Prick and Bottle

“I know,” Charlie said. A slight beat went by and then Fantasia really heard what Charlie said.

“You know?”

“It must be awful to lose your virginity to your husband on your wedding night then make like Niagra Falls.”

Charlie really had it. If it were balls, he had it. Or them. He had it all.

“Charlie I can’t believe how much of an asshole you are,” Fantasia said while pulling up the fluffy down covers.

“I barely even got one good stroke in before I came you were so fucking airtight down there. Now that’s asshole.”

Charlie had it.

Earlier in the hotel bar…

While Fantasia was putting on her face, Charlie asked the bartender for a martini dirty with three olives in a fishbowl with extra salt. When the bartender looked at him cockeyed, Charlie explained that it was his “funeral night if the bartender knew what he was saying”. He did. Charlie didn’t have to float the folded twenty-dollar bill under his nose because that is how much the understanding bartender charged for such a lump concoction. Charlie needed to flip open his billfold and retrieve more funds for appropriate tips. Fantasia danced up to her new husband on a wave of heat.

“I want to fuck you Pop Charlie.” Fantasia was ready. She had a mound of fire ants down there.

“I’m not even drunk yet.” Charlie had it. It was sobriety. Three weeks on the day. It was a promise the two of them made the night of their engagement.

Fantasia proposed that if Pop Charlie, a drainless alcoholic, would abstain from every toxin, drug, sin for three solid weeks, she would “fuck his cock to heaven”.

“Three? Only three? I shit on three.” Charlie had it. It was stamina.

“That’s not the catch.” Fantasia explained to Charlie that if he wanted his dick to be high fived by God, he would have to marry her.

“Marriage? That’s it? I’ve fucking BEEN married.” Charlie had it. It was a wife. He was still married when this conversation at the bar took place. Somewhere between drunk and the possibility of tying his balls around the harp cords of Saint Peter he forgot all.

Earlier this morning Fantasia met Pop Charlie at the Bellevue Mental Hospital where health tests were passed with wonderful colors. Fantasia took the official results signed by Dr. Himmerick and brought the party to the Seattle courthouse where the vows were to be exchanged.

“I’m going to blast the piss out of this chick.”

“And do you Fantasia Ramlock take Pop Charlie Boothe to be your husband?”

“I sure do.”

And that was that. The next stop would be the Hotel Monterrey.

“1521 something. Just look for the fucking sign.”

Charlie had it. It was culture. Charlie flipped a handful of wrinkled ones, coupons, and stolen business cards into the idle caravan then slammed the door.

“I’m registered for a room under Dice Westchester.” Charlie winked at his new wife.

“I told my muddah that if I got married again that I’d pound my bride in a suite rented by Dice Westchester.”

“Again?” Fantasia inquired.

“Yeah, again, like you know, for the first time.” Charlie had it. It was romance.

The teenage gatekeeper at the counter thanked Mr. and Mrs. Westchester with the assuring reminder, “Don’t have too much fun.”

Fantasia left to get a new face and Charlie ordered a martini dry with three olives in a fishbowl with extra salt.

“I wanna fuck you Pop Charlie.”

“I’m not even drunk yet.”

“You drink, you lose.”

Charlie thought it all over for a knock. Forced to confront his two greatest loves, prick and bottle.

“Fine. But don’t plan on talking tomorrow.” Charlie placed Fantasia’s hand around his zipper. “Cuz I’m gunna pump your voice away.” Charlie had it. It was hard and desperate.

It had been an eternity since he prodded his way into any heifers on the field. An eternity that would end its three week record tonight.

Charlie swiped the card and gained access to room 1521. “I knew I knew that number,” he said. “I ordered this room special because I heard this is where they killed that guy.”

Charlie had it. It was frivolous spending. So far he has been the benefactor of this comical wager. The tab was nearing seven thousand. Did I fail to mention the wedding rings? One for both of them. She insisted.

Charlie and Fantasia undressed. They each reeked of horniness, almost like they had been soaking in a tub of it for the past three weeks.

“Ok well…naked it up.” Charlie had it. It was talent. The stage was set and his scene was to begin. Charlie squeezed it in. Fantasia stopped breathing. It was some struggle. Grinding away. Forcing the entry. Thrusting into the suction. Charlie finally got a good jolt in there. And another one. Then one more.

POP.

Blood poured out of Fantasia. She was shot. Charlie shot her with his cock.

“I’m sorry I cried,” she said. She cried during the sex wrestle. It was like compressing a hippo into a walnut shell.

“I know,” he said.

A slight beat went by.

“You know?”

“It must be awful.”

“Pop Charlie I cannot-“

“Now that’s asshole.”

Charlie and Fantasia sat on the bed. Fantasia was hidden and Charlie was in full view. Charlie picked up the phone and dialed room service. He ordered the steak, extra bloody.

“I need some cash fer da tip,” Charlie said as he reached into his overnight bag. She flinched as she threw the covers off in a seizure of worry. Charlie snatched a black plastic dildo out of the bag.

Fantasia stopped breathing.

Her nipples saluted like BBs. It was cold and she was naked. So was he. He held the dildo.

“Say hello to Mambo, my phony nigger dick.” Charlie had it. It was a rubber phallace, jet black, the size of an experimental eggplant. He began to verbally abuse Fantasia, a 21-year old blond waif who was in over her pretty head. That same head dreamed of this night in a very different way. That head imagined a summer wedding in her home state of Montana.

There would be a jug band and apple mash beer. Every attendee would wear white. The honeymoon would be performed under the horny moon. The stars would be the only things special enough to watch her enter the sisterhood of Womanville. That was how Fantasia remembered her dream with a dildo lodged in her mouth and a deranged husband jamming inside for a second go.

“I own this fucking twat. This is all my fucking mine.”

Fantasia was crying, and bleeding, and horrified at how the world delivered her order for a perfect evening, wrong.

Charlie pushed the 14-inch replica of an African American penis into Fantasia’s lips. He was fucking her below with his cock gun.

Fantasia gagged on the synthetic shaft. Her grunts and burps were sounds of pain. Pop Charlie continued with the ride.

“Hear something? Neither do I. Its so very quiet in here.” Pop Charlie continued with the ride.

“Someone must be getting their voice fucked away.” Pop Charlie continued with the ride.

This was not how Fantasia dreamed her first encounter with sex would be. She dreamed in her head that it would be gentle and tender. Her partner would caress her hair, tickle her forearms, place his hands on her face while slowly swirling his tongue between her lips. Between her lips was cold steel that was making her choke.

The double penetration paradox of penis and dildo continued the angry lesson for well over six hours. Charlie had it. It was time. He had already gotten that first nut of the night out and had nothing but time to enjoy the orifices of his second favorite wife.

Charlie began to think about the bar. He wondered what became of his drink. The fish bowl full of martini dry. Did the understanding bartender put in three olives as requested? Should he stop this nonsense and go after what life is really worth, he thought. A drink.

Charlie pushed faster and faster into Fantasia’s tiny hole. Blood, sweat, and fear poured out of her. Closer and closer Charlie got. Somehow Fantasia was getting there too. The bed rocked back and to the side. Two things slapping each other with suits made of liquid flesh, weapons and minds, tussling for supreme power on the royal throne.

POP.