I Wouldnt Call Her A Hooker Until Ch 02

Second and concluding part.

No graphic sex. Reading the first part would provide a basis for greater understanding. This second part, however, possibly will stand alone. To be sure, I am guilty of fascination with words and frequently choosing archaic constructions. To the half dozen who possibly will read and enjoy my humble effort, I extend my appreciation for their time. The characters herein portrayed are works of fiction and any resemblance to persons alive or dead is purely coincidental.

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Aunt Maggie could always "do whatever is necessary."

Postmodern cultures of the western hemisphere had fragmented as militant women arose marching in lock-step with select minorities. Chaos had ruled as advocates for "Americanism" had hesitated when initially challenged.

Always sensing change in advance of the curve, Aunt Maggie had observed, prepared and seized the moment. Opportunism governed her powerful nature.

There is genius in knowing who, what and where you are. Aunt Maggie had parlayed banking her earnings for four months in a Pahrump, Nevada, brothel into a powerful fortune. Manufacturing had served as her vehicle.

Manufacturing Orgasms, LLC, now competes with the information technology giants on the stock markets.

"When Rome is burning," Aunt Maggie said in the conclusion of her keynote speech at a Wall Street awards ceremony in Las Vegas, "I cornered the market in selling illusion about pussy."

That's my Aunt Maggie. She is 97.5 per cent avenging Angel and a bigger than life practitioner of the erotic arts. When the Revolution of American Sluts, LLC, attained a foothold and threatened civilization, Aunt Maggie bought a controlling interest in the best brothels in Nevada.

Whores with true integrity of the ages, she advised, by their very nature support "freedom" initiatives and respect constructive individual differences. "Happy Health for all who earn comfort" was Aunt Maggie's brothel slogan.

"Respectable conservative whores always must survive Mother Nature's predatory politics," Aunt Maggie told CNN. "When all the hysterical sound and fury calms, we will still be standing in Washington as the only reliable mentors."

This time, however, she was fashioning a stairway out of a collapsing paradise as the Pacific Rim's pleasure paradise sank into subjective oblivion.

Even those of us who would fight to the finish to avoid being wimps, cowards or cuckolds can't stand alone in the 21

st

Century. Being strong, effective and dedicated to "freedom and justice for all" will just get your fundament abused if you don't have an Aunt Aggie as your avenging angel.

Well! To be sure, Aunt Aggie was our latter day General Patton, Athena and Aphrodite rolled into one.

To set the dictates of this story, I must tell you that my wife had assumed the identity of personal demon from hell as well as my professional nemesis.

Vernon, a nuclear terror of a lawyer in the quest for Zeus' power, had won fame in the emerging sport sex competitions. I, too, had laughed dismissively when I first learned of the brutal underground tournaments.

"Preposterous! Gangbang Olympics in abandoned warehouses?" I had snorted. "And they want me to believe the grand champ banks $200,000?"

There! We have introduced my loving wife, Vernon, fulfilling a literary requirement. I kid you not, my wife had earned the highest accolade as a sexual dynamo who wears the Champion's Belt in The Gangbang Olympics.

Testing my observer's credulity from the outset, I must announce that my wife just won the $250,000 grand prize in the annual Underground Slut's Rodeo somewhere in the desert of Nevada. I was not an admirer and certainly no subscriber.

When questioned, Vernon took the fifth. Shrugging diffidently she casually denied she was covertly recognized as a world renowned slut.

"Don't go viral," her best friend answered when asked. "It's just an avocation that pushes the envelope a little."

I was not sure what that meant, but I have learned from reliable witnesses that Vernon had no equal as a sport sex competitor. She was the "indisputable champ," or more precisely the most deluded tramp.

Vernon had placed five 20-pound gold trophies on our mantle worth $1800 an ounce. Her Gangbang Super Bowl ring and belt buckle were worth $50,000. Anyone could check the daily cost of gold by the ounce.

What about her threat to me professionally? As a lawyer with no equal in brilliant and corrupt practices, she was leading the onslaught to steal the billion-dollar private foundation of which I am the chief executive officer.

****OF TIJUANA AND THE BAJA...perhaps my "Fail Safe" option****

Then there's Aunt Maggie. If interested in knowing Aunt Maggie, one needed the fine perception to know when the prosaic ends and the poetic begins. It always helped if you knew that poetic did not mean pretty and surreal.

My magnificent spirit of Eve incarnate, my Aunt Maggie, could apprehend and intuit: ... ... ...PRIMAL SCREAMS OF NIHILISTS FROM THE GOLDEN GATE'S GIRDER 13 TO THE BAJA ... ... ...

... ... ...Or blind poets playing Mozart's Requiem in Golden Gate Park at Evensong... ... ...

... ... ...Or perhaps the wooden facades and beaded black eyes of Medusas directing the deconstruction of the American constitutional republic from the Marin shores of San Francisco Bay... ... ...

In the face of almost certain political, social and economic upheaval along The Pacific Rim, my Aunt Maggie once more was exercising her Midas touch. In so doing, the magnificent exemplar of feminine beauty had included me and my assistant in her "Fail Safe" strategies.

We were touring Aunt Aggie's new palatial headquarters overlooking the blue Pacific in The Baja when I received word. My associates alerted me that my wife had launched a surprise attack to seize The Foundation.

During my three-day tour of Tijuana and The Baja, however, my perspectives of my world had changed. Opportunity beckoned, though the specter of a human catastrophe also plagued my unconscious.

For all the potential for getting rich quick, Tijuana posed shadowy risks once associated with Casablanca or Algiers.

It was true that a paradox called NAFTA (a treaty that jeopardized North Americans) had built an economic marvel on the Mexican side of the border. It was based on business model called The Maquiladoras.

But it was also true that the prosperity had drawn several hundred thousand souls without baggage or skills. Leaders of the region faced a ticking time bomb of festering humanity.

At least a dozen global corporations had staffed impressive buildings in Tijuana. Assuredly, I had gained useful knowledge of this strange and magnetic metropolis, but the pregnant question of my relevance was hanging fire.

Never beg a question of fate. This had served as my rudder. But my tormenting question would not lower its volume.

I would forever ask myself, "How could I have known that this quick 'fact finding' flight to The Baja, arranged by my beautiful Aunt Maggie, very soon would become my salvation?"

So, too, had I found that my Maggie, my mother's youngest sister, had qualified unquestionably as my ideal woman. No! I'm not into incest. I suppose I should qualify that disclaimer. Let's say I could be persuaded if "Americanism" dies a death of horror.

Always, from my earliest memories, I had loved Aunt Maggie dearly; but, after this sojourn in Tijuana and The Baja, I would consider the unthinkable.

Only an awkward fantasy was this illusory attachment to a woman eight years older, $199, 999,000 richer and 50 IQ points smarter. As she had since I was runny nosed terror of a kid, Aunt Maggie adored me and never ceased to "look out" for me.

We were in the process of leaving Tijuana to cross the border to return to San Diego. Our collective sense of survival flashed as a mob of "citizens of the world" surrounded Maggie's Town Car. Our driver stopped. We began to rock violently.

"Who are they and what do they want?" Grace asked Aunt Maggie.

"They are the vanguard of American Haters International," Maggie answered with calm and resignation written on her face. "And they want everything."

Maggie had earned her spurs in this insidious sociopolitical game. Her quartet of cultural historians had described the comprehensive assault on Western Civilization as cultural genocide, "Erase Americanism and disembowel Americans."

"They want my money and property!" she said almost in distraction. "And they'll take your beautiful ass if they get the chance."

Ever the serious joker, Maggie taunted Grace.

"What about your beautiful ass?" Grace responded with a hoot, refusing to be serious.

"They've had my ass many times, my dear," Maggie answered. Aunt Maggie can play the game with critical statistical distribution. One never knew when she "gave her ass" in metaphorical time and when she possibly had pulled a train. Knowing anything with certainty about Aunt Maggie seemed impossible.

I was relieved when Grace did not pose the logical follow-up question. I did not want to know how Aunt Maggie's ass was used. Maggie had served as my prototypical sex object from the beginning of my pubertal curiosity. I was smart enough never to wish for more than fantasies.

Though identity as an individual has minimal significance in the 21

st

Century, I was Frank Trafficant. Grace was my personal assistant.

We both held bona fide doctorates, and we earned our keep administering a private foundation worth more than a billion dollars.

My wife, whose avocation was competitive whoring, also held inestimable power as the general counsel for the university where I also held the office of Dean of the New School of Social Sciences. The Foundation had funded the continuing seminar examining "The New World Order of Authoritarian Alignments." I also held that brief.

Our marginal assault by a mob laughingly called "demonstrators" was nothing new. Clownish agitators had become a fact of life, appearing suddenly like an apparition from hell in a scene from Shakespeare.

Grace realized that I had become uncomfortable in the repartee about the various uses of my aunt's ass. With her usual exercise of ingenuity and unctuous diplomacy, Grace had shifted the conversation to our sincere appreciation of the magnificence of The Baja manor on the cliff overlooking the Pacific.

**********

Later, once we were on the runway at San Diego International, we learned that ostensibly some musicians from a major German symphony orchestra had led a throng of hired protesters at the U.S. border. How did a German symphony orchestra come to Tijuana to protest?

Don't ask! They have no reasonable answer. So I never asked. I simply watched helplessly from the car window. My poor brain ached from all of the other offending eventualities. Could chaos and social collapse follow closely?

"Americanism" as distinct from legalistic citizenship and nationalism was under siege. Incredibly, they were attacking the one governing philosophy that had insured their freedom to protest.

Our three-day fact finding mission to The Baja had yielded mixed results. In the first instance, we had found Aunt Maggie's visionary new colony on the Pacific to be a virtual English village of Ninth Century vintage, though empowered with futuristic wireless high tech.

In the second rank of priority in Aunt Maggie's special report, however, her well compensated futurists threw academic bean balls as expected.

Essentially, they said, to become a part of Aunt Maggie's "Brave New World," Grace and I effectively would declare the body politic of the American Republic defeated and lifeless; therefore, there would exist no St. George to protect the world from any Leviathan. Our genetic identity, the experts said, had been rendered anchorless, soon to be expunged from the history archives.

Grace had eerily stated the case. We would have no "Fail Safe" moment. There would be no turning back.

For ever more, Grace and I would have become committed to the sanguine though savage world of The Cartels. Fundamentally, Aunt Maggie's academic seers were saying that all gentility had dissolved.

Our people had returned to the rule of instinct, the cave if you will. Would they cry foul when their masters applied the whip and noose, reducing them to the euphemism of Mother Nature's Sadism?

Back to square one for the human common denominator known as "Everyman," the report had said. "Dog eat dog" was the simplistic economic reality that everyone could understand. There exists no socio political disease to diagnose, the experts wrote. "Americanism" was only a brief kink in history with its exploration of the esoteric "Freedoms."

"Restrict 'freedom talk' to abstruse debates behind closed doors and limit the players to hooded academic apparatchiks." Aunt Maggie's hired culture tutors apparently could live dangerously.

"Americanism," the seminarians concluded, was fading into the brain's crevices of "disempowered conservative white men" to lie in the archives with "Atlantis," "Eldorado" and the "Seven Cities of Cibola."

Both Grace and I had found ourselves episodically buoyant during The Baja tour only to crash without warning, the euphoria quickly countered by visions of futuristic horrors.

Our visit to The Baja had been less than a renaissance.

Sex? Rutting? Love? No, not yet!

Life with Vernon, the counter intuitive gangbang champion and general counsel for the Provost, had become tragic comedy. Her fame as a competitor in high-finance sex festivals had grown and spread. Apparently, Vernon's sexual heroics in the name of charity had become a new competitive sport.

It was her ballooning barracuda image as a lawyer, however, that concerned me.

Leading the campaign to seize control of The Foundation that I had administered since my law school days made her a staple news item in perpetuity. With more than a billion in foundational assets in the balance, the story had caught the pernicious curiosity of all feminist and leftist deconstructionists.

Their sycophant news editors kept the "Wife Jousts With Husband For Billions" headline waving daily on so called TV features, radio talk shows and an assortment of the print media.

Consequently, I remained a standing target for humiliation as the slow process of protecting the Foundation as well as my tenure at the university proceeded.

Interlaced in the fabric of this critical interlude in The Baja, understandably, was the unconscious stereotypical visions of my wife. Shaking them from my depths of being had proved impossible.

As we had toured the The Baja considering the end of the world as we knew it, Vernon ostensibly was partying in Berkeley. It was described as a retreat for women charged with "administering the concerns of injustice in a corrupt and unjust world."

Grace had enquired before we flew out for The Baja venture. She discovered that my wife's Berkeley "seminar" was a cover for another incredible "Gangbang League" event. Grave had learned that these sex tournaments had gained credibility among the "deep pockets" of the Silicon Valley and the high rises of San Francisco.

"It seems that another weekend on her back in the three-million-dollar Palazzo Motor Home was a 'retreat' she could not refuse," Grace said, succinctly summarizing the status of Vernon's mentality since that Fourth of July picnic orgy.

Rumor had it that Vernon had won the $100,000 purse two weeks earlier in Portland, Oregon, in a main event spectacle involving 113 serial partners.

"What about her siege of our faculty building?" I asked, refreshing the images of the week-long assault on our property on the university campus.

"Vernon's paid army of anarchists is still waging war between doping sessions with their bongs," Grace answered. "Don't know what they'll do now that they've torn out all the walls in our offices."

At one point, when I felt the cold chill of depression so intensely, as I irrationally heaped glowing coals of cuck guilt upon myself, Aunt Maggie suggested that the time had come to end the farce. Whether through divorce or something more bloody, I should bury Vernon, she said.

Sighing with unfelt anxiety at the thought of terminating my wife, I smiled while pouring another Martini.

"Bloody Right! Bury Vernon!"

Our conversations about survival had continued and intensified during our sojourn at Aunt Maggie's magnificent palatial complex on the Pacific coast of The Baja. Grace was the first to sense that I was leaning toward remaining among the debris of the remains of California.

"Would I hear the raucous strains of the bass guitar and the pot inspired whines of insipid mindless lyrics as the last shot was fired? Who would fire that shot?

"Frank, the freedom dream has ended," Aunt Maggie said as we sat on the veranda outside her bedroom 100 feet above the captivating Pacific beach.

For 240 years it has been only an impossible dream, the "white paper" authors had surmised. Aunt Maggie, for reasons of her own, was selling, her voice soothing and sympathetic.

Our Republic was in shatters! Genghis Khan had won in the final analysis. Pancho Villa had never died? Xerxes at last had seized Athens!

Representative government and "power inherent in the governed" had been a fool's dream? Aunt Maggie's futurist experts said it. They should know; and the legion of deconstructionists employed by the new Caesars were hammering my office in San Francisco apart as we watched the Pacific sunset from The Baja.

We had just read the Greer Commission "White Paper." Only 49.5 per cent of the 319 million anthropoids occupying the North American continent considered themselves "Americans." From that statistical stem the analysis of the status of "Americanism" followed a downward curve.

Astoundingly, the woman who commissioned the study, my Aunt Maggie, played all sides of the incredible issues against the middle. She had financed the construction of the early feminist camarillas. During a pivotal presidential campaign, she had incurred the wrath of the "movement."

From sluts to feminist lawmakers, Aunt Maggie was excoriated when she endorsed an enigmatic iconoclast for president.

Of more immediate concern was the effect her buying into the T13 Global Interest Group, LLC. Aunt Maggie had always been ahead of the curve in all categories. Making money, moreover, was her genius.

********

Aunt Matilda (Maggie) Hearthstone Gaston-Greer enjoyed the distinction of flying her needle nose jet and owning 200 micromini skirts. This pleasant quirk of style amused other mega moneybags of her very limited milieu.

Softly landing the jet at San Francisco, Aunt Maggie glanced at her copilot, a very young former fighter pilot. His red face punctuated a flight from San Diego in which he had failed in his effort to raise his eyes from her exposed show-girl perfect legs.

It was such moments that men ten years younger realized that Maggie's famed penchant for micro miniskirts was not to be taken casually. Rich as sin, Maggie also could take plaudits on a fashion runway or a stripper bar.

I had often teased my aunt with the suggestion that displaying her charms should be declared a taboo to protect her copilots. They secured the plane, and Aunt Maggie came back to the passenger compartment to join us.

"Let's compare notes quickly," she said glancing at her MontBlanc Nicolas Rieussec. "Now that you've toured my new domain, I need to know if you're interested."

"Leaving the United States forever to live in Mexico has not been high on my to do list," Grace said.

"The Baja is Mexico in name only, my dear," Maggie responded concealing her irritation. "My associates in Tijuana own The Baja."