By Charles Jacobson
On a bitter January morning, when Richie and I should have been trudging through the snow to our IT classes at the University of Minnesota, our backs were jammed against a freezing curb, wrangling a junkyard transmission into a ‘53 Packard straight-eight.
The massive car was jacked up on blocks. The Ultramatic transmission was the biggest I’d ever seen. We were delicately lining it up, when two cars rolled up. Alan came over and peered under the Packard. “Charlie? I got girls with me.”
“What?”
“We got Bunny’s house, too.”
The transmission was teetering on a dolly. “Hold it, Richie. Right there. Alan’s here.”
“Fuck no!”
I left Richie under the car and edged out for a look. It had just begun to snow. “It better be good.”
Alan pointed to the Studebaker with two girls. “Look at those back-to-back racks!”
“Aye.”
“The heavy milker has the hots for you.”
“Oh yeah?”
“And bad. Ask my brother. All set, then?”
“What are you talkin’ about?”
“It means nobody’s goin’ anywhere without you. Period.”
Nothing is safe nowadays. We finished up and went out to the cars. Alan took me aside. “There’s one thing, though. If we find out that you kissed her, we’ll never talk to you again.”
Richie and I hopped into the two-car motorcade to North Minneapolis. I was jammed against the one with the hots. Brian, the burly, myopic guard on our high school football team, had beaten us there. We headed downstairs, turned on the music and started dancing. I rocked the fat one, fondling her monstrous boobs while she swung a bottle of whiskey wildly in the air, takin’ swigs straight out.
If only Miss Baun, my chain-smoking Latin teacher, could see me now!
Our prospects were favorable until the cute one dashed outside into the snow without her boots or coat. I grabbed Alan, “What’s wrong? Did she read the runes?”
“She got the clap. She’s afraid we’d beat the shit out of her.”
“No sweat, we’ll still check it down.”
Since I won the tote bag (or so I was led to believe), I took the super-sized girl upstairs into a bedroom and closed the door.
“Kiss me,” she said.
“Feel this, first.”
“Oh my God! How is it so hard?”
Her vast curvature was a steep hill, but I managed to slip in after a few false moves. (It’s been said that there are only those trying to get in and those trying to get out.) The signal for the next guy in the rotation was a tap on the footboard, like a steal sign in baseball. Her friend was out in the snow somewhere, so I stayed longer than I should have, satisfying her eager entreaties.
When I got back out in the hall, Brian was huddled with Richie, who was on deck.
Brian was looking at him. “What’s wrong?”
From the look on Richie’s face, I’m positive he was thinkin’, How will I ever find her opening amongst the folds of skin and rolls of fat?
Richie shifted from foot to foot and whispered loudly, “Her hole.”
Brian raised his bushy eyebrows. “Have her piss and follow the stream back up!”
Bio: Charles Jacobson is an army veteran with an abiding interest in philosophy and the arts and a cat who doesn’t like him. He is published in Proud to Be, Pure Slush Books, Fleas on the Dog, Military Experience and the Arts, Poets Choice, Drunk Monkeys, Wingless Dreamer. He has published “Bedford Drive” and ” The Education of a Young Gentleman” with The Yard: Crime Blog