Goody Two Shoes

by Cooper, Laura

  Terry shrugs, “Too bad, because it was a lot of fun.”

  “I’m getting her a big black blow up doll,” Patty repeats.

  Terry’s eye’s perk up, “When are you going to get it?” The thought apparently interests her.

  “Was thinking of running over there shortly,” Patty mumbles, throwing the tennis ball one more time towards her dogs on the lawn. In a few minutes they’ll be sitting back at the screened door, ball in mouth, ready for another round.

  “Oooh, I want to go with you!” Terry gleams, “I’ve got a whole list of things I need!”

  “I’ll go with ya’ll.” Bonnie chimes in, “Could use another dildo. Wore mine out.”

  “Damn Bonnie! Don’t you keep any secrets?” Terry laughs, feigning shock.

  “What do you want me to say? Until I find a decent man, I need my dildo!” She calls out defensively as she twirls her finger in her hair, “You don’t want to see me without my orgasm. It ain’t pretty!”

  Patty laughs, “Alright ladies, we leave in fifteen minutes!”

  We pull into Generation X in my minivan. As it turns out, it’s the only vehicle that will carry us all. I sigh after warning them all of the elusive, world’s largest ball of chewed gum that had been created and lost somewhere in the van during our last family trip to D.C.

  “I’m nervous. I don’t want to go in,” I say quietly from the front seat as I stare at the front of the non-descript building with ice water running through my knees.

  “Doesn’t matter whether you go in or not, either way you’re a creep,” Patty quips comically.

  “How’s that?” Terry raises an eyebrow.

  “Either you’re in the sex store buying a giant black blow up doll or you’re the one waiting in the car for us like some freaky get away girl. Might as well come in, creep!”

  I glare at her as the women struggle with the child-proof lock on the back sliding door, I push a button on the dash and it slides open. Relieved to escape the ‘Cheeto wagon,’ as I call it, they all pile out. Hastily I grab my purse and follow them, intent upon telling anyone in my vicinity that we’re shopping for gag gifts.

  “Here’s one!” I call out to Terry and Bonnie, who are wandering open mouthed around the store. Terry has a basket she’s filling up quickly as they meander to my side. Bonnie’s reading glasses slide down her nose as she reads the directions on the back of the box.

  “How are we going to blow this up?” she asks peering up at us above her readers.

  That hadn’t occurred to anyone. “A bicycle pump?” I suggest timidly.

  “Wonder where the plug to blow it up is?” Terry’s infectious laugh comes from behind us. She has an entire basket full of sex toys draped over her arm and is fiddling through it as if mentally checking the items off her list.

  Bonnie, Patty and I laugh with her. “I bet I can guess!” I chuckle.

  “Surely they blow them up here.” Bonnie looks around the store for a possible sign that declares, ‘Dolls blown here.’ There is none.

  We move towards the tall glass counter. The store clerk is on an entirely different level than the rest of the store. Literally, the entire check out register is at least two steps higher than the shopping area so that the clerk can watch for shoplifters I presume idly. “Must be a real problem with people stealing dildos?” Patty questions the pimpled young clerk behind the counter.

  He shrugs dully, but stands waiting for her to place the blow up doll on the counter as if he doesn’t have the patience for her games. He is there to check people out, not make friends. I don’t miss the absurdity of the entire situation. Do they have a class or something to teach employee’s how to sell sex toys with a straight face? I shrink behind Patty and Bonnie with my small collection of two vibrators and four packs of AA batteries.

  Patty sits the doll carefully onto the glass countertop which covers an array of brightly colored balls and marijuana pipes. “Do you blow these up here?” she asks.

  Now let me tell you, my best friend can be an intimidating force when she wants to be. She got that from her Momma, and I wonder if she isn’t fighting the urge to yank this impertinent kid over the counter and paddle his behind. Poor kid doesn’t have a prayer.

  “Excuse me?” The kids’ Buckingham Guard stance falters.

  “I mean, is there a charge for blowing this up here?” Patty restates her question.

  I nudge Patty from behind and lean forward to whisper, “I’m not riding all the way home with a blow up doll sitting next to me.”

  “You want us to put him in the trunk?” Bonnie whispers.

  “It’s a van. There is no trunk!” I shake my head.

  “Oh snap!” Bonnie exclaims. “I’ll sit in the back with it. If someone starts staring he’ll moon them!”

  Patty turns back to the clerk. “Okay, how much?”

  The poor kid is clearly taken off his rocker. “Ma’am we um… don’t offer that service.”

  Patty tries to grasp our situation, “So how are we supposed to blow it up?”

  Terry and Bonnie follow my stare at the young troubled man. “Well, I mean, you have to blow it up… you know with your lips,” he stammers, turning redder by the second.

  I frown. My lungs are nowhere near strong enough to blow up my pool float each summer, much less this entire doll. I turn to Bonnie and raise my eyebrows?

  She catches my meaning, “Oh no, not me. I can’t blow that whole thing up. I’ll stroke out for sure.”

  Terry puts her hand on my shoulder, “We’ll get Steve to do it.”

  The young clerk coughs heavily in an attempt to cover his laugh. We all stare at him blankly. It’s the perfect plan. We’ll get Steve to do it.

  Patty turns and nods to the clerk to go ahead with the transaction. “Okay then, wrap it up, Dudley!”

  “Ma’am, would you like batteries or condoms with this?” He asks, clearly struggling to hold back gut wrenching laughter.

  I frown, “What does it need batteries for?” I’m thinking it is animated in some way.

  He turns the box around on the counter and points to the directions. This one comes equipped with a vibrating penis.

  Patty laughs, “Oh, well then, by all means add in batteries. A case please.”

  “And condoms?” He struggles.

  “What are the condoms for? He’s not going out tonight, is he?” I chirp.

  Bonnie and Terry gulp, holding in their laughter to help this poor child maintain some sliver of dignity.

  “Oh, no ma’am. It’s just that, for uh… comfort reasons, most people used ribbed condoms with them.”

  Patty waves and nods for him to throw in the condoms. Maybe this pimply teenager knows what he’s talking about; it certainly doesn’t appear that any of us do. To be honest, their naivety is a little refreshing. They’re nothing like the whores I’d imagined them being. As a matter of fact, they all seem like Patty… and me.

  Blow up man adds the extra scent of an unfolded pool float to the Cheeto and chewing gum scent in the hot van as we pass back over the Ravenel Bridge.

  “Do you think we can blow it up at a gas station?” Terry asks.

  “Right! With an air pump. I was wondering the same thing,” Bonnie adds.

  “I don’t see why we can’t,” I respond, suddenly feeling brilliant.

  We pull into the Shell station on Ben Sawyer Boulevard just after lunchtime. At this time in the afternoon, the only people mulling about town are mom’s taking their kids to doctor’s appointments or toddler classes, and I’m relieved by the silence of a small town. Nevertheless, I pull the van in front of the air pump to hide us from the street. Terry unfolds the deflated black blow up man. He’s a great deal like one of the pool rafts that we constantly have to replace, and I marvel over the repair kit as Patty studies the air machine.

  “Oh my God!” Terry exclaims, “look where the air nipple is?”

  Bonnie moves over to see the unfolded doll on the back seat. “Makes total sense,” she confir
ms with wonder.

  “Yes it does.” I finish, noting how perfectly hidden the blow up nozzle is in the faux man’s bright pink nipple.

  “Alright, well let’s hook him up!” Patty smiles, flipping a quarter in her hand.

  In a minute the air tank is buzzing loudly. Terry holds the deflated body of the doll and I hold its head while Patty attaches the nozzle to the doll’s nipple. “Alright, here we go!” she yells as the doll begins to fill with air in our hands.

  “I don’t think it should be taking this long!” I yell over the sound of the air machine.

  Bonnie is standing beside me watching the doll fill slowly. “Patty, adjust the nipple a little!”

  Patty bends over low and studies the connection; there is a lot of air not going into the doll because the nipple is flimsy. I slide my reading glasses onto my face and lean low over the doll in an attempt to help her adjust the poor connection.

  “Looks like someone’s got a slow leak,” a deep voice booms from behind us.

  We are all frozen in time at the sound of the voice. I look up from my position over the blow up dolls nipple into the eyes of my Parish Priest. Blood raced to my face and I quickly feel the molten lava of a hot flash spreading through me. Already I am ten shades of crimson as I try to disassociate myself from the blow up doll attached to the gas station air pump.

  Bonnie gasps, and Terry stands dumfounded before she starts hysterically laughing again. In the short time I’ve known these ladies, I already know that Terry has a weak bladder when she laughs. “Oh no! I’m going to pee!” She falls back into the open back door of the van and onto the backseat, holding her stomach to control hysterical laughter.

  “Not in my van!” I drop big black doll’s lifeless head towards the asphalt in my effort to pull her from my microfiber seats. Admittedly, it wouldn’t be the first time the van has been peed in.

  A huge gust of wind was blown up by a passing Mack truck, and instantly blows the doll into a standing position next to Bonnie. It’s some kind of suction event that only a scientist can explain, but blow up man flows with the wind. Instinctively, the mother in Bonnie reaches out to grab him, but it’s too late. He rides the wind gust towards the street as we all race after him. Bonnie grabs just before wafts onto Ben Sawyer Boulevard and stops traffic.

  Once we get him back to the pump, we secure the nipple tightly to the air hose, and he wavers wildly for a moment before standing up straight next to Bonnie. The connection has finally sealed between the air pump, and Mr. Blowup Man’s penis now rapidly fills with air. All of us suddenly become aware of the sheer size of his manhood as it grows. It’s hard to ignore.

  “You better un-plug him before he explodes!” Terry yells through her hysterical, choking laughter.

  My Priest leans against the back of my van to steady himself as he watches us all scramble to un-attach Mr. Blowup Man from the air hose. Finally Bonnie frees him and snaps his rubber plug with finely tuned fingernails.

  “But look Bonnie, his… pee pee… lost some air.” Terry notes, trying to control her giggle attack with a serious face.

  It’s a clear fact that his formerly full rubber penis is now waving in the wind lifelessly. We all stare at it trying to figure out the best remedy.

  By this time my Parish Priest, who is a young man fresh from studies in Rome, is laughing nearly as hysterically as Terry. He stands away from the van and, “Tell ya’ll what. I’ll give each of you a ten dollar bill right now to blow him up by mouth?”

  Now it’s my turn to stand astounded. Did he really just say that? This man who represents everything I’ve let rule my life for the past Forty eight years? I can’t believe my own ears, “What did you say, Father?”

  He bolsters, “I said, I will give ten dollars to whoever blows him up by mouth.”

  “Father Riley!” I protest, still unable to believe he’d just said that.

  He holds up his hand, “Mrs. Townsend, I’m twenty eight years old. Yes, I’ve made commitments, but I’ll take my penance for this one. Tell ya what, if you let me take a picture or two I’ll throw in an extra Hail Mary for each of you.” But he’s laughing so hysterically, and that’s when it occurs to me that this ain’t my Momma’s religion anymore. All the rules that I’ve clung to for safety in this too modern world are tumbling down around me like Lincoln Logs. And that is the moment that religion becomes real to me. Horrific scenes from Revelations painted on ancient walls tumble down around me. People are just people! Even my Parish Priest. Still unbelievable, is a human being currently negotiating his sins.

  But Terry is finished with her hysteria and she grabs blow up man and pulls the rubber plug from his nipple with her teeth. In a stunning act of bravery she runs her tongue around the shriveled plastic hole before she forces the air from her lungs into the doll. After four long breaths she gasps and put her finger over the open air hole. “Okay, your turn!” She continues gasping as she passes the doll to me.

  I eye the nipple carefully again, this time without my reading glasses. With a laugh and certainty that this is going to be on Facebook within the hour, I lower my lips to the rubber man’s nipple and start blowing. The plastic man’s penis bounces wildly in reaction.

  “Look! Mrs. Townsend got a rise out of him,” my Priest chokes with tears rolling down his face.

  Two breaths later I pass the nearly grown black man over to Bonnie. “Bon-bon, will you finish this off for me?” I say with a playful tease as if we are having a sex orgy in the middle of the gas station parking lot.

  Bonnie isn’t one to play around with getting a job done. In a second, Mr. Blow Up Man is hard as a rock; she quickly plugs his nipple and pushes it into the doll himself. “There!” she exclaims proudly, holding up the perfectly filled plastic black doll. She turns to my Priest, “Ten bucks.” She says plainly, holding her hand out.

  He puts four three ten dollar bills in her hand and laughs, “Great to see you all again.” He motions to turn away.

  “Leaving already, Father?” Now Bonnie’s taunting him, she’s looking at him in a completely different light and is considering him fair game.

  But Father Riley grins, “Yeah, I gotta drop these pics onto Instragram then drive all the way downtown to find someone to hear my confession before dinner time!”

  Yep, just as I suspected, we’re all constantly negotiating our religion. I’m not going to say I’m ready to ditch all the rules, but honestly people, some of them are looking dumber and dumber. Times are a changing,’ Vagina speaks up.

  Find a way to make a man justify his wife cheating on him! Fucking magic.

  Jonathon

  The Tramp Stamp Club

  By Quinn Carmichael

  My Invitation

  By now you must think that Ellen and Jonathon are conspiring to shock the hell out of me whenever I come here. That may very well be true, but I’m leaning towards the happy accident version. Truth be told, their antics have taught me a few things about their alternate lifestyle. For instance, ‘don’t judge a book by its cover,’ as in the cases of Hawthorne and living room Bonnie. As a matter of fact, sometimes it’s the most demure looking folks that carry the biggest burdens.

  But also I’ve learned that making people function normally is a job I don’t envy. I hazard to guess that these same folks, the ‘Members,’ probably spent countless dollars on doctors, mental and physical, trying to figure out why they couldn’t achieve happiness. I bet that all of them have medical payments lingering around like college loans. Yet fate somehow dropped them on the doorstep of Ellen and Jonathon, and it became their responsibility to solve the mysteries of the poor misguided minds. I wonder if there’s a questionnaire, with questions like: How do you feel about bondage? How do you feel about cupping? And all the other BDSM things I’ll never quite understand.

  But the single most important thing I’ve learned during these meetings is that I love my wife. During each of my meetings here something has happened that made me think, Damn I wish she was here to see
this! I’d love to see the look on her face if she could see this!

  Of course you’re laughing now, as am I, because we all know my wife would already have a fifty page documented list of the things she finds offensive in this house. She’d never be able to look past the instant shock of the situation to find its meaning. Nevertheless, it’s her I think of as I’m driving downtown, past the ratio of seven women to every man at the College of Charleston. I think of her because she’s not like those girls.

  At this point, I think quite possibly there could be a foreign spaceship just outside of sight that creates young girls for us with a mold. Unfortunately, they offer little in the way of options. Every single one of them is nearly identical, and I think that screwing one of them should be enough to satisfy a man’s curiosity. They just don’t dare to be different any more. Remember that slogan? Anyway, as I see them hunched over their iPhones I may notice a firm, tight ass, and all that does is make me want my wife all the more. I can do nothing but think of her these days; she’s on my mind twenty-four-seven. The first time I met Ellen I remember thinking that I wish my wife would be more like this beautiful woman sitting across from me. Now I wish that Ellen could be more like my wife. Perhaps mixing them together would do the trick, and I laugh at my own vision.

  I both laugh and cry. I laugh because my wife would never consider wearing anything revealing. She would never take a leap to find out what she might enjoy. But she’s not a total prude. She just has strict standards as to how she believes our lives should be run. Those rules seem to get tighter as the years go by. The older we get, the more rules apply. It’s never made sense to me. I shrug, because I’m a guy and that’s what we do. And I do cry as well, because in my fantasies, my wife is doing all these raunchy things, and she likes it

  Do I fully understand the reasoning behind Ellen’s assistance to the young man tied to the chair? Probably not. I know I wouldn’t mind trying it once or twice. So what am I saying here? That I might like to join this illustrious Club? I falter at the thought. Maybe I would.