*Author's Note: Any and all persons engaging in any sexual activity are at least eighteen years of age.
**Disclaimers: This story has been edited by myself, utilizing Microsoft Spell-Check. You have been forewarned, expect to find mistakes.
*..*..*..*
"At this rate, I'm going become one of those damned alcoholics," Michael Chopin thought as he pulled up to the Casual, a small lounge that lived up to the name.
It was a casual, no-frills lounge with soft piped in music, dark wood paneling, soft seats and no ambience. Even the bartender was an easy-going man with slightly aloof mannerism. He was there to pour drinks. If needed, Terry would listen, but wasn't there to solve your problems.
The exterior was also very drab. Plain cinderblock walls, a heavy wooden door, a faded, hand-painted and peeling sign that announced the name of the place.
"Joe Bob, you know, they say insanity is doing the same thing over and over, hoping for different results," Terry, the old bartender was saying to a wrinkled and gray man at the corner stool. "In your case? Insanity is doing the same thing over and over, knowing what the results are going to be and just not caring. Hi Michael; the usual?"
Michael smiled. He'd last been in here four weeks earlier, but Terry already knew him, already figured what Michael was there to drink. Michael picked a stool far enough away from Joe Bob to discourage any conversation with the ill-tempered drunkard.
"Aw, Jesus Christ Joseph and Mary, Terry, you called her?" Joe Bob spat out when a harried looking mature woman entered the bar.
"No, Joe Bob. Women just have this innate thing, tells them when they're man is happy," Terry said, nodding to Carla as the woman tiredly approached her husband.
"And they just got to try and stop it," Terry continued as Carla gently guided Joe Bob to the door.
"Breaks my heart," Terry confided to Michael. "That woman's a saint, you hear?"
"Really? What position does she play?" Michael asked.
Terry shot him a smirk, but got the message. Michael wasn't there to hear about Joe Bob and Carla's marriage. He was there for his one shot of bar brand whiskey.
"Terry!" a very attractive blonde called out as she entered the bar. "I, give me an Oakleaf, okay?"
"Whitney, wait your turn," Terry playfully ordered. "Can't you see Michael was here first?"
In the Smokey mirror over the bar, Michael looked at his attractive neighbor as she took a stool three stools down from him.
Michael recognized the beautiful blonde; she and her wife, her partner, her spouse, whatever they called one another lived right next door to him and his wife, Pamela. Pamela, not Pam, not Pammy. Pamela Katherine Chopin.
Once, fixing a loose board in their adjoining fence, Michael had seen the two women getting into their hot tub. In that brief moment, Michael had seen that Whitney was a true blonde; her thatch of curls matched the loose, lazy easy style of hair on her beautiful head. Her breasts had been magnificent; two beautiful globes of flesh dotted with perfect areolae.
Polly, the other blonde had possessed an equally stunning figure, but her pubic mound was completely hairless, a fetish of Michael's. His cock was so hard he almost didn't need the hammer to drive the two nails into the board; he could have used his hard on.
But, it was five days until Pamela's fertile time. So, Michael would find no relief for his throbbing, aching cock until Pamela was fertile, ready for impregnation.
"And why's the damned board all wobbly? Oh, that's right. Because you wanted a useless hummingbird feeder. And, instead of just waiting for me to get home, you had your shit head pussy whipped Daddy come out and fuck the whole thing up," Michael muttered to himself.
Michael looked at the cracked feeder laying on the ground and resisted the urge to kick the decorative plastic feeder across the backyard. Pamela's father, George Johnson had not thought to unhook the feeder from the hook when he nailed the ring into the fence. One erroneous swing of the hammer and...
"Seventy three dollars? Seventy three fucking dollars for a plastic piece of shit, just because it supposedly looks like a red flower," Michael muttered and finished repairing the damaged board.
Board in place, Michael nailed the ring of plastic onto the fence then hung the cracked, but still useable hummingbird feeder from the ring.
"George Butterfingers Johnson is not to do anymore 'Honey-Do' chores around my house," Michael muttered to himself as he stomped across his backyard toward his back door.
"Mm, oh! Oh yes, oh God," Michael heard one of his neighbors moaning and his erection returned with a vengeance.
Thankfully, spotting the pinched, miserable face of Katherine Johnson, his mother in law wilted the tent in his shorts. Michael knew Katherine was only thirty five years old, but the woman looked seventy five.
"Okay, board's fixed, and the feeder's up," Michael said, looking at the same pinched, miserable face on his eighteen year old wife.
"Why?" Pamela spat. "I can't use it; it's broken."
"It's not broken; it's cracked. It is cracked. But the bottle where the sugar water goes is fine and the dispenser is fine," Michael tiredly explained. "The birds will be able to use it with no problem."
"For the amount of money Babbage's charged, you'd think it could take a whack with a hammer, George attempted to joke.
Michael gave the oaf a look of disgust before cutting through the living room to the kitchen. He stepped into his garage, shut the kitchen door, then gave his wife and her overbearing parents the finger.
The twenty six year old new hire at Thibodaux Investment had met Pamela Johnson on her third day of working at First Fidelity Credit Union in Elgee, Louisiana. She was stunning, long red hair, sparkling green eyes, heavily freckled face. Her manner of dress was a little dowdy, but there was no mistaking the two impressive orbs underneath the plain and shapeless dress.
She giggled and blushed as Michael flirted with her, but did refuse his request for a date. The next time Michael came into the building, he again flirted with the attractive bank teller. He found out she had recently graduated from Elgee High School and this was her first job.
Two months after first seeing her, Michael entered the Credit Union and got into line. Fortune smiled upon him; he managed to get in front of Pamela instead of another one of the three tellers on duty.
"Yesterday was my eighteenth birthday," Pamela confided to the handsome man.
"I, well, how about that?" Michael smiled.
"So, if you really want to go out with me, we can now that I'm eighteen," Pamela disclosed.
"Do I ever!" Michael enthused and she giggled and blushed prettily.
After dinner at Acapulco Grande Mexican restaurant, after steaming up the windows in his new BMW, Pamela and Michael went to Holland's Hand Cranked Ice Creamery in the Courtyard Mall and enjoyed walking around, looking at the various displays. Her manner of dress was extremely conservative; she was covered from throat to ankle and from wrist to wrist.
Pamela told Michael she and her parents were members of the Church Of The Risen And Living Messiah. Their church forbade the cutting of hair, the use of cosmetics, the wanton displaying of flesh. Michael stated firmly that he was a Catholic, had been born Catholic, and would continue to be a Catholic until the day he died.
There was more hot and steamy kisses in his car, but when Michael tried to accelerate the action, he was firmly shut down. Pamela's brilliant eyes bore into his as she asked him to please respect her, respect her religious convictions.
"Should have run for the fucking hills right then and there," Michael thought out loud as his neighbor and Terry chatted while Terry poured Michael's shot of bar brand whiskey.
"Hey, hi! I know you," Whitney Chastaine gushed, looking over at Michael.
"Well, I would hope you do," Michael smiled. "I cut the grass right next door every Saturday."
"Yeah," Whitney agreed and took a tiny sip of her own shot of amber liquid. "Mm hmm, oh, this, this is so good. Yeah, I know. Ought to hear what Polly calls you."
"Oh, I'm sure," Michael agreed. "But if I wait too late, it's just too damned hot."
"And," Michael thought. "Ought to hear what my wife calls y'all."
Apparently, the fat, balding sanctimonious horse's ass that presided over the Church of the Risen and Living Used Car Lot Messiah had taken a marks-a-lot marker and had blacked out 'Judge not, that ye not be judged' in the pages of his Bible. The pompous jackass certainly never taught his followers the true meanings of the word of Christ. Forgiveness, servitude, love...
"Jesus died for ALL," Michael had told Katherine, George, and Pamela when they yet again sat around his comfortable living room, passing judgement on all they found to be worthy of their contempt. "Even those horrible and disgusting homosexuals right next door."
"But only if they seek forgiveness for their wicked wantoness," Pamela smugly declared.
"For Jesus sayeth, 'I am the Way, the Truth and the Light...'" Katherine stated. "No one comes to the Father except through me."
"Dear God; I should have run for the hills," Michael thought as Polly Chastaine came into the bar.
Their mannerisms were easy, comfortable. Polly and Whitney displayed a genuine affection for one another. It was quite apparent, they were together, they were a couple. There was no overt display of their sexuality; they did not grope one another, they did not stuff their tongues into each other's mouths. But their attention to one another was unmistakable.
""Hey Neighbor," Polly said when Whitney pointed Michael out to her.
"Hey Neighbor," Michael smiled. "When I bought the house from Samantha Porter; her dad had died what? Three months before? She didn't tell me anything about the two beautiful women living next door."
"Would it have changed your mind?" Polly smiled easily.
