Honeymooners A Cautionary Tale Read Online Free Page A

do the
trick.
     
    At high noon Jim had let
himself imagine his wife cavorting with her loverboy coach back
home. He permitted himself to imagine his wife and Doc at that
motel where they met nights when his wife was supposedly
chaperoning sock hops. Jim imagined them in the shower, his wife’s
hair wet, her slick skin smelling sweetly of soap. When his wife
soaped Doc’s enormous dick, it hardened in her tiny hand. Then his
wife soaped the fingertips of her free hand, and she commenced to
run them slowly up and down the tight crack of Doc’s muscular
coachy ass. At some point Jim’s wife inserted her middle finger in
Doc’s anus and rotated it resolutely. Then Jim’s wife joyfully
soaped Doc’s enormous balls. She knelt down on the slick tile floor
then, Jim’s wife, the shower water like a warm summer rain over her
fresh, pretty petal of a face, and she took her loverboy’s coachy
coconuts, one at a time, into her mouth. Still upon her knees,
Jim’s wife moved around Doc, kissing and licking and nibbling the
wet skin of his hard thighs as she went. When Jim’s wife had
finally arrived at her boyfriend’s rump, and they were cheek to
cheek, so to speak, she had spread Doc’s muscular coachy buttocks
with her slender fingers, at which point Jim’s wife had buried her
sweet, moist, pink little tongue into that hairy abyss.
     

 
     
    The Seven Warning Signs of
Love

    When Ralph Crawford and Jim
Stark first met and became fast friends as young writers, they were
both sappy with expectation. The future seemed to loom before them
like a stupendous dream. Soon they were congratulating themselves
mightily for living like bold outlaw authors on the lam from that
gloomy tedium called ordinary life. They were both daring,
larger-than-life characters living legendary as they engaged in
high drama and hilarity, the stuff of great stories, they were
convinced, and not simply drunken, stoned stumblebums and barroom
yahoos.
     
    The stupendous dream Ralph
and Jim shared was for fame. They were hungry for it (and who could
have guessed how famous old Ralph would become!). And nobody is
above taking shortcuts to the rewards of fame, such as enjoying
sexual congress with comely strangers. That time, for instance,
when Ralph, in the heat of a roadhouse romance, tried to impress a
beautiful barmaid by telling her he was none other than Philip
Roth, the professor of passion, the doctor of desire. The barmaid
had never heard of this Philip Roth. And Jim Stark had once told a
beer-joint beauty at a crucial moment that he was Norman
    Mailer, that lionized lover
and mayor of American letters. Norman who?
    Jim found Ralph’s front door
wide open as usual. Ralph’s house was a rambling, one-story,
ranch-style in a cul-de-sac of solid middle-class homes in Menlo
Park. He and Alice Ann had purchased it a few years earlier after
a surprise inheritance from Alice Ann’s natural father. It had
fallen on hard times since then. But nothing a dozen good coats of
paint couldn’t cure, and maybe a few months of professional yard
work, plus an army of good roofers, and it would have been
beneficial in the beautification department to have had Ralph’s
criminal son haul away the heap he had balanced on cinder blocks in
the driveway, a vehicle he worked on at all hours with stolen
parts.
     
    Besides their criminal
children, the bane of Ralph and Alice Ann’s lives were the
neighbors, who complained haughtily about the frequent midnight
howls heard from that hard-luck house, so unlike any sounds ever
issuing from other houses on that quiet, residential, tree-lined
street. Not to mention the occasional police patrol car’s flashing
lights, which drew the nosy neighbors like moths to their windows,
on their moral high horses, as they observed the events of Ralph
and Alice Ann Crawford’s family life unfold before them in that
losing battle of good intentions against unfortunate circumstances
running amok and human nature.
     
    As Jim passed