"The difference between fiction and reality? Fiction has to make sense."
Tom Clancy
***
I had lived through the era of free love and cheap dope. So in January 1976, when I moved to my newest town to resurrect my career and my life, I thought I knew all there was to know about sex. Problem was I really didn't know anything. Then, in my third month of unintentional celibacy, all that was about to change.
It was my second or third week at the Free Press paper when the big rape-robbery-murder trial began. The news clippings and the official word was that these two guys held up a clothing store, and raped the clerk on their way out. The owner had a heart attack during the robbery, so murder charges were tacked on.
The story in the Sunday paper the week of the trial was gory enough, but the stuff not in the story would have spoiled our readers' Sunday brunch - especially the part about bending her over the counter and packing her ass.
So, I managed to arrange my duties as courthouse and government reporter so as not to miss the good parts of the trial. On the third day, after jurors were seated, opening arguments delivered, and the incidental witnesses questioned the rape victim was whisked into court to provide teary testimony. I swear, even the defense attorneys were crying, ready to de-ball these two guys. In the front row during all of this sat an old woman, the mother; a skinny man of about 20, the victim's husband; and this enormous peroxide blonde with enormous tits, sister of the victim.
At lunch in the courthouse cafeteria, renown lawyer Preston Doucet, in town for a civil trial, was pontificating on rape defenses. The acclaimed law professor, U.S. attorney and alligator hunter said the oft used "she asked for it" defense only works when it's true... and he pointed to the Peroxide Princess: "Her, ten Hells Angels could gang rape her and get away with it. She's got this big `fuck me' sign written across her forehead."
Back in court after lunch, during a very tough cross examination, I kept noticing the Peroxide Princess consoling her brother-in-law: His face nestled in those huge tits and her hand in his jeans. Here is her sister retelling the most horrid moment of her life, and the Peroxide Princess is pulling on her husband's dick!! The testimony - and side show - got too gross for me, so I went out to the hallway to smoke a cigarette.
When the trial recessed for the day, I went to the paper and wrote my story, then hustled off to the Beau Sejour, a hotel, restaurant and lounge, so as not to miss the happy hour.
Anyway, there was Preston sitting in the bar, still pontificating to Jake, the paper's police reporter, and anyone else who would listen. After a drink or two, he asked us ill-paid newspapermen to dinner. There in the dining room were the victim, the husband, the sister and the mother. And I'll be damn if the Peroxide Princess didn't have her hand in the husband's lap. Preston, of course, noticed and went back to talking about rape.
Long before we had finished our mostly liquid dinner, the four of them left the dining room for the lounge, where a not so good band was playing Glenn Miller-type stuff. I poured the last of the third bottle of wine into my glass and toasted my dinner companions: "Gentlemen, I am about to get laid." I turned and walked into the lounge and asked the Peroxide Princess to dance.
Damn, she was big. I couldn't get my arms all the way around her, which didn't stop her from pressing her enormous tits against my chest and riding my leg. God, she was attacking me!
Before I go any further, I want to point out that I like Rubenesque women. Tits turn me on. All that warm, twitching flesh waiting to be enjoyed. Bellocq took dozens of pictures of Rubenesque whores, the most sought after ladies of The District. The Peroxide Princess may not have been the Belle of Storyville, but after a few drinks, the thought of being buried in all that flesh (OK fat) had my imagination in overdrive.
I will admit that she had beautiful blue eyes, which were appropriately big. They were highlighted by a pound of makeup, with another pound of rouge and lipstick. Her dress was white and ill fitting - there was no tent maker in the parish. Below the tits, everything was a barrel. Her hair was dried and dead, though the roots had been recently attended to. She wore short heels - an inch or two - but even then she had trouble walking on them, her fleshy feet overlapping the insoles and platforms.
Back at the bar I bought her a drink - both of us had already had much more than we needed for our purposes - and we stood at the bar for only a few minutes before we again hit the dance floor and again she was all over me, humping my leg. Before the number was finished I asked if she needed a ride home.
