically useless. His left hand was permanently curled in what has become known in TBI circles as “the fencing position.” This was not what either he or his wife had imagined life would be like at age twenty-six.

Big G’s wife was a red-head. Maybe that had something to do with it? She worked as a QA manager for J&J and traveled the country reviewing clinical trials to make sure the company would never again suffer a financial hit as big as the Baby Powder Fiasco. Big G worked from home as a programmer for the Feds, the US Dept. of the Interior to be exact. It was a cushy gig. That’s probably why he had enough free time on his hands to surf the net searching for almost-underage-redheads every day. And often, more than once a day.

 

********

 

“Hey brother. Do you like watching porn?”

The blogger liked reading murder mysteries, not watching porn. Well, that wasn’t exactly true. There was one particular video he could always access by Googling “Russian Brunette Proves Her Outstanding Sucking Skills” on a site called blowjobs.pro – yeah, that one was a keeper. But it wasn’t like he was addicted or anything.

“Not really. Why do you ask?”

“Oh, just wondering. You get the itch, you let me know.”

Christ, in this day and age. When the day came that he needed porn advice, that was the same day he’d need another hole in his head.

“Thanks anyway, Big G.”

 

********

 

When it came to murder mysteries, the blogger was a real connoisseur. But when it came to writing a good sex scene, authors in the mystery genre who could pull it off might be counted on the fingers of one hand. Dana Stabenow’s Inuit heroine Kate Shugak could steam up the windows pretty good when she settled down by the fire on a cold night with her partner, Alaska State Trooper Jim Chopin. But beyond that…? He really had to rack his brain to think of somebody that could get the blood pumping. Wonder why that was? Maybe in the Freudian landscape of Eros and Thanatos – Sex and Death – there really was only room for one or the other? Hmmm. Could be.

The blogger’s wife was always reading bodice-rippers. Maybe he should ask her. He couldn’t see the appeal of some Fabio-lookalike with six-pack abs and his shirt off doing the dip with some fair young maiden with a lace-up-top in the early stages of coming undone on the cover. But then again, he was clearly not the target audience. Ah well. To each his own.

 

********

 

The blogger had a different buddy – a college ex-roommate in fact – with whom he could never discuss sex. That’s because the ex-roommate, who had gone on to become a psychiatrist, ended up losing his medical license because he’d had sex with a patient. The moron had actually posted close-ups of his erect penis on the Internet for his would-be patient/lover’s perusal. This was right around the time of the Anthony Weiner sexting scandal, or maybe a little before, but still. Some people didn’t have the sense God gave a dog.

In any case, the ex-psychiatrist was now big into Zen Buddhism and, as one might imagine, a bit gun-shy when it came to discussing details about sex acts, preferences. or peccadillos.  The blogger for his part was happy just to let it be. There was always sports to discuss instead. The Celtics were #1 in the NBA’s Eastern Conference, well on their way to their 18th championship. The Bruins were making a decent run in the NHL playoffs, though of course they’d be destined to fall short of the Stanley Cup Finals yet again. And the Red Sox? Baseball was nothing if not the quintessential embodiment of the old maxim “Hope springs eternal.” Go Boston.

 

********

 

Also, the Paris Olympics were coming up this summer. Truth be told, the blogger thought the Olympic Games were little more than a thinly disguised marketing ploy for Big Cola, Ford F-150, and the McRib. Well, that plus an opportunity for the worst kind of America First jingoists to trot out the National Anthem without actually doing a zeig-heil salute. Also without having to apologize too loudly for this country being a post-colonial late-capitalist hellscape. The last Olympic shining moment the blogger could remember watching with any sort of pride or pleasure came in Chariots of Fire.

“Hey, we’re going to Paris!”

“Good for you. Whatchagonna do, climb the Eiffel Tower? Stroll down the Champs Elysees? Watch Nathan Lane in Moulin Rouge?”

“No, you moron. The Summer Olympics.”

“Ah. Got it. Well, have fun.” The blogger couldn’t imagine any of it being anywhere remotely close to fun. But hey, it takes all kinds to make a world. This he knew as surely as he knew his own name.

 

Zen, it’s way better than sex? You make the call.

 

********

 

“Hey hon?”

“Yeah?”

“Meet me under the covers tonight for a deep discussion of Dana Stabenow.”

“Deep, huh. Sounds kinky. What’s in it for me?”

“I’ll think of something.”

“Is that so?”

“Yep.”

“Okay then, it’s a date.”

 

********

 

“Where were you today? More volunteering at the State Park?”

“Yeah, I had a three-way for corridor clearing on South Rim with Ranger Aelin and Ranger Janee.”

“A WHAT? With WHO?”

“It’s a trail-building term. Honest. Trim back the scrub oak with loppers. Cut down the grasses with a weed-whacker. And smooth out any rough spots in the trail surface with a McLeod tool. A three-way.”

“Is that a real thing or did you just make that up?”

“It’s a real thing for me.”

“I guess. But just for the record? I prefer North Rim to South Rim.”

“Is that so?”

“Yep.”

He wasn’t sure who invented these new lubes. But whoever it was, he hoped they had gotten rich off of it and were now sitting on a white-sand beach someplace warm sipping a Mai Tai. They deserved it.

“There?”

“Slower. And softer. But you’re getting close.”

“Gotta love North Rim.”

“Mmmmmm. Shut up.”

“Yes ma’am.”

 

********

 

She ran one fingernail up the base of his shaft agonizingly slow. But then she stopped just shy of the glans. Hmmm, “shaft.” That was definitely a Dana Stabenow word. Not sure about “glans,” though. Maybe a little too technical for backcountry Alaska? Then again… wordplay was foreplay. She started back down, even slower. Just to remind him that, although the joys of wordplay could be overstated, this joy never could.

“You like?”

“You bet your ass I like.”

“Wouldn’t want you to feel… taken advantage of.”

“Trust me, that’s the furtherest thing from my mind.”

“Sure am glad you thought to bring along your loppers. Or was it your McLeod tool? I always get those two mixed up.”

“Honey, if you keep doing what you’re doing, everything’s gonna be just fine.”

“Is that so?

“Yep. Trust me. I’ve been down this trail before. And when it’s all over?”

“Yeah?

“You’re gonna have your corridors cleared but good. Maybe your sinuses too if you play your cards right.”

“Oooo, I can hardly wait.”