The next day WAS a travel day. We were heading north and west from the Alabama gulf coast so Baton Rouge, Louisiana beckoned.
Getting ready took a bit longer than usual because people we'd had sex with stopped by for their goodbyes. We both got lingering kisses from Estelle, said our goodbyes to Steve and Gwen, and exchanged a few words with others we'd met.
I did the unpleasant things, primarily dumping the tanks down the sewer and cleaning up around the lot. I rolled up the rug and stored it, pulled the outrigger stabilizers and stowed them, disassembled and stowed my hammock, stowed the little grill, and got out my telescoping ladder and used the electric blower to blow leaves and accumulated debris off of the roof and the awning.
"About ready?" I asked, walking back up the steps, a little sweaty.
She was looking fetching in only her light silk shorts as she finished putting dishes away.
"Yep," she said, coming to me, kissing me hard, her hands roaming up and down over my back, "unless you want a quickie."
I broke loose with a chuckle. "I'm good for now," I said, "quick shower and we roll."
So I showered and dressed in loose traveling clothes. The final steps were the simplest. I pulled on my mechanics gloves, drained the "grey water" tank the last time since I had showered, unhooked the hose, electricity, and cable, and raised the stabilizers. Paula did the backup and put the ball under the hitch thing, I pulled the chocks, and did a final walk around - you'd be amazed how many travel trailer owners try to drive away with awnings out or stairs down. At least we hadn't made that mistake - yet.
My comfortable cruise speed with 30 feet of trailer behind me is 64 miles an hour. With a break for lunch and one to just pee quickly, the slightly over two hundred-mile run took about five hours. We got set up by about three in the afternoon, the big flamingo proudly displayed on our indoor dooryard carpet, and went exploring.
Baton Rouge, like all deep south cities these days, is an interesting mixture of, to be perfectly cliched about it, "old and new." The older French quarter wasn't much, but there were interesting sections of the city. The food was pretty good and we had an early dinner.
Back at the RV park, we did a promenade, a slow walk hand-in-hand, looking at the trailers and fifth-wheels and fancy Class A and mundane Class C motorhomes. And now paying more attention and spotting flamingos where they were displayed.
It looked like it would be an interesting few days.
I got out my guitar and sat up on the picnic table that was part of the site, tuning and then running a few scales to get my fingers warmed up. Paula brought us beers, looking very fetching in her Daisy Dukes showing her ass nicely, and her titsack top.
She was singing "Wayfaring Stranger" in her pleasant, slightly raspy, Alto voice when a pure Soprano joined her from behind me.
I turned and looked and the woman singing made those letters SSBBW (super sized big beautiful woman) from my fascination with pornographic pictures jump into my mind. She was huge, immense, but also beautiful in that way some truly big women have. Her hair was white and worn very short. Her face was round, only the skin around her eyes showing her age with about a bazillion tiny wrinkles surrounding them. The rest of her face was smooth, skin drawn taut by the fat that kept her so delightfully plump. She moved with that strange grace of some truly fat women, her movements smooth, her huge body seeming to almost glide.
Her low-cut top showed about an acre of cleavage and the flamingo tattooed on the top of her breast was very nicely done.
I couldn't make a good guess at her age. Certainly north of 50 and south of about 80, but beyond that, I really couldn't tell.
Her significant other was the perfect opposite. In body type, he was the opposite, stick-thin compared to her enormous size and perfect roundness. Opposite in age too. If we gave him a beer I was sure we'd be committing a crime. 21 was out of the question and if we're being honest, I wondered about a draft card.
He was a handsome rascal, though, in that college debate team or maybe chess club sort of way with horn-rim glasses completing the nerd image. He was practically drooling as he looked at Paula.
As the song wound down, that slow coda, "I'm only going, over Jordan, I'm only going, home" repeated both women started giggling.
"Very good," the new woman said.
"You've done this professionally," Paula said.
"A little," she said, closing the distance and extending her hand.
"I'm Jeannie," she said, smiling.
"Paula," Paula replied, her smile as wide.
"And who," Jeannie said, closing the distance between us with that fluid grace and laying pudgy hands on my arm, "is this beautiful creature."
Paula giggled and I laughed. She had that kind of personality.
"David," she said, "meet Jeannie, Jeannie, David."
Paula, in turn, moved toward's Jeannie's, well, it turned out to be her husband, her sixth we learned, and just molded herself to him.
"And you are?" she asked, obviously free of all inhibitions now.
His smile was almost shy but he managed, "I'm John."
As we talked and sang and ate, it turned out John was a good cook with no musical talent at all, we learned about each other. Jeannie was kind of an itinerant semi-professional singer. She was one of those on whom the movie "Duets" was based, and she made a reasonable living winning karaoke contests. She and John had been married for six months and he knew of her Flamingo Life going in.
"What can I say?" he said at one point, "I'm in love with her, warts and all."
We followed RV park protocol and quieted down at 9:00 sharp.
"Come down to our shack," she said, taking my hand and pulling me up. I escaped long enough to case the guitar but then we walked down the road, two couples each hand-in-hand.
Their "shack" as she called it was a very high-end Class A motorhome, about 35 feet long with four slide-outs. Hell, I had lived in houses with fewer square feet than this thing had.
As we went in I looked around and said, "wow, karaoke must pay well."
She giggled and said, "no, choice in husbands pays well. This was my divorce settlement from number four."
Paula and I laughed at that.
Jeannie settled into her oversize recliner with a sigh.
"Paula," she said, "be a dear and get some beers out of the refrigerator. Oh," she said, giggling, "you'll find some very good pot in the freezer too if you're interested."
"And John, do come here, please," she added with a happy smile.
Paula went to the refrigerator and returned quickly.
The beers were Japanese Sapporo's and the pot was old-school, with buds, and a pipe. I sat next to Jeannie, in another recliner, this one not quite so overstuffed.
Jeannie reached into the little console between the recliners and came out with a small vial and a tiny funnel.
As I lit the pipe and passed it to Paula, Jeannie crooked her finger, beckoning John. "Take your clothes off, honey," she said, "let's show these folks why I love you so much."
He didn't hesitate. He peeled off the T-shirt that advertised some restaurant in Tucson, Arizona I had never heard of, kicked off his shoes, demonstrated good balance by standing on one foot after the other and peeling off his socks, unbuttoned and unzipped his jeans, and pushed down his boxers.
And showed the biggest cock I had ever seen and that included group showers during basic training.
Jeannie lifted it in her hand and patted it with her other, giggling and saying, "Hello handsome."
I watched, fascinated, as she picked up the tiny funnel and dipped it into the saliva pooled on her tongue, and gently pushed it into John's urethra, her attention completely on what her hands were doing. Then she lifted that ridiculous cock until the funnel pointed up and tapped a small sprinkle of the white powder in the vial down the funnel and into his ureter and I watched as his cock sprang erect. I use the word "sprang" advisedly. It jumped from soft and hanging to solid and pointing straight up his body in about one second.
Christ, it was the size of a Coke can but about a foot long.
