Ian Whatley was a magnificent athlete for the US track team. He invented some magic shoes and sold the patents so he could live on a nut farm in the Carolina Colonies. His kids loved him but used to tell their friends that their father, "makes stuff up all the time." He occasionally talks of himself in the third person and past tense.

Bible Belt Hospitality (November 20, 2009. Issue 11.)

You were still asleep when I came by the house. The sun wasn't up either so I went to the city, to the cemetery. I roughed my fingers on the wall when I climbed over and I had to stuff my sore hands in my coat pockets against the cold. I walked between the crypts and the sky, surrounded by stars and statues of angels and dead souls all comfortably silent.

At Jim's grave there were three people sleeping; only the air in their lungs kept them on the surface of the ground. First light trembled her hands across the sky, splashing it with red wine from her side table glass as she groped for the alarm clock snooze button and I took a metro ride to a hot breakfast. I stopped in on your friend Mary.

There she was, the first alive thing of the day, banshee bouncing off the screen door, talking to me and on her cell phone at the same time, dizzy making, wonderful. The door slammed like a starting pistol and she had my pants half off with her free hand and she was still talking.

I told her I was just visiting and she said to someone, "Gotta go," and to me, "You gotta make love to me first."

Her bed was in her living room by a kitchen table and the bathtub was in her bedroom. I don't even know what she called that other room that was all heaped with clothes. There was a balcony that looks out on Peachtree Street, a view that would taste good with tea. A guest has to remember their manners and I didn't stop her from jumping me.

The bed had no covers so I felt like I was on a stage. Mary has to have two conversations at once or she gets bored. There was her monologue to the invisible audience and her commands to me. Orders like the ones you give me: where to and how two, what to and which is too.

Her stories spilt out like a pipe had burst, soaking everything in sight with how she only approaches couples on the street, offering her sex, her looks, her sensuality. The audience didn't make any noise but I was screaming for more, applauding the wide-eyed tales of giving herself to both the men and women. I whistled as she licked her chin, poking her tongue out, letting it dangle from her mouth. I could see why the critics would pay for an encore. I caught the line you liked, the one where she smiled and purred,

"Two at the same time."

We were into the serious pumping when someone knocked on the door.

"Come in!" She yells, without so much as a change in pace. It was a neighbor woman of hers. I started to reach for my shirt and Mary slammed my arm onto the mattress,

"The hell you will. You keep screwing till I say stop." Like some after thought in a normal conversation, she added, "This is Nanette. She likes Merlot and cards."

That was all the information I needed to reassure me and I got back on rhythm. They went on talking while we were pushing into each other. Nanette sat at the table, close enough to put her hand down on my face if she wanted. Instead she leafed through some magazines and chatted. After two copies of People, Mary excused herself and told me faster, then slower. I felt her pull at me inside and crush her knees inwards against my hips as she shivered.

There is a weird energy to Mary and she uncurled at once, rocking upright and laughing all in one instant and letting that flow of movement take her upwards, off me and across the room to sit at the table with Nanette. I didn't know that was supposed to be one single action but it even ran on further, into lighting a cigarette, discarding the match, leaving me hard on the bed. I lay there, amazed at how many rules she could break without seeming anything less than natural, and there went another rule crashing in pieces,

"Nan, you want to jump on and finish him?" she asked in the tone you hear when the last drop of wine in the bottle is on offer. Nanette said no, she was all dressed to go to the mall, but maybe later. They talked for a while longer before Nanette went off to do her fabled shopping. I walked after her to the door to pick up my pants but I didn't get within three steps of them.

Mary had me by the mouse tail and I was lead back to the bed, back up onto the stage. There was no way to fight her smile and her words,

"You can't go without a proper juicing." That long tongue washed over me, working around the head of my cock and forcing itself into the tip, lashing me up and down, whipping the cream until it was fluffed enough to cook with.

She climbed on top of me in that all-one-movement way she has of doing things that you told me about. I felt her squeeze me and I couldn’t tell where her hand ended and her underworld began. I was stiff with stage fright, frozen by her licking my chest and neck with that deadly accurate tongue. I blew my brains out inside her as she humped me, laughing wildly. I was still breathing fast and feeling the last twitches of my ejaculation when she started on about tea.

“You gotta have tea. Let’s go on the balcony, no clothes or anything, just tea and watching all the cars down on Peachtree.” We never got the tea. Instead we lay around naked on the naked bed, talking about two different things at the same time until I thought I might miss the last Metro. I stopped by the house. It was dark but I think I heard you call my name in your sleep.

I’ll come back when you’re awake. You know I only want to do things to please you.