Lavender Blue Panties

(A work of unmitigated fiction. No person of the author's acquaintance could ever qualify for the precincts of this story.)

Lavender Blue panties CH 6 (Conclusion)

Yesterday at 2:10 p.m. I had just begun my scheduled three-hour seminar that Lisa Gomez Alexander assures me will "inflate and elevate" my chronically sagging libido from a 1.5 to 1.75 gold star rating.

My cell phone played "Georgia on My Mind" as Lisa's ministrations began, but I turned it off. And in so doing I missed a frightening bit of news about my wife who for the past year has resided in 12 by 12 prison cell.

All concerned with my wife's fortunes, for a variety of conflicting reasons, had compelled ourselves to watch the progress of her appeal through the tedious process up to The Ninth Circuit Court of Appeals.

If the masterminds behind her fall from grace had miscalculated and the Ninth Circuit freed her, many would suffer from her vengeance. Most certainly, I did not like my wife, but I realistically appraised her as powerful, vindictive and capable of perpetrating mayhem.

Somewhere in that vast California desert between Barstow and Needles, my wife, Dr. Julia Harvey, serves her 25-year murder sentence. In my mind's eye, I perversely see her spitting the devil's own bile perfecting her anger into maniacal Black Magic incantations as she fits and fumes.

How could fate have selected Dr. Julia Harvey, my wife, for such incredible betrayal? Had she not paid her dues and earned the time honored immunity of The Elite, partnered with the wealthy and befriended the powerful? Translated that meant that she had sexually entertained and been entertained by all of the "Assholes" in that great consortium of practicing geniuses known as The Leadership.

No Theater of The Absurd could have concocted a more nonsensical trial than that which produced her guilty verdict.

But I could care less at this point. By some quirk of fortuity, the night she was found in remote farm house holding a smoking pistol with three bodies at her feet, just hours earlier I had surprised myself and Julia by issuing my own personal indictment of her scornful attitude and blatant disrespect of husband and family.

Since my wife departed for jail, the invincible Lisa Gomez Alexander, wife of my wife's lover and business partner, incredibly has insinuated herself into my life. Lisa declared her intention to reinvent me as an alpha male in the same breath that she promised to dismember her husband and my wife.

I'll never forget Lisa's storming into my office waving my wife's errant Lavender Blue Panties. Discovering Dr. Julia Harvey's signature Lavender Blue Panties in the possession of Jeffery Alexander, her husband, had lit the short fuse of this 100 pounds of Gelignite personified. Until that instant, I did not know that my wife was leading the San Francisco's Golden Gate slut parade. I had suspected and perceived but had no hotbed of fact based betrayal singing my soul.

Within hours of my enduring Lisa's epic portrayal of the betrayed wife, the lives of my wife, my daughters and my wife's varietal male menagerie, including Lisa's Jeffery, had changed radically.

Lisa had assumed comprehensive authority over me by the time the trial of the highly esteemed Dr. Julia Harvey ended. Inventorying all of Lisa's considerable assets, furthermore, confirmed that she possessed all of the tools required to conquer whole continents and pacify all the tribes. Swearing an amateur slut's oath to retool my diminishing libido and provide me with a reason for being, apparently having diagnosed the gods' design errors, Lisa marshaled all of her considerable assets.

It was not a matter of Lisa's concentrated attentions testing my love for my incarcerated wife, Dr. Julia Harvey. "Love" requires an intuition. Since my Dr. Harvey served as the exemplar of instinctual pragmatism and contempt for Platonic intuitionalism or perceptions of excellence, "love" was never a possibility.

I had followed my wife's legal fortunes or misfortunes only for the purpose of protecting myself through early warning should she ever escape or the capricious appeals court release her. In other words my only interest was in preventing the bitch from slipping up behind me. Well, in the interest of being candid, I confess that my community property share of the $130 million in her Cayman Zurich accounts at times compelled my interest.

My divorce petition stands in suspension pending the outcome of her appeal.

Case number xxx xxx xxx had simmered in the appeals courts from day one of her incarceration. With the each tick of the clock, I had expected the Ninth Circuit to grant her freedom and apologize for her inconvenience.

I had heard a germane rumor earlier that day. It seems that Julia's lover-lawyer, Robert "Bob" Steelemon, had summoned my two daughters and my old friend Jenks Jenkins to a hush hush meeting in his offices. It was unclear whether the meeting would occur this afternoon or tonight.

Lisa had focused on my daughters as the hot buttons to use in penetrating their mother's genius for survival. I could care less other than protecting myself from ambush.

But Lisa, an acquisitive genius of the first order, reasoned that Steelemon needed the daughters, who held survivor's legal rights, to effect an objective scheme to loot Julia's treasury, though he had failed to discover the locale of that wealth.

"Your old friend Jenks Jenkins plays a black knight's role in this charade," Lisa fumed. "And the sneak is succeeding in keeping his ass out of sight."

It wasn't as if Lisa had not secured an investigators treasure trove of investigative evidence indicting Jenks for almost every conceivable sin.

Jenks, Lisa had documented, had marched lock step with my wife since our days at school. He had shagged her exponentially more than I. And after the girls earned their stripes as esteemed practitioners in the pussy market, the little piece if fecal chemical, Jenks, had stood first in line for their services.

Obviously, if the court were about to loose Julia upon the world, these two little whores and San Francisco's Sultan of Thieves would see their window of opportunity closing. They would move quickly, call an emergency meeting and force the issue of how to plunder my wife's odious assets, a treasure trove derived from depths of wickedness heretofore unplumbed.

To my continuing dark dismay, I had failed in all efforts to fit my slimy little "best friend," Jenks Jenkins, into this invidious chess-like crap board of malfeasance other than his smirking boasts since Julia's trial ended.

Well! Jenks, who had seduced all my women, had to pay.

Even a low calorie wimp like me would react if Jenks persisted in telling his erotic stories about my wife and my daughters for the purpose of humiliating me and others found him credible. It did not matter that they were whores. Using them was not the point in issue. Bragging about it like a pool room stud was the unacceptable affront to an old friend.

In the 21st Century no one except me cared that he had banged Julia with unlimited license for two decades before she became a figment of her prosecutor's imagination and found herself a profane spirit flitting about the China Lake desert. Since I did not know of the unforgivable violation of their duty to me as spouse and friend, however, the betrayals became insidious on many levels and compelled me to change from my wimpish personal metric system and roar forth with a full blown jet of global warming horsepower.

My Raven would soon be tapping on Jenks Jenkins' window once I sorted my wife's convoluted madness. Fortuitously, Jenks had something I had always wanted and, given recent events involving my wife, I valued much higher than my wife. Yes! Even a retardate of a tax lawyer can become obsessed with owning a boat like Jenks' floating brothel and casino.

His magnificent 50-foot sloop most certainly persisted in my calculations for retribution. And I was perfecting my scheme for purloining the majestic seaworthy vessel before poor Jenks is reported as lost at sea.

My daughters, exemplary whores extraordinaire, undoubtedly will sail with me one loop around the globe as deck hands before I leave their Uncle Jenks on an iceberg in the North Atlantic. Perhaps I should consult the library of Sado/Masochism more assiduously before deciding friend Jenks' fate.

Bartering my whoring daughters to Somali pirates poses more than a few tactical problems. We'll just be forced to weigh all issues and see how it plays out. Perhaps that does qualify as "over reacting."

Then, too, there's the problem of my Helena. Unlike her sister Julie, in my humble estimation Helena could do nothing that could not be rationalized and forgiven. But that's getting ahead of the story's dictational curve.

Settling accounts with my wife's lover-lawyer Steelemon and lover weasel Jeffery Alexander presents no such Homeric qualms. When the time comes, the San Francisco morgue will have two more with terror stamped on their eyeballs.

I kid you not, all cadavers have a video resume of the former occupant's life playing eternally in the iris. It plays like a DVD from their feverish brains as their intuitions, if they ever existed, are deleted and their instinctual hard drives tortured into screaming confessions and apologies.

Perhaps they all did not share equal guilt. I must think judiciously about that probability.

What about their panic meeting tonight?

More was afoot here than met the eye.

But their devotion to these insidious designs to virtually rape their mother would hardly qualify as a sanity threatening movement in Julia's endlessly quaking scenario. Obviously, from the outset of her crafting an academic kingdom, she had brilliantly rewritten the rules of engagement for vice, political corruption and personal duplicity. And in doing so she had amassed a dark fortune of astounding power. She also apparently had sown seeds of human degradation in our daughters that had germinated as if by evil magic once the price was right.

All of us knew from the moment Julia was hauled away on the prison bus that her lover-lawyer and our daughters had combined their interests in robbing Julia of her mysterious fortunes. To an unsophisticated culturally comfortable lawyer of my description, these incredible events and the shocking willful debasement of our daughters had left me temporarily in a state of moribund ineptitude.

As this classic plot of greed and betrayal gestated in my battered consciousness, my daughters had phased overnight from classic images of intuitional beauty into defiled instinctual sculptures of marketable jewels of pristine evil. Their eyes told me everything I needed to know. As a tax lawyer, may times I had seen this dialectical materialism seize a good soul without fanfare. They would empower themselves as global power brokers if they could just find their mother's elaborately hidden bounties and ransoms and unlock her cleverly concealed loot harboring crypts.

And the fact that I am still married to Julia makes me a potential heir and most certainly a claimant. To be sure, though the American culture ended with the election of 1960, all foundations for defining economic and social intercourse required the Judeo-Christian legal fictions and political notation to function.

Yes! I must watch my intuitional shadow and cover my instinctual butt more perfectly.

Urgently, I must interject that I was shamefully aware of nagging and at times cajoling personal core values almost hysterically demanding that I react like a suprahuman father governed by an uncompromising moral compass. I am painfully compelled to intervene in the process in which my lovely daughters were becoming perfected whores. I am conscious, moreover, of the cowardice inherent in my conditioning as a servant of "The Law" that precludes my accepting the risk of injuring my own fragile psyche in the brutal chaos that will likely ensue.

Their mother suddenly was a character study in Cartesian duality. She had performed as an exemplar of intellectual achievement in becoming an iconic Feminist scholar in examining all aspects of human behavior; but incomprehensibly she had bequeathed the girls three functioning and legendarily profitable whore emporiums.

According to Lisa Gomez Alexander's candid assessment of my Daughter's progress in assuming their mother's carefully shrouded stature as status leader of Nevada's legalized brothel owners, our elder daughter's refinement into the harsh joys and benefits of whoring had progressed beyond the pale. Julie had incorporated, making herself the CEO and our more vulnerable and innocent Helena the image of the intangible product.

"Your Julie is the custodian of the profit motive and your sensual angel, Helena, is the advertised logo or abstract illusion of perfection packaged as fulfillment and satisfaction." Lisa Gomez Alexander glowed with pride in achievement as she offered this summary to me.

Yes! Whores! As the fine print of their mother's legacy insidiously became more visible, both daughters, the focally objective Julie and the intelligently subjective Helena, had begun to gain fame as whores and feather their nests with incredible riches.

However! My deeply rooted sanctimony notwithstanding, I am mortal and the erotically delectable Lisa, now a divorcee with Homeric appetites, had essentially reduced me to the status of slave to my hanging gut.

Well, that treacherous tragicomedy starring my wife and daughters could wait! At the moment, I had other concerns. It was a choice between enjoying sexual delights worth a king's ransom and turning off the cell and ignoring Julia's sordid world for two hours of ecstasy with Lisa Gomez Alexander. I might qualify as indolent and ineffective, but I know a bigger than life opportunity when I see it.

True! Perhaps rutting instinctually between Lisa's legs instead of speeding toward Nevada to attempt to argue the case against whoring marks me as lower than my wife. But you must know Lisa and her proclivities before you can make that judgement.

Errant thoughts while having sex always fascinated me. For instance, what difference would my having become a Navy Seal have made in my life's story?

Of course, leaving my cell phone on and chiming during her performance would have provoked Lisa into one of her green bile rages. And that could lead to her cancelling that afternoon's libido seminar. To be sure, no doubt that I had become addicted to "my amazing and spectacularly raw pussy," as Lisa was fond of saying.

Not to put too fine a point on it, I must agree that her seminar was like a floating straw to a drowning man. Not by chance, I was the only seminarian. Not too many times in my 40 years and counting had I been such a candidate for such exquisite bounties. I cringed, however, when she went too far and referred to herself as a "gift of The Magi."

My status leader, the indomitable Lisa, stood poised and naked, her instructive slit and related complexities flowing and trigger-sharp ready. Thinking outside the box, however, Lisa was always orgasmically cocked and rapid fire. Getting a key to her box was the problem.

Like any genius who loved her calling, Lisa quickly opened my exclusive Seminar Number 222, persisting in her mission to find my Don Juan gene and free me of the onus of sexual mediocrity. Oh, yes! It had occurred to me that Lisa betrayed similarities to the professions of my wife and daughters that were too glaring to blind with claims of ignorance.

Today's lecture and lab demo introduced Lisa's "double stroke cervix plunge." Understandably, I'm somewhat reluctant since I have not yet become confident in executing the "single stroke" and simply cannot understand her theories of recoil-product-errors in the application of high grade industrial lubricants. But it's a most fascinating three hours that would give afternoon TV game shows competition.

Wonderful world! How that divine genie found me, at best a mediocre tax lawyer, and plugged my psyche into Lisa Gomez's tempestuous existence puzzles me. It's a bona fide riddle that sometimes keeps me awake at night.

At times Lisa Gomez darkens, glowers and eats lightning bolts, but she's truly interested in remaking me into a postmodern Hugh Hefner. She has philosophized that my quasi failures as a lawyer could stem from my liabilities in the precinct of Eros. I think that means I'm a lousy lover.

Until recently she was Lisa Gomez Alexander, the nuclear tipped spouse of Jeff Alexander, one of my wife's lovers; and, as I had learned along the way, Jeff was only Julia's second most trusted partner in a multitude of lucrative rackets.

It seems that Jeff was forced to compete with Julia's lawyer, Robert "Bob" Steelemon, for both a place in her body orifices and her reward for authoring one of her most sophisticated and profitable political shake downs, of the age. Both of these worthies wilted so to speak when Julia went down for the Judge's count, a sentence of 25 years in this instance.

Jeff Alexander got the golden feces kicked out of him by Lisa. She predictably raped him in the divorce court; but, more prosaically, she beat him savagely with a pole lamp the day after finding Julia's Lavender Blue Panties in his pocket. He now wears many metal parts as a result of his injuries at her hands.

And Steelemon earned a clown's nose and dunce's cap as a lawyer for trying to defend Julia in that peculiarly configured murder trial, a proceeding that had "fix" written all over it. But who was "fixing" whom?

Both Alexander and the Steelemon, however, irrationally remained in Julia's harness, resurfacing once the trial ended and the newsies faded away.

At times during the trial, they had blustered and bleated about their hardly knowing Julia. This occurred only when they testified and could not avoid cameras and maniacal journalists. Then they peeped furtively around metaphorical corners, though they were always lying low, and stealthily made her as comfortable as possible in jail.

Indeed, we all, lover and foe alike, were anticipating Julia's return from The Inferno, her almost apocalyptic rise from the ashes assured by the calamitous predicates of The Human Comedy. No beautiful racketeer had ever served more than six months, whatever the sentence.

Though it had flown right over my head during the trial, Lisa had filed away the pertinent details of testimony that Julia owned legal brothels in Nevada that could not be neglected. State law required sustained and competent management or lose the license for the oldest profession.

Less clear, however, was the veiled reference to Julia's even more profitable illicit whore and gambler teams. My wife, in addition to earning a reputation for "personal pussy exploits," had been a busy girl in advancing the pandering industry in the 13 western states.

Some, like the despicable duo, Alexander and Steelemon, prayed to their deity demon for her resurrection. While some of the lesser lights like me only wanted knowledge of the queen of squat as a necessary step in maintaining our defenses.

Just as obvious, however, was the simmering undercurrent that Dr. Julia's partners in the fascinating sport of multifaceted racketeering had erred in sending her to the desert jail cell and seemingly erasing her from her share of their enterprises. Their first misguided assumption was that her conviction blunted her control of her assets and left her vulnerable for virtual rape. Then they became almost catatonic when the realized that Dr, Julia's spouse would continue to control half her fortune under community property.

Lisa persisted in warning me that my wife's associates and bankers in crime, those who inconceivably masterminded her destruction, were too nervous considering the fact that they had succeeded in their dark and dirty schemes beyond their wildest hopes. Lisa noted each of their crocodile tears during the trial.