by Steve Lowe
I also realized how childish and silly I was refusing to accept the reality of the situation and just get it over with, because it really was what both of us needed. I even felt better about her, thinking she was in the same bad situation as me, that she had been having the same feelings of depression and anxiety, feeling like an animal stuck in a cage. As soon as those papers were signed, I felt like I was on my way to becoming a new man, maybe the man I thought I would grow up to be. I had the opportunity to restart my life.
Then Carrie informed me that, oh by the way, in five months, she’d be giving birth to my baby.
The Alligator Fuckhouse Part 1
I’m dozing, the boredom of sitting in a motel in Muncie, Indiana, in the middle of a weekday with nothing but soap operas and talk shows to occupy my time finally winning the battle for my soul.
Then I’m suddenly not dozing. Mongo punches me in the shoulder. It’s a light pop to him, I’m sure, but the guy doesn’t seem to know his canned ham of a fist weighs roughly the equivalent of a cinder block when hurled through the air into my tender arm.
“Shit, dude, what the fuck?”
He shoves a laptop into my hands. “Message time.”
“OK, but maybe just gently tap me, or even just simply tell me. You don’t have to break my arm in the process.”
Mongo smiles his creepy Mongo smile. “Pussy.”
“Whatever.” I turn my attention to the laptop and click the Play button on the video player window open and waiting for me. It takes a minute to load and I rub my shoulder in time with the spinning circle on the video player showing me it’s chugging away. When it’s ready, Peter Oh’Tool’s large, chiseled face fills up the screen.
“Congratulations, contestant, you’ve done it! You’ve achieved your first goal, the golden shower! Now you’re ready to move on and tackle your next challenge.”
Peter Oh’Tool makes stupid air quotes with his fingers when he says, ‘tackle’. I wonder why he does that but figure he’ll go on to explain, which he does.
“Your next challenge is…”
A pause, for dramatic effect, I suppose, then large block letters flash on the screen at the same time Peter Oh’Tool yells, “The alligator fuckhouse!”
The canned sound of studio audience applause crackles, overwhelming the laptop’s shitty little speakers. Once it finally dies down, Mr. Oh’Tool continues.
“This is one of my favorites. The alligator fuckhouse goes like this: while fucking your woman from behind, you bite her neck, flip onto your back in an alligator ‘death roll’ and continue to pleasure her while she flails and struggles to break free. Sounds simple enough, right? Maybe so, but in reality, this maneuver is much more complicated if you plan on doing it correctly. Let’s refer to this clip from my 2001 classic, Creature from Slut Lagoon, for a proper demonstration.”
The screen fades out and is replaced by a poor quality shot of Peter Oh’Tool, looking much younger and covered in weird, green body paint, perched astride some blond chick, plump with silicone and probably cocaine by the looks of her weathered face and dilated pupils. She’s screaming and feigning distress, and doing so quite poorly. I’m instantly embarrassed for both of them and start to sweat. This is really bad shit, even for low budget porn from a decade ago.
The camera zooms in on Oh’Tool, who is pumping said blond chick from behind, and we see just how truly awful his makeup is. I guess it’s supposed to make him look like some kind of swamp creature, come up from a Louisiana bog to fuck all the backwoods whores who wile away their days running around in cutoff shorts, cooking meth, and sucking random dicks. But he looks more like a geek at a comic convention dressed as Green Lantern than he does a monster.
The girl is giving it her best (read: worst) fake moan, and says in a screeching, abrasive attempt at a Southern accent, “Oh mah, you really are a monstah!”
Yeah, it’s that bad.
The camera tightens on Peter again and his upper lip curls in a snarl. “You ain’t seen nothin’ yet, bitch.”
With animal quickness, Peter bares white teeth encased in cheesy prop fangs, which look like they belong in a straight-to-VHS vampire flick from the ’80s rather than a swamp monster, and plunges into the babe’s neck.
This time, the girl’s scream sounds real, just like the look of surprise on her face. We get a tight shot of both of them and it’s pretty clear Peter Oh’Tool is not faking it here — he’s really biting this chick on the neck. The shot pulls back again and then we see Peter really go to work — he wraps his arms around the girl’s chest, pinning her arms to her sides. At the same time, he kicks his legs out and in front of her thighs and, in an impressive show of balance and dexterity, flips over on his back. His ankles are on top of her thighs, clamping down, and his muscular forearms pinch the girl’s midsection, pushing her wobbling, gravity-defying tits up toward her face.
The girl seriously looks scared for a second and begins to struggle, but she’s not going anywhere, and Peter Oh’Tool begins to thrust. Somehow, he’s managed to flip this girl over in one move and maintain their special connection, if you follow me. And now he’s hammering the hell out of her like a piston in an engine block. He’s moving so fast his dick becomes a blur. Her face changes from fear to ecstasy and it’s clear she’s still not acting. Peter Oh’Tool gnaws away at her neck, pounds away at her pussy and, within minutes, she begins to scream, no longer struggling like prey in the clutches of a predator. She writhes and undulates with Peter, bucking her hips in time with his, and comes hard and long. If she faked that orgasm, then she deserves an Oscar. Based on her previous display of acting, I can only deduce that it was real.
I don’t realize I’m holding my breath until the video pauses and Peter Oh’Tool appears in front of the screen again like a weatherman in front of a map. Mongo reaches out and pushes my chin up and my teeth clunk together.
Peter Oh’Tool smiles and says with a cocky, raised eyebrow, “This performance earned me my first ‘Fuck of the Year’ Woody at the AVNs. You can see why it’s called the alligator fuckhouse.”
The film rewinds and Peter turns to the side to show the action again, pointing out several key elements to the technique.
“First, it’s important not to give away your intentions. The key here is the element of surprise. When you bite her, try not to break the skin, but do it hard enough to scare the shit out of her. That sudden fear releases endorphins that will come in handy once you’ve flipped her over.”
The video plays in slow motion as the on-screen Oh’Tool moves into position. “Notice how I wrap my arms around her and don’t let her move. You can’t have her squirming out of position if you want to make this happen. Lock that shit up tight. Then, when you’ve got control of her, throw a leg in front of her thigh. That’s the key to executing the death roll without flopping out of her. If you think you can get both legs over and still keep your dick inside her pussy, go for it, but I wouldn’t recommend it for amateurs. Remember, I’m a trained professional.”
Cue a ‘trained professional’ wink and greasy smile. I fight back nausea as Peter plunges ahead. “When you got her on her back, she’ll buck around like a fish on dry land, so hold tight and plant your heels on her thighs. Once you’re there, it’s go time, baby.”
The video picks up again and we relive the magic of ‘Harlot O’Hara’s’ magical orgasm once more. Peter Oh’Tool begins to bump his hips in time with his on-screen self, clearly enjoying it all over again. Once it ends, he turns back to the camera and smiles.
“And there you have it. Now, go get ’em, gator!”
Interlude 2
The Baby
Some important information about me:
I’m part ginger. I’m not talking full-blooded. I don’t have a shock of orange on my head (it’s more of a ruddy brown). I’m not transparently white and prone to sunburn (I can get a tan, but it’s touch-and-go; tan becomes burn very quickly). And I’m not covered with freckles (they do come out when I burn, though).
My dad passed his gingerly genes along to me. He’s your prototypical redhead. The guy would practically burst into flames whenever we went to the beach, which was not very often. My mom was dark-haired and Italian all the way through — her great grandparents came from Sicily to Ellis Island and were purported to bleed olive oil if cut. Sicilians tended to stick together, so my grandparents were pretty hardcore, but my mom broke from tradition in a big way by finding someone about as far from her end of the gene pool as possible. I fell somewhere in between them. My grandpa (never a big fan of my dad, whom he referred to as ‘The Carrot’) liked to call me V-8.
So, I’m about as white, round-eyed, and pale-skinned as they come. This is important to know.
After my divorce from Carrie, I hung around pretty close. I had to, because she was going to have my child. And because she was threatening all sorts of legal maneuvers designed to milk me for every dime I had, which wasn’t much. I still hadn’t found full-time work since the warehouse fired me, and since I got fired by a fucking warehouse, it seemed I wasn’t very desirable as a potential employee. Because I never finished college. Because I quit to become a husband and support my wife. Because she spent all our money but refused to GET A FUCKING JOB HERSELF.
You see where I’m going with this. Huge resentment issues.
So, fast forward approximately nine months. I’ve still got my part-time job — a fabulous, budding career in the food services industry. The only thing keeping me from either blowing my brains out or driving as far west as the $285 in my savings account would carry me was this baby on the horizon. Carrie didn’t let me come to the doctor appointments, but I still found out when they were and how things were progressing. I told her she owed me at least that if she was planning on getting any more money from me. She begrudgingly gave me copies of the ultrasound picture and eventually let me come to a checkup in the last trimester. I got to feel the baby kick. It was an amazing, transformative moment. I cried.
As I looked at my ex-wife, with my hand on her large belly, my daughter kicking my palm, with tears in my eyes, I could feel the ice begin to melt. That wall that had built up between us over the last few years seemed to be slowly dissolving. Neither of us said anything, but I could sense the difference. We had a new connection. This little life inside her, this ‘product of our love’ as the saying goes, proved to me there really had been love there between us at some point. I thought a lot about the beginning, how it was when we first got married. I stopped obsessing over the end when it got bitter and nasty. I threw that out. I was done with holding a grudge. I thought maybe this could work, maybe we should make it work for the sake of our daughter.
I started coming over to the house regularly to check on Carrie, make sure she was OK and had everything she needed. I would do stuff for her so she could rest. I made dinner and did the dishes. I washed laundry. I read stories and sang to our little angel in the womb. I even crashed on the couch a few nights. The closer we got to the due date, the more it felt like things might work out. Carrie felt it, too, and even said so. We didn’t talk about re-marrying just yet, but I was definitely thinking about it. I had hope for the future for the first time since we were still newlyweds.
Then the baby came.
For whatever reason, Carrie didn’t want me in the delivery room with her. I protested at first, but she was in labor and not in the mood to discuss things. She gave me a look. I knew what that look meant. I stayed in the waiting room. I was in there for nine fucking hours. I sat in every single seat. I read every magazine from cover to cover, four times. I nearly got kicked out at one point. I was a wreck.
Finally, Carrie’s mother came out to tell me the baby had arrived. She was not smiling.
“You shouldn’t go in there,” she told me.
“Why the hell not? I’m the freakin’ father. I want to see my daughter.” I was pretty slap happy from sleep deprivation and nervous stress at this point.
Carrie’s mom just shook her head. She couldn’t look me in the eye. “Wait here for a little longer.”
I wasn’t pleased about it, but I did. Twenty minutes later, a nurse came out and said, “Mr. Porter? Follow me and we can go and see the baby in the nursery.”
Not your baby. The baby.
She pointed her out for me, lying in a bassinet amid half a dozen other squalling newborns.
“Which one is she?” I looked where the nurse was pointing, tried to follow her finger. “Is that her, next to the little Chinese baby?”
The nurse just said, “Um.”
I read the name on the tag at the end of the bassinet.
PORTER, AMELIA
She wasn’t next to the little Chinese baby. She was the little Chinese baby.
The wisps of red hair I was expecting were in reality short, straight, and black. The light, pale skin that should have resulted was more olive in color. The eyes were of a shape typical to the Asian world and not the creamy, large, round eyes of my sun-sensitive forbearers.
This was not my child.
“Are you sure that’s the right one?” I asked the nurse.
She still couldn’t meet my gaze. She just nodded. “I’m afraid so, Mr. Porter.”
Everything inside me broke right there. I walked out of the hospital without another word. Carrie didn’t even bother to try and call me.
I haven’t spoken to the bitch since.
The Alligator Fuckhouse Part 2
Picking out my gator bait did not go very smoothly. It was getting late and the choices were running slim. I was too picky at first. I was looking for a certain body type to make sure I could pull this move off. I’m a relatively fit kind of guy, but I’m certainly no bodybuilder, so I can’t have a chick that’s too thick to flip. I also don’t have the same equipment as my tutor in the Ways of the Fuck, Mr. Peter Oh’Tool.
Long story short (literally), I was getting down to the witching hour and I still didn’t have my prey. Mongo was getting twitchy and kept walking by, mumbling in my ear, “Pick out bitch and let’s go.” And, “I don’t wish to be here all fucking night.” And, “Shit or get off pot, pidoras.” I’m not sure what that last word meant, but I had a feeling I was cussed out in Slovakian or Siberian or whatever the fuck country Mongo is from.
So that’s why I’m here at the motel room with Danielle, wondering if she can smell the faint, lingering odor of urine in the air. She’s nice looking, no major issues with her hair or her skin, no odd birthmarks or growths anywhere on her body, which is a plus. I look for those things first. Paranoia, I guess.
In fact, Danielle looks pretty damn good without her clothes on. She’s got a very nice body and seems to know how to use it. I can tell by the way she’s advancing on me as we make for the bed. In a normal situation, this would be fantastic.
But this is not a normal situation. The problem with Danielle in relation to this week’s challenge is that she’s about six or seven inches taller than me, and I’m guessing probably equal or close to me in weight. She’s not fat or anything, not by a long shot. She’s just big. Bigger than me. Probably stronger than me, too. Turns out she’s a college volleyball player.
On the other side of the bar, sitting down, throwing back shots with some of her teammates, Danielle looked pretty normal in the stature department. And I was working on a few beers and two shots of whiskey myself, so my perception inside the dimly lit bar was not where it should have been. Add the fact that she was hanging around with other volleyball players, all of whom were much taller than your average co-ed, and you can see why my perception was way out of whack.
Danielle looks down at me with a boozy, eyes-half-closed air of sexiness bordering on drunk. This is going to be a problem. There’s no way I’m going to pull this off, not with this girl, but what the hell have I got to lose at this point? According to Mongo, I’m already falling behind in the game. Seems the guy in Baton Rouge, Louisiana — Bob something I think — has lucked into a hive of LSU sorority whores who are convinced he’s Les Miles’s nephew
. The dude has already completed five challenges. I’m still stuck on number two and my unwitting partner looks like she could very easily spike me into the floor.
“I’m gonna fuck you now, little man.” She grabs me under the arms. It tickles a little, and I’m nervous as hell, so I can’t stifle a giggle. Then I remember the cameras and mics strategically hidden around the room and I make a wish to the Dark Lords of Perversion that it gets edited out, that this whole part hits the cutting room floor, because Danielle next picks me up and tosses me back onto the bed.
She rips my pants off without undoing my button or belt, which snags a few loops of pubic hair along the way. The pain is sharp and real. I scream. The scream is more embarrassing than the giggle just a second ago. This is not going very well.
Danielle laughs, a much deeper, more masculine sound than I’ve emitted thus far, and jumps on me. It takes a minute for the pain to pass but, once I catch my breath again, it’s on. Danielle is into it and it doesn’t take me long to get there with her. She starts on top and rides me with gusto. She even makes little whoop sounds, like we’re at a rodeo. We get into a groove, find our rhythm, get used to each other’s body and pace. We fit well together on this plane and she takes notice.
“Yeah baby, work those hips,” she says.
We keep at it a few more minutes and she starts to moan. She sounds like she’s going to come soon, but if she starts, so will I and I’ll miss my chance for the alligator fuckhouse. I reach up and pull her close and roll her onto her back. She makes an excited “Oh!” noise and tries to keep going, but I take one of her legs and try to throw it around my front. I need to get in behind her to do this move right.
I miscalculate how long her really long leg is and she miscalculates how far it needs to go to clear my face before she brings it down. I catch a heel under my left eye and am momentarily stunned. Stars and whatnot. I shake my head and squint against the pain and by the time I get my bearings back, Danielle is up on her knees, backing into me hard, saying things like, “Oh yeah,” and “Come on.”