Gary Clark’s Immaculate Perception…

(as Mike Tyson said to Vincent Van Gogh: You gonna eat that?)

Literati!

At last, the final entry into The First Annual Peggy Dobbs Write-of-Passage Contest.

I am soooo tempted to include Gary as a finalist because this story is soooo damn …well, you’ll see.

But this is kind of a rule stretch to let him do so, because this is technically his fourth submission.  The first he knew would not count because it was over the word limit and it was a rework of an earlier story he posted here. Same solution here as with Julie Mark Cohen; I won’t consider this entry based on merit, but I will put his name in the hat for the random selection of three authors who will compose our finalists. Also complicating things for us here is that Gary is staff here, when the mood suits him.

Please return to yesterday’s post on the carousel “I swear, it’s not too cold” To speculate who you think the finalists will be, and who your favorites are.  I will announce finalists at 8:00pm Pacific Standard Time.

I will undoubtedly be accused of favoritism when I make my selections, that I am choosing people who are my friends, but here is the newsflash: I have become friends with just about everyone who has entered this contest. And that’s what I am here for: to befriend everyone who would like a forum for their written work, and to help nurture or discover the next great author.

And so, here is Gary Clark’s rump–oops–I mean romp. A bit graphic for some, so teens, don’t let your parents read this.

Here is

William Joseph Clark

by Gary Clark

…five hours of running the timer at a barrel racing, watching, mentally undressing, and listening to the cowgirls pant and grunt. Their tight butts slapping against hard saddles, they whipped their horses into lather, and raced toward the finish line. I’d already loosened my belt to relieve some of the expanding pressure down there in my Wranglers. I’d even pulled my shirttail out to cover Spike’s growing salute to their beauty and skill and tight butts.

Driving home, I promised Spike a night he’d never forget. “Forget about the buckle bunnies from all those other rodeos,” I told him, sliding my hand up my right thigh. “Tonight it’s all about you big boy,” and I gave him a slow, gentle rub on his bald head. We both slipped into a silent, hopeful dream of things to come when we got home. It was one of those drives home that you walk into your house, look back at the truck and wonder, “How the fuck did I get here?”

Then, from down the hall, we heard the soft crackling of plastic. I jerked my face toward the sound and there she stood, leaning against the doorframe to our bedroom. Wrapped tightly from head to toes in one tight layer of saran wrap, she’d tied a tiny pink bow down there so it barely covered ground zero. Spike struggled to free himself, and I fought hard to hold back the easy line; “Leftovers again?” I knew that comment would cost me and Spike the night of nights, the revenge of the ‘nads, and the chance to mentally have our way with each and every one of those barrel racers that taunted and teased us with their easy-on-the-eyes bodies.

I girded my loins, slowly unwrapped her, threw her on the bed and suffered through the obligatory twenty seconds of foreplay. Then I reached down and unleashed Spike. He slapped against my belly, stood proud, growled and sniffed the air. Suddenly, like a Cadillac bursting into a doghouse, he ducked his head and took the plunge.

Spike drove like a lunatic, snarling and penetrating until he hit the bottom of the depths of her lust. She screamed and clawed at my back. I sucked in a deep breath and slammed my chin into my chest. My spine tingled. My heart stopped. My brain was consumed in the swelling orgasm.

In one quick move, she shifted and flipped me on my back, mounted me like a maverick and rode me like a Harley. In the throes of my wildest passion, she popped a wheelie causing me to throw myself from side to side, ripping cotton out of the mattress, hurling pillows across the room and slapping the lamp off the bedside table. I gasped for air like an escaped guppy lying on the tabletop, doubled up my fist and banged on the top of her head trying to break her toothy grip on my ear.

She hit the throttle again leaving me breathless and semi-conscious. I babbled nonsensical phrases, spoke in tongues, and swallowed my tonsils. Then I felt it. My eyes grew as big as saucers. My toes curled back and touched my heels. Unconsciously, I panted those helpless, dying, squeaking noises of a fat mouse caught between the teeth of a barn cat. I was one second away from diving off the cliff and floating down into an earth-shattering, orgasmic oblivion.

She leaned and whispered into the mangled flesh that was once my ear; “The test strip showed I’m at my peak fertility today.”

I screamed like a little girl. Squealed like the locked brakes of a speeding freight train, shattering the half-empty glass of water on her bedside table. Sparks flew and hair singed. My brain exploded. I shifted my butt into reverse and struggled to back Spike out of her evil quiver.

“Get the hell outta there, Spike,” I yelled. “It’s a setup! Get out, quick! I swear it’s not too late.”

But it was too late. In a once in a lifetime, sky-splitting, teeth grinding, ugly-faced orgasm, three hundred million tadpoles exploded from my loins and raced toward the promised land.

Drained, dehydrated, and deflated, Spike collapsed like a beached jellyfish lying on top of a bearded clam. I lay in a sweaty puddle of utter exhaustion and defeat, writhing without purpose, gasping for air, and praying for a crop failure.

I laid my head against her chest and from deep down inside her body, I heard the small voice of a lone sperm decked out in cowboy hat and spurs. “Hi, I’m Billy Joe Clark,” he said, grinning big at the waiting ovum.

She giggled, winked, pulled her ponytail to the side, and invited him in.