never came before I did. Change lanes!” she says.
I swerve over to the next lane, and she squeals with the motion. I’m embarrassed. I wish we were at Cowboy Bill’s so she could just duck into the bathroom or something.
“He did push-ups on the kitchen table! Go back!” she commands
Sitting so close to her, feeling her state of excitement, I realize my face is flushed and my hands are so clammy I can hardly steer the old bug back to the other lane.
She squeals as I make the lane change. “Jerod’s dick was thicker than a buffalo in China,” she screams, throwing herself back in the seat and writhing like a snake on gravel. “Harry, roll the windows down!” she calls out while twisting and jerking herself into an orgasm. “I’m so wet we’re going to drown in this car like Mary Jo Kopechne!”
“Darlin’,” she chirps, to the teenage boy at the drive-through window at Cowboy Bill’s Chicken, “do you have any of those moist towelette packets? My fingers are sticky.” She’s leaning me, smiling at the little guy.
We’re stopped inside of a huge recreation of a Stetson hat has a hole in it for cars to drive through. The kid at the window dressed in a red-and-white gingham shirt, bolo tie, and cowboy
“Yes, ma’am. I’ll throw some extras in the sack.”
“You’re a peach, sweetheart.”
We take our roasted chicken and vegetables home, and I Amity to shower off or clean herself up or do whatever girls after they jack off, but I guess the moist towelettes were She simply plops into the wingback chair and picks pieces off the bone while sipping champagne and flipping through D zinc. The cover story of the February issue is “Dallas’s Eligible Men.”
“I’ve got to get me a rich one, Harry. Someone who will us both out. Me and you.”
“We don’t need anyone to help us,” I say, gnawing on a thi “Harry, we’re flight attendants, not financiers. I’m to a certain lifestyle.” Lawfstawl. “And I’m sure, considering family background, you’re accustomed to certain comforts as
I’m sitting on the floor beside her. “Yes, I am. What’s problem?”
Her voice turns soft, her manner gracious. “I just thought, you’re working this job, and driving your car, that maybe on your own, like me.”
“Sort of,” I shrug, putting my chicken down. “But I took job because I wanted to. I was bored with school the last
I wanted to do was keep going. Sure, my family sees the world a certain way, but I thought it would be fun to see the differently. And my car well…” I stare at the wall. “I’ve loved my old VW, and I don’t see why I have to drive a new
“I’m embarrassed,” Amity says. “I don’t want you to ever feel you have to justify yourself to me. Listen. I’m up front about it I like money. And I’ve dated plenty of guys because of it.”
Which makes me doubt her family is anything like mine. Unless she’s done something to displease them, there is no reason for her to date guys for money if she can get it from her family.
“But this is different, you and me,” she continues. “You’re my friend, and I don’t give a damn about your family’s name because I would never think of you in that way.”
“I appreciate you saying that. But you know, I do have money.” I’m not exactly lying. I do have money. I’m just not married enough to get my hands on it. Do I tell her? I know what she’ll do. She’ll impetuously say, “Let’s get married!” But as much as I’d like my inheritance, it’s not worth living a lie to get it.
Amity and I peruse the pages of D together, finding the choices laughable. A Budweiser delivery man. A party designer. A wood craftsman. “G’yaw! Whoa, Bubba!” She makes the time-out sign. “Who came up with these jokers? Guys who drive beer trucks are too groovy they use blow-dryers and wear musk cologne.”
“Is there such a thing as a straight party designer?” I ask. “Letitia Baldridge,” Amity answers.
I swerve over to the next lane, and she squeals with the motion. I’m embarrassed. I wish we were at Cowboy Bill’s so she could just duck into the bathroom or something.
“He did push-ups on the kitchen table! Go back!” she commands
Sitting so close to her, feeling her state of excitement, I realize my face is flushed and my hands are so clammy I can hardly steer the old bug back to the other lane.
She squeals as I make the lane change. “Jerod’s dick was thicker than a buffalo in China,” she screams, throwing herself back in the seat and writhing like a snake on gravel. “Harry, roll the windows down!” she calls out while twisting and jerking herself into an orgasm. “I’m so wet we’re going to drown in this car like Mary Jo Kopechne!”
“Darlin’,” she chirps, to the teenage boy at the drive-through window at Cowboy Bill’s Chicken, “do you have any of those moist towelette packets? My fingers are sticky.” She’s leaning me, smiling at the little guy.
We’re stopped inside of a huge recreation of a Stetson hat has a hole in it for cars to drive through. The kid at the window dressed in a red-and-white gingham shirt, bolo tie, and cowboy
“Yes, ma’am. I’ll throw some extras in the sack.”
“You’re a peach, sweetheart.”
We take our roasted chicken and vegetables home, and I Amity to shower off or clean herself up or do whatever girls after they jack off, but I guess the moist towelettes were She simply plops into the wingback chair and picks pieces off the bone while sipping champagne and flipping through D zinc. The cover story of the February issue is “Dallas’s Eligible Men.”
“I’ve got to get me a rich one, Harry. Someone who will us both out. Me and you.”
“We don’t need anyone to help us,” I say, gnawing on a thi “Harry, we’re flight attendants, not financiers. I’m to a certain lifestyle.” Lawfstawl. “And I’m sure, considering family background, you’re accustomed to certain comforts as
I’m sitting on the floor beside her. “Yes, I am. What’s problem?”
Her voice turns soft, her manner gracious. “I just thought, you’re working this job, and driving your car, that maybe on your own, like me.”
“Sort of,” I shrug, putting my chicken down. “But I took job because I wanted to. I was bored with school the last
I wanted to do was keep going. Sure, my family sees the world a certain way, but I thought it would be fun to see the differently. And my car well…” I stare at the wall. “I’ve loved my old VW, and I don’t see why I have to drive a new
“I’m embarrassed,” Amity says. “I don’t want you to ever feel you have to justify yourself to me. Listen. I’m up front about it I like money. And I’ve dated plenty of guys because of it.”
Which makes me doubt her family is anything like mine. Unless she’s done something to displease them, there is no reason for her to date guys for money if she can get it from her family.
“But this is different, you and me,” she continues. “You’re my friend, and I don’t give a damn about your family’s name because I would never think of you in that way.”
“I appreciate you saying that. But you know, I do have money.” I’m not exactly lying. I do have money. I’m just not married enough to get my hands on it. Do I tell her? I know what she’ll do. She’ll impetuously say, “Let’s get married!” But as much as I’d like my inheritance, it’s not worth living a lie to get it.
Amity and I peruse the pages of D together, finding the choices laughable. A Budweiser delivery man. A party designer. A wood craftsman. “G’yaw! Whoa, Bubba!” She makes the time-out sign. “Who came up with these jokers? Guys who drive beer trucks are too groovy they use blow-dryers and wear musk cologne.”
“Is there such a thing as a straight party designer?” I ask. “Letitia Baldridge,” Amity answers.
Similar Books
