The aftermath of one of these bachelorette bacchanalias is a study in exhaustion, health worries and moral quandary. As one might surmise, any man that fucks nineteen women in one sitting is going to be tired. If he says differently, he's lying. When I'm working I'll put on a brave face late in the game, when it's only the bride and me going at it. But I'm DOG tired afterward. Just like a clock-watching blue-collar worker, I'm waiting for the end of my shift. I can sleep for days!! Fucking on demand, without consummating, is the most savage workout you can imagine.
Of course, the first thing I'm checking for when I wake up is the drip. You fuck nineteen women, one or two of them are bound to have some nasty venereal disease, hopefully not herpes or AIDS, things that can't be fixed by a trip to the medicine cabinet. I get up to pee and I'll squeeze my pud, looking for signs of drainage. I'm not going to say I haven't had the clap a time or three. I have. I know what to look for. I don't have herpes or AIDS, thank God, but it's not due to any diligence on my part. I fuck the pussies presented me. The only precaution I take is in the hope that the women I fuck know they are going to be fucked publicly at these parties and check themselves beforehand. I don't wrap up. The danger is part of my mystique. I work an hour or so every week and I get paid thousands of dollars for each performance. The risk is entirely mine. It's a cash business. I don't pay taxes. Every week I run the risk of going to jail. I have no hope of getting a Social Security check later in life. This is what I do.
I always get checked on the day of my performances as provenance of my health. If I catch a bug and pass it on, I'll have that health check as proof I caught the bug from someone in the room. The bride then takes the legal risk, after all, she invited these people. It's her responsibility to make sure they are all healthy, free of virus.
I know this sounds wildly irresponsible. That's part of my moral quandary. I'm not a bad guy. I go to church. I'm not shirking any child support bills; I don't have any children. I try not to cum in unshielded pussies, that is, I'll ask women about their birth control methods up front. But sometimes I'll spray a nice, unshielded pussy and hope for the best. So far I've been lucky. I figure I'll sling pre-nuptial dick for about ten more years, invest my winnings, and then retire before I'm forty.
I drove home after my surprise reunion with Tammy Janeway and crashed hard. The one nut I'd busted came at the expense of nineteen different pussies and countless blowjobs. I'd left Tammy's face painted in cream. Not one patch of her cinnamon colored skin survived the drip. She was bukake'd out. She could have swallowed that load, but she chose to pull away.
I woke up around noon the next day; I had to piss like a racehorse. First things first: I checked my urethra for drainage and, finding none, took a long, healthy whizz. Other than sex, there's nothing better. Real drainage takes a few days to show up, anyway.
While I was peeing, a thought occurred to me. I took my iphone and called Gloria. (You'll remember her as my pimp. I prefer to call her my scheduler.)
"...the FUCK'S YOUR problem?" she opened.
"Where's the wedding?" I asked.
"It's at that Kingdom Hall over on Goethe. 4 p.m. You know the one?"
"Yeh."
"You're not planning on ATTENDING, are you?"
"I am."
"JEEZ LOUISE. You got a set of stones on YOU, hey? What's that noise? Are you peeing?"
"I am."
The steady drone of a healthy whizz reverberated loudly in the backdrop. Gloria hung up.
I peed for another full minute before crawling back into bed. At 2 p.m., I got up to pee again, then showered and dressed. I was going to that wedding. It was unusual for a Closer to attend the actual wedding (after putting wood to the bride the night before), but I wanted to see the guy she was marrying. I wanted to look him in the eye. The pink weaves would see me at the church, of course, and start chattering among themselves. I didn't care. I was going to look this guy in the eye, wait for he and his wife to return from their honeymoon, and then I was going to call his wife and arrange to fuck her. She brought this outcome about by handing me her phone number. I'd fucked any number of men's wives just like this. OK, I'll admit I didn't know their husbands. In this case I wanted to see the man who'd corralled my former girlfriend.
Then something else occurred to me. Why in the living fuck was she getting married in a Kingdom Hall? Was her husband a Jehovah's Witness? Last I heard, the JWs don't marry outside of their religion. Unless...unless Tammy had converted and both of them were JWs. She and I hadn't really talked last night, so....
Whatever.
I didn't care either way. I didn't know much about the religion. I'd tried to chat up a JW girl once and she told me she couldn't date outside her religion. She told me this right up front, before I got around to tempting her with the vision of my cock. This was the extent of my exposure to the religion.
Just to be sure I didn't stand out from the crowd, I put on a nicely fitted black Calvin Klein suit, a white shirt and a red tie. Most churches require conservative dress for such events. This getup was the most conservative getup I owned. I wore black oxfords and dark Raybans. I looked like a Secret Service bodyguard, sans the hidden weapons arsenal. I hoped this is how JWs attended church. I didn't want Tammy's husband to notice me, notice Tammy's friends, and put two and two together. I wanted to look like a convert fresh from hawking a fuck tonne of Watchtowers on the street. The Raybans were there to cover that glazed, catatonic look endemic to most religious zealots. I didn't have it. And I couldn't fake it.
I arrived at the Kingdom Hall about fifteen minutes early and was pleased to find that my getup mixed nicely with the crowd, save for the fact that most of the black suits there came straight outta Kmart. I didn't think that anyone in that sanctuary could tell the difference between Calvin Klein and Kmart and I didn't think they cared.
I was also pleased to see that only two or three of the pink weaves showed up. They sat politely in the back and, contrary to their raucous behavior twelve hours ago, they seemed positively demur.
I found a seat on a back aisle and listened to the low hum of conversation. I noticed people referring to each other as Brother So-and-So or Sister So-and-So. No one referred to the pink weaves in that manner. I concluded that such pseudonyms were reserved for actual JWs. Persons not referred to as Brother or Sister so-and-so were treated politely and soon dismissed as outworlder.
By and by the bridal parties marched in. I didn't recognize any of the bridesmaids. None of the women standing at the front of the Kingdom Hall had attended Tammy's bachelorette party. All of them had that glazed, catatonic look I mentioned earlier. They weren't fat, nor were they overly burdened with other people's hair.
I found this strange. Why hadn't I seen any of them last night? NO ONE in the bridal party attended the bachelorette party? Wassup wid dat?
The groom and his groomsmen stood up front, too, awaiting Tammy's entrance. They all had that glazed, catatonic look in spades. None of them looked as if they'd been out fornicating in titty bars at the bachelor party last night. If I had to guess, all of the people named brother or sister so-and-so looked like Mormons. I wondered if I was in the right place.
The groom was a tall, black guy. Not as tall as me, but tall enough. He was handsome, in his rented tux. If I had to give him an assessment, I'd say he looked like a guy that hadn't had any pussy in awhile and was looking forward to getting his chance, you know what I mean? He had those shifty eyes to go along with his white smile, close shave and his dimpled cheeks. Guys that haven't been smoked properly in some time have jerky, nervous movements. This guy was going to cum fast as soon as he and Tammy were alone. I'd put money on it. He was going to cum fast the second time, too.
I could see what Tammy saw in him. He looked honest. He looked hardworking. He looked like a guy that she could raise a brood with, and take to the beach on Saturdays after they'd spent the morning hawking Watchtowers on the street. I still didn't know his name.
The woman sitting next to me had that glazed catatonic look. I figured she'd know his name.
"Excuse me, ma'am," I asked. "What's the groom's name?"
"Oh, him?" she replied. "That's Brother Samuelson. Are you a visitor?"
I fucking hate stupid questions. If I'm asking for the groom's name, it's obvious I'm not acquainted with the locals.
"Yes. I am." I replied coolly.
Not picking up on my vibe, she continued.
