MY SUMMER SEXUAL BARBEQUE - THE SIN OF NY TRANSGRESSIONS
I've always loved summer. Springtime is a time of awakening, while summer is when our sexual desires are consummated. Is it not the cooler nights that allow the release of pent up energy accrued during the warm sunny days? We view our contemporaries stripped of their outerwear, at the lake or pool in bathing suits that reveal their breasts bursting out of bikini tops, asses nude but for strings, shorts so short we can't figure out where they begin or end. And for those who favor the boys, their cocks are hardly invisible in speedos or when skinny dipping
Summer can also be a time of heartbreak. Passion and anger become uncontrollable in the extreme heat. Social gatherings indulging in too much drinking often unlock the pangs of guilt or jealousy that were much easier controlled in the winter. Summer is a time for sex, a time to create memories that will warm our inner spirit when the snow freezes and the hail pounds. For those who found intimacy and subsequently lost it, the Fall is a time of their sadness and abandonment.
As a workaholic, I wasn't always paying attention to the weather. Of course, I was aware that here in South Dakota, the cold weather starts in October and runs through February. Little by little, the cold gives way to a warming, and my wife's flower garden comes alive as the green shoots from the bulbs below break through the dark soil and fill the space with vivid colors. June through September are our warm months. Temperatures approaching or surpassing 100 degrees are not unknown. For some reason, most of the babies in our town are born in April, nine months later. A sign that more than tree sap is flowing.
Summer is a time of festivity. Traditionally we assemble on the July 4th weekend for barbeques and fireworks. Ever since I began work at the "Pierre Agricultural Insurance Company," the year seems to start and stop with the July 4th gala. We rent the town's local baseball field and throw a wing-ding of a party for our employees and any clients who wish to attend. I spend a good part of June planning the event and ordering food, beer, and booze. The celebration lasts a good 6-8 hours. Then we sit back in the bleachers, and those few of us who are still sober watch the fireworks show that our fire department puts on in the dry creek area that abuts the baseball field.
A good time is often had by all. Once in a while, there is an explosion, and I don't mean fireworks. Linda McGrady got drunk one year, took off her clothes, and ran around naked till someone caught her and covered her in a blanket. Another year, Winton Houser, our local scoutmaster, showered up with an eagle scout. The two of them were found in flagrante delicto in the park bathroom area. A few years back, Greta Hanson lifted her skirt for two of our busy salesmen behind the bleachers. And then the chickens came back to roost for me, last July 4th.
My real name is Ludovico Van Carrion del Buso. I was born in Panama. My father was from Spain, and my Mom was a Creole. As a result, I have a permanent suntan, curly hair, and a good-sized cock, thanks to my Mom's African ancestry. I'm reasonably tall and stocky. I can take care of myself if the occasion arises. Call me "Ludy Buso," it's simpler.
In this all-white community, I'm the closest thing to a black man in fifty miles of here, but I'm able to pass as white. It is a convenience. It's not that I am ashamed of my heritage, it's just easier this way. Of course, I hear racist comments, but I don't pay much attention. Many people using those epitaphs are not so racist as they are trying to confirm their own identity so they may bond with others.
Racism requires a common enemy as the glue that unites. If you read up on South Dakota history, you'll discover the Klu Klux Klan was very active after the Civil War. From 1900-1930, they burned crosses, attacked Blacks, Jews, even Catholics and, of course, immigrants from south of the border. At a certain point, their relevance seemed to die out, probably because just about everyone left was white. But hatred is only buried so deep. We see paramilitary hate groups of various names, often with federal government targets, still pop up.
I came to the USA on a student visa expecting to study electronics. I transferred to the Business School in Boise to take up management when I found the engineering course less attractive. After graduation, there was little incentive to return to my home country. I was hired at a work fair sponsored by the college. My new Boss, an alumnus, Jacob Hartack, was a kindly older man who took me under his wing in his independent insurance company.
I think from the start, Mr. Hartack was grooming me to one day take over. His concern was for his wife, a few years younger than he and a son Rudy, who was disabled. As kind and pleasant as Rudy was, there was something wrong in his brain. It did not permit him to be employed or to function as an adult. Maybe it was extreme autism or Asperger's syndrome or both. I really don't know.
Mr. Hartack lived in an old Victorian Mansion, bought at a county auction, and renovated. The house was once a busy bordello in the days of the wild west. Hartack laughed when he said the floors were worn out and had to be replaced. He kept and restored the old billiard table, which was tournament size, 5 x 10 feet that remained in the entrance parlor, now a living room. The original ivory balls had long ago disappeared, but new composite balls still rolled on the fresh Belgium green felt as Rudy clicks one ball into another. Rudy was an expert billiard player and played every day on the antique pocketless table.
Mr. Hartack said, on more than one occasion, that Rudy could have been the billiard champion of the world, but for two reasons: 1. since 1925, "no one gives a shit about 3 cushion Billiards" and 2. Rudy is afraid to leave home. Rudy only goes out to grab a sandwich from the Italian restaurant, two blocks away, and then hurries back. The same sandwich, meatballs with tomato sauce and melted cheese on a wedge. He never varies.
In the first years, I worked for Mr. Hartack as a salesman. I covered the county, working in the field. I signed up hundreds of farmers and small business people for everything, from car insurance to life and fire insurance, even crop insurance as costly as it was. I got to know our client base on a personal level. Many were the evenings I was invited to dine with their families. Now that things are tight with the farmers, I try to give them every advantage I can, extending deadlines for payments, and making sure their claims are paid promptly.
When Mr. Hartack decided to retire several years ago, he told me he wanted me to take over the agency. I was to get an equitable salary, pay Mr. Hartack's pension, and a reasonable lump sum for 15 years, at which time I would be the sole owner. Rudy was already qualified for disability, so his well being was seen too. Even in these hard times, I can pull my salary and pay Hartack's pension and profit share. I have been quite lucky to end up where I have. Now I'm the Boss.
Fortunately, I applied for citizenship years ago before the current political situation. It's a lot more complicated now. Once I passed the test and interview, my residence visa was transformed into a certificate of citizenship. Now I'm a Yankee Doodle Dandy. I'm not ashamed to say my dandy doodle has been "yankeed" quite often.
Let's get right to the point, most readers don't care about filler, just sex, so here is my sexy story.
I got married several years ago to a female wildcat from south of the sexual border. We met at a Catholic church dance. She was 18. We were engaged for six months when her brother, a bit of a gangster, told me it was time to get married, Lucinda was pregnant. She had been a virgin when we met. I knew because the first time we made love, she bled all over the motel sheets. I left $20 for the cleaning lady. I was afraid she'd think someone was murdered in that bed.
Like most Latin women, Lucinda can be as horny as a guy after a year of solitary confinement. She can also be very jealous. If my wife caught me looking at another woman or suspected I was fucking around, the doodle would possibly end up in the sink's garbage disposal, which means no "sew back on." If you don't understand, ask the ex, Mrs. Bobbit. She cut off her husband's offending dick and graciously threw it out the window where a nurse from the hospital was able to find it.
I did my fucking in bed with my wife. I do get plenty of come hither glances. This is farm country and farm girls are aggressive. In bars, after a few drinks, don't be surprised if Country Katy makes a grab for your cock, which in my cases is clearly visible as a tubular submarine inside my trousers. I just push their hands away and say,
"Thanks, but no thanks. "
That's the way I handled things for the first few years. As married people know, marital passion doesn't have to die, but it does slow down. Especially when morning sickness and diaper calls interrupt a stiff anticipatory hard on.
I work in the capital city of South Dakota, Pierre. We live outside the city in the village of Hayes. I was able to purchase 4 acres, knock down the old farmhouse that stood there and subcontract for an attractive 3000 square foot Ranch house with a three-car garage. The little town is quite small, most everybody knows each other. The population is homogeneous, white, married, and boring. Last I looked, less than one hundred people were living there. It is peaceful most of the time, but locals who get drunk at the "Cross Road Bar" get DUI's or arrested for driving without a seat belt. Donny Grettner, a more severe delinquent, stole his grandma's car and ran over a chicken making his getaway.
On occasion, my wife, Lucinda, who is tall, goes into the local "7-11" to bring me home a six-pack. The guys working there get tongue-tied, looking at two big tits, a big curvy ass, long black hair, red lips, and two eyes like saucers. They think she's come from outer space. But then Roswell, New Mexico is not that far away, only 800 miles, and everyone knows the extraterrestrials landed there in 1947,
Our insurance brokerage represents that same company you see advertised with those stupid skits on tv. I don't care for their adverts, but they do bring in the bacon. I was promoted after 10 years to my current position. The pay is just shy of 100 grand and benefits are ok, the only negative is the commute time from my home in the suburb of Hayes, outside Pierre.
Compared to more populated parts of the country, I really have little to complain about. It takes about 35 minutes to get to work, provided you are wearing your seat belt when you pass Officer Duggin, who hides behind the Donut Store. The drive is scenic, and traffic is usually free-flowing. I have a company car, I leave early. On a good day, I get my work done, and my desk is cleared by 1 o'clock. Then I take an hour lunch break. That's what I'm supposed to do. It's a small office, I run it casually. If the Boss is late coming back from lunch, no one is going to question me.
For years my lunch break was 60 minutes on the nose. I was a good guy doing what I was supposed to do. But not all of us good guys do what we are supposed to do forever. Comprende kimosave?
A few blocks from the "Toasted Bun," where I often take a light lunch, a massage parlor opened up a few years ago. It's a discrete deal, not a storefront with a neon sign. Instead, the studio is upstairs in a small three-story office building. The suit has a dignified "Physical Therapy" placard on the door, a plastic strip with black raised letters on a white background. I don't know who the owner is. Most massage parlors are owned by someone from the Asian Mafia, who sets it up and appoints a girl or two to run the place.
The gal who runs the place is Kiko., I guess she is Thai/Chinese. I never asked her. She is a pretty young woman, probably thirty years old. She has two beautiful B size breasts, a thin waist, and long hair. Kiko is not tall, but who cares? I never went there to measure her height. I first encountered Kiko sitting next to me at the counter of "The Toasted Bun" a little more than a year ago, when my wife was in the last months of her second pregnancy, and the GYN had advised against any sexual penetration. Kiko and I had a pleasant conversation. Before she left, she handed me her business card.
I have nothing against a good massage, it's a way to relax. If the masseuse is any good, your nervousness or tension begins to dissipate after about 20 minutes. Then you are floating on a cloud. A cloud that evaporates when she brushes her hands against your balls. Before you know it, your cock is shooting a missile right for the ceiling.
I appreciated the "Kiko treatment" and became a regular, visiting once a week, usually on Fridays. I'd skip lunch. I don't like sex on a full stomach.
