Monday, August 1, 2011
Methinks He Doth Protest Too Much
Lust At Sea
by Jay Lawrence and Harry Neptune
“Mmmmmm… Whassup? Not guilty, go ‘way…”
“It’s all right, darling, I’m not the I.R.S. You have to wake up, Harry. Now! Something dreadful has happened.”
I gave the grunting hulk beside me a fresh prod in the ribs and this time a ruffled head emerged from the tangled mass of bedcovers, glared balefully at me through reddened eyes then sank back down on the pillows with a pained groan.
“My head hurts. Fetch me an aspirin, bint. What’s up? Run out of fresh meat? No toy boys at the market this morning?”
I rummaged in my purse for the emergency pain pill. Not being prone to headaches, the tablet was less than fresh and daintily coated in Kleenex fluff and chocolate crumbs. I brushed it off and passed it to the afflictee, along with the glass of water on the night table.
“Here you are, angel. Best take a nice big gulp or it might just stick in your throat.”
With Herculean effort, Harry lugged his bulk into a semi-upright position. Focusing on nothing in particular, he popped the pill on his tongue and chugged down the contents of the glass. There was a sudden choking sound, followed by a liquid eruption of Niagaric proportions.
“Harry Gravesend Neptune! You’ve soaked the bed!”
Rarely did I utter my partner’s middle name. It was an event that marked those inevitable times of extreme frustration which pockmark the face of any Great Love. Harry gasped and spluttered.
“That was neat Tequila, you little horror! You’re trying to kill me again, aren’t you? I don’t know why. I keep telling you I don’t have a brass farthing to my name. Neptune has never been synonymous with wealth, I’m afraid.”
Sheepishly, I took the glass from Harry’s outstretched hand and sniffed the remains. It was booze all right. Gently, I replaced the tumbler on the night table and stroked my paramour’s tousled hair. I had news to break and I sensed the bulletin might hit him hard.
“Darling, I have something to tell you.”
“You’ve found a cure for the farting.”
“Too bad. It’s kind of ripe in here. Can’t you open a window or something? Where the heck are we, anyway?”
Harry peered at his surroundings, a typically nondescript hotel room.
I steeled myself.
“We’re in Las Vegas, sweetie.”
“I thought you disapproved of gambling!”
“I do. Always thought craps was something you put on the roses. But, angel…”
Harry clasped his throbbing head, then gingerly drew back the sodden sheets to reveal some interesting night apparel.
“Don’t tell me! I lost my shirt, didn’t I? What on earth am I wearing? You minx, Lawrence. You set me up with the girls at the Crazy Horse again, didn’t you? Ah, I remember Paris. Is the Nevada squad as lively as the French? Odd, I really can’t recall a thing…”
I stifled a giggle. Harry was resplendent in scarlet silk pyjamas, naughtily printed with top-heavy nudes. He slowly examined the pattern with increasing amusement.
“Ooh, I say! Look at this plump one under my armpit. Could be you, except her bum’s not big enough…”
“That’s enough. I can’t help my genes. It’s the Eskimo blood. Right. That’s it. No more beating around the bush. You asked for it, Neptune. The thing is - we got married.”
Harry’s tanned face blanched to a shade normally associated with blotting paper. Then he looked at me suspiciously, a wry smile hovering about his lips.
“OK, Jaybird, you’re a very funny girl. Joke’s over. Harry Neptune ain’t that gullible.”
I sighed heavily and patted his hand.
“I’m sorry, darling. It’s not a joke. You proposed and I accepted. We are hitched. Spliced. Man and wife.”
My other half issued a pitiful strangled cry. I’d heard him make some pretty peculiar noises over the course of our longtime partnership but this one was new to the repertoire.
“But where? How? When?”
“At the Buxom Baybe Medieval Boob Fest. In the Chapel of Celestial Bliss. By the Fairly Irreverent Pastor Von Schlong. Sometime last night.”
Harry rallied visibly.
“Buxom Boob Fest? Pastor Von Schlong? Hah! Relax Lawrence, there’s no way it can possibly be legal. What are we doing for breakfast? I’m beginning to feel a bit more human again.”
“There’s a place across the road. But darling, I’m afraid this marriage lark is not the jolly jape it seems. I called my attorney about an hour ago, thinking he’d laugh my worries all the way to Yuma. The trouble is, it’s legal. I’m Mrs. Harry Gravesend Neptune.”
“Oh, good grief. We’ve been in some dangerous situations but this one takes the biscuit. I don’t want a wife! Had one once, hated every moment of it. There has to be an Acme Drive-Thru De-Hitching Center. This is Vegas. Easy come, easy go. Fetch me my shorts!”
I stared at the outraged vision in the lurid pyjamas.
“Well, if you must know, this wasn’t what I had in mind either! Give me Venice over Vegas, any time. Find your own shorts!”
“Acting like a bloody married woman already, I see. Right then. Breakfast first, then we seek further legal advice. I don’t believe this. I just don’t bloody believe it. Wait ‘til I get my hands on that Von Schlong. I’ll wrap him round a lamppost. What the hell was I drinking last night, anyway? Jet fuel?”
I searched my memory bank and came up with something unsavory.
“I think it was that stuff that comes with a nice fat juicy worm in every bottle. You were showing off for a brace of blonde croupiers from Caligula’s Circus. I think you actually ate the bug, with a Jalapeno chaser.”
Harry clutched his stomach.
“That’s it! I’m going on the wagon. Never again!”
“No more croupiers?”
“Ha ha. Lawrence, I don’t suppose we have photographic evidence of this fiasco, do we? Exhibit A, as it were.”
I fished in my purse and withdrew a Polaroid. Harry’s face contorted. He turned beetroot. His stomach heaved. Finally, he let out a huge guffaw.
“HEE! HEE! HEE! Another one for the family album! That is an absolute classic! Where are you, anyway?”
“Oh, very funny.”
I snatched the instant image from my better half, and wondered whether I could have it digitally altered. A very much the worse for wear Harry leaned (nay, slumped) against a fake Roman column, elegantly dressed for the occasion in a garish Hawaiian shirt unbuttoned to his navel. His glasses were slightly askew, his eyes likewise. His hair was a mess. In fact, it looked as if he’d been dragged through a hedge backwards, to quote a quaint old Celtic phrase. Beside him, at torso level, was an equally disheveled head, all red eye and out of focus. Apparently, due to the cramped dimensions of the chapel and the distinctive difference in the bride and groom’s respective heights, the photographer decided to capture what he could. It was cut off Harry’s head or lose my body and my body lost. I stifled a sob.
“There, there, old girl. The shirt ain’t all that bad, and anyway it looks like it didn’t survive the party. Where the hell did these pyjamas come from, anyway?”
“I don’t care where the bloody shirt went or where the bloody pyjamas came from! I want my wedding pictures!”
I stared at my diminutive friend in surprise. This was a far cry from the Miss Lawrence who gave a Montana football team more than they bargained for when trapped in a snow-bound Howard Johnson’s two winters ago.
“I want my wedding pictures! All dressed up in virginal white and you in a white tuxedo and a black tie. And bridesmaids. And flowers. And ... and ... and … I want my wedding pictures!!”
I put my arm around my sobbing friend – my sobbing wife. She rested her head on my shoulder for a moment then tugged at my pyjama jacket and blew her nose noisily on it.
“Mind you, I never thought you’d be in my wedding pictures. But you asked me so nicely, on bended knee and everything, rose behind your ear and champagne in the waitress’s slipper. ‘I love you, Jay Lawrence,’ you said, ‘Hitch your star to mine and I’ll have your babies.’ Everyone applauded and someone gave you the Fairly Irreverent Pastor Von Schlong’s folding brochure and…”
The tears started again and I did my ineffectual manly bit until they stemmed. It was starting to come back to me.
We turned up at Miami airport and told Fly By Night Airlines that we would go anywhere as long as we got an upgrade. After rejecting Edmonton, Alberta with a pair of heartfelt shudders we accepted two Business Class seats to Sin City. We loaded up with sushi from the concourse bar, instructed the flight staff as we boarded on how to store it and when to serve it, and proceeded to show our appreciation for Fly By Night’s generosity and cooperation by gushingly complimenting every glass as it arrived and was rapidly replaced by the next one.
“I want the plashtic handcuffs!” is the refrain I recall emanating from Miss Lawrence in a bondage mood. Eventually they fished out the restraints to keep the racket down and she was happy for the rest of the flight.
Things got a bit blurry after that. There was a taxi ride to a hotel, presumably the one we were in now, and a bar crawl along the strip in which we made lots of new friends. And in which apparently I ate worms. I didn’t remember that bit and didn’t want to, blonde croupiers in togas or not.
Then, apparently, I popped the question and slipped the Irrelevant Schlong a fin or two to do the dirty deed.
“A white dress…”
“Shush, my dear. Rest your head on me and calm yourself.”
“A white dress … and bridesmaids…”
“Hush a bye baby…” I trilled.
Mrs. Neptune sat up. “Are you going to be sick?”
“No, I am not going to be sick! I am comforting you with a lullaby.”
“Humph. Stick to patting my bum or I’ll be sick.”
“Charming! What’s that sticking out of your bag? Is it our wedding certificate?”
Jay leaned over and pulled out an official looking piece of paper covered with small print. I could make out the words ‘Copyright, Chapel of Celestial Bliss’ overprinted in pale red.
“It’s not the wedding certificate. I propped that up on the dresser with your aftershave bottle. It’s – it’s a prenuptial agreement!”
“What! Does that mean I get all your money when we annul this afternoon?”
Jay gave me an old-fashioned look.
“It says on the top, ‘For The Bride’. As far as I can make out I take you to the cleaners under any and all circumstances, plus a few I hadn’t thought of. Wow! Not even Elizabeth Taylor thought of that one – it’s a lulu…”
I leaned back and adjusted my comfort. I smiled.
“As I keep telling you, my love, I haven’t a sou. I live off my wits and charm. You may dispose of that useless piece of paper in the nearest waste receptacle.”
“Oh yes, Harry Neptune? What about that Cayman National Laundry account you told them to pay your winnings into last night? That’s where you keep your dirty socks, is it?”
I maintained my sangfroid admirably. I closed my eyes and sighed.
“A hang over from my Colonial days, sweetie pie. Merely a few tens of dollars to cover any unexpected expenses. The interest wouldn’t keep me in jelly babies.”
I yawned elaborately and peeped at my new spouse out of one eye.
“Your Platinum Cayman National Laundry account. No doubt with diamond clusters.” There was a glint in the Lawrence eye. “We’ll see about that. I always did wonder where you found the loot for Saville Row suits.”
I decided a change of subject was in order. I was searching for one when a sudden and obvious thought burst into my mind.
“Consummation! Every marriage has to be consummated or it’s null and void! Who was the queer poet who never rogered his wife and she divorced him after years and years?”
“Oscar Wilde probably. And who says our marriage is not consummated? We’ve consummated at every opportunity for yonks!”
“Not after the ceremony we haven’t! That’s all that matters. Pre-marital practice doesn’t count.”
“How do you know we didn’t? You can’t remember a dickey bird from last night!”
“Exactly! I rest my case! You know perfectly well that if I get as completely blotto as that, the old hampton wick goes into hibernation. Quod est demonstrandum. Nil lead in pencil, nil consummation, nil marriage. We’re off the hook!”
I was glared at.
“And nil prenuptial agreement – there must be a cooling off clause in there somewhere!” I added as an afterthought.
I wasn’t expecting the fist that landed in my left eye. Nor was I expecting the hand that dived into my pyjama trousers, nor to be straddled by a gimlet eyed Miss Lawrence.
“Miss Lawrence!” I gasped.
“That’s Mrs. Neptune to you!”
Harry made a sound like antique bagpipes.
“Oof! Gerroff my belly! And before breakfast, too! You know I can’t do a thing ‘til I’ve had my eggs over easy!”
Relentlessly, I hunted down his snoozing manhood and clasped it tight within my hot little hand. My husband yelped.
“You’ve been over easy for way too long, darling. I think it’s time you saw the light and were saved by the love of a good woman.”
I was quite getting into the matrimonial lark. In fact, I wondered why I hadn’t tried it before. Oh, it was something to do with that “love, honor and obey” clause. But no one ever paid much attention to the small print, anyway. The power was rather intoxicating. Seductively, I slipped my silky robe from my shoulders, revealing my heavy breasts. Sensing my strategy, Harry turned his head to one side and scrunched his eyes shut. I began to rock gently and rhythmically against his crotch, enjoying the way his big torso made me open my thighs full stretch. Riding horsy was one of our favorite games. Harry clenched his teeth. I picked up speed, moving from a sedate walk to a nice crisp trot.
“Bouncy, bouncy! Ooh, look at those boobies go! Up, down, up, down, up, down. Jiggle, joggle, jiggle, joggle, jiggle, joggle!”
There was a large mirror on the wall above the bed and I watched my plump breasts twitch and frisk in the bright morning sunlight. Not bad, Mrs. Neptune. Not bad at all. It was a few years since I’d last appeared in a blue movie but I still had the moves. I felt a vague stirring between my legs and Harry began to mutter.
“Cold showers, thick tights, cold showers, thick tights…”
I giggled and upgraded the trot to a canter. My boobs began to slap lustily against my ribs as I gripped Harry’s hips with my thighs and squirmed my soaking pussy against his helplessly swelling shaft. Now, I understood why people got married. Amazing to think that such a large percentage of the populace were sadists, however. Strains of Wagner filled my head as I rode my trusty steed towards a rousing climax. The muttering intensified and the pitch rose by an octave. My beloved sounded like a Buddhist monk on acid.
“Oatmeal and woolly vests! Oatmeal and woolly vests!”
The sweet taste of victory close at hand, I launched myself into full-tilt gallop and the William Tell Overture, popularly known as the theme from the Lone Ranger.
“Da da da, da da da, da da dah dah dah!
Da da da, da da da, da da da dah dah!”
“Cold tights, woolly oatmeal…”
“Hi ho, Silver, away!”
Now we bounced as one, the furious rhythm carrying us along in a wild orgiastic frenzy. Harry’s cock was hard and full against my dripping cleft. With a deft feat of syncopation, I captured his luscious love-tool with my hungry snatch and gripped as if my life depended on it. My husband howled in a schizoid blend of pleasure and despair.
“Bitch! Oh, Jesus, that feels good! You’ve never done it like this before! Aaaaaaaaeeeeeeeeeeee!!! Nnnyurrrghh!!!”
I felt my own orgasm approach hot on the heels of Harry’s. Interestingly, marriage seemed to be bringing out my sluttish side. Maybe wedded bliss was the ultimate kink for a card-carrying pervert and confirmed single. My singing rose to an ecstatic shriek.
“Ooh, yes! YES!! Harry!!!”
I dismounted with as much grace as I could muster (which wasn’t much, as I had cramp in both calves and my knees had seized up). Harry lay like a beached whale, a strange glazed look in his eyes. Briskly, I threw off my robe and headed for the shower, attempting to limp with a slink. Casually, I called out from the bathroom:
“I think we can call this marriage consummated, sweetie. Don’t worry. I just know this is going to be good for both of us. Don’t know why we didn’t take the plunge years ago.”
“You said you were allergic.”
Harry sat on the edge of the bed, numbly examining the large damp patch on the front of his pyjamas.
“I hope you haven’t ruined my new PJs!”
I adopted a clipped, 1950s hausfrau tone.
“Of course not, darling! Why, you just whip them off and I’ll get out my Acme washer and wringer and have them squeaky clean in no time at all! Would you like nice sharp creases in the trousers? I should have some Crispo laundry starch.”
“Well, now you mention it, I do have some shirts you could iron…”
“Sorry, darling. The schedule is full. Ask the maid. I want to visit Retro Mart for some old-fashioned undies to play my new wifely role to the hilt. You know, seamed stockings, Betty Paige stuff. You won’t regret making an honest woman of me!”
Harry began to look more cheerful. At that moment, there was a faint rustle and a large pink envelope slid underneath our hotel room door. Tastefully decorated with glittery kissing cherubs, it bore the legend:
Compliments of the Chapel of Celestial Bliss
Do Not Destroy! You May Be A Winner!!