Read Online They Call Me Crazy by Kelly Stone Gamble - Free Book Online
Authors: Kelly Stone Gamble
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cake to make for the VFW bake sale, and I would hate knowing the special ingredient was pregnant.
I prefer the reds, anyway. They’re smaller and seem to wiggle a bit more. I grab a fistful. Their cool bodies send a pleasurable chill up my arms as they squirm in my hand. They’re soft, like a woman, except the worms actually move once in a while.
I spread my fingers slightly and watch as the most adventurous of the wigglers squirm between them and wrap around my hands. Their bodies make a rhythmic motion as they contract and extend, contract and extend, moving slowly at different angles until my palms are covered with their brownish-red bodies. I lightly squeeze, feeling the softness and the response, before putting them back in their compost bin.
The sun sits on top of King Hill, the last of its appearance for the day. I need to get that spice cake made, then clean up and go to Fat Tina’s.
Women. I sure wish they were easy as worms.
As Garth Brooks’s voice fills the air, celebrating his friends in low places, I watch the girl onstage. She has the song choreographed down to the last line, removing one piece of her already too-revealing outfit at a time until she is completely nude. A pole runs from the floor to the ceiling at center stage, and she uses it as adeptly as any fireman, raising her body high on the pole, then turning upside down. Her long blond hair drags the floor as she slowly slides back to the stage. She rolls over and crawls seductively around the circular stage, her small breasts within reaching distance of the men who line the perimeter. She collects dollar bills in her teeth. I turn away. She can’t be much older than my daughter.
I’ve never been much for the bar scene. I don’t drink, and if I did, I don’t see any reason why I couldn’t do that at home. I don’t dance, either. I enjoy listening to the music, as long as it’s not rap, hip hop, or whatever the hell they call it where everyone’s a ho or a thug or a gangster. That kind doesn’t make much sense to me.
I go to the VFW once in a while to shoot some pool or throw darts. The crowd is different there, though. There are a lot of husbands and wives, along with plenty of women for a single guy to hook up with for a night. Unlike Tina’s place, they enforce their “No shirt, no shoes, no service” policy. Pauline has been the bartender there for thirty years, and if you tip her, which you better, the money goes in a Mason jar, not a G-string. And the jukebox only has country music.
Fat Tina’s is packed. I try not to breathe too deeply. The spicy smell of hot bodies—mostly male—mixed with the too-sweet aroma of scented oils is sickening. Benny Cloud stands at the bar in full uniform, shaking hands more than usual. The stage area is packed, with everyone facing front, while tables and booths are filled with men watching or participating in the floor show. Lap dances are taking place at every other table with young girls grinding into the laps of men their fathers’ ages.
Fat Tina’s staff members patrol the crowd, warning someone when he’s getting out of control and escorting them outside if needed. Their hot-pink T-shirts feature a crudely drawn obese woman spread-eagled with a rooster between her knees. They pass out condoms with the Fat Tina logo as if they’re Dum Dums suckers. Rolly is usually one of those guys, but I don’t see him. I spot Tina behind the bar and make my way through the crowd.
“Hey there, Clay,” Tina says. “It’s about time you came out to see me.” She speaks loudly to be heard over the crowd, but she isn’t screaming. Easily twice my size, she has to be holding down five hundred pounds. She carries it well, or I guess as well as one could. She’s wearing a loose, sleeveless gauze dress—blue with a pattern of huge orchids—that trails the ground. She doesn’t try to hide her arms, which are as large as medium-sized dogs and sway back and forth like porch swings. She wears
I prefer the reds, anyway. They’re smaller and seem to wiggle a bit more. I grab a fistful. Their cool bodies send a pleasurable chill up my arms as they squirm in my hand. They’re soft, like a woman, except the worms actually move once in a while.
I spread my fingers slightly and watch as the most adventurous of the wigglers squirm between them and wrap around my hands. Their bodies make a rhythmic motion as they contract and extend, contract and extend, moving slowly at different angles until my palms are covered with their brownish-red bodies. I lightly squeeze, feeling the softness and the response, before putting them back in their compost bin.
The sun sits on top of King Hill, the last of its appearance for the day. I need to get that spice cake made, then clean up and go to Fat Tina’s.
Women. I sure wish they were easy as worms.
As Garth Brooks’s voice fills the air, celebrating his friends in low places, I watch the girl onstage. She has the song choreographed down to the last line, removing one piece of her already too-revealing outfit at a time until she is completely nude. A pole runs from the floor to the ceiling at center stage, and she uses it as adeptly as any fireman, raising her body high on the pole, then turning upside down. Her long blond hair drags the floor as she slowly slides back to the stage. She rolls over and crawls seductively around the circular stage, her small breasts within reaching distance of the men who line the perimeter. She collects dollar bills in her teeth. I turn away. She can’t be much older than my daughter.
I’ve never been much for the bar scene. I don’t drink, and if I did, I don’t see any reason why I couldn’t do that at home. I don’t dance, either. I enjoy listening to the music, as long as it’s not rap, hip hop, or whatever the hell they call it where everyone’s a ho or a thug or a gangster. That kind doesn’t make much sense to me.
I go to the VFW once in a while to shoot some pool or throw darts. The crowd is different there, though. There are a lot of husbands and wives, along with plenty of women for a single guy to hook up with for a night. Unlike Tina’s place, they enforce their “No shirt, no shoes, no service” policy. Pauline has been the bartender there for thirty years, and if you tip her, which you better, the money goes in a Mason jar, not a G-string. And the jukebox only has country music.
Fat Tina’s is packed. I try not to breathe too deeply. The spicy smell of hot bodies—mostly male—mixed with the too-sweet aroma of scented oils is sickening. Benny Cloud stands at the bar in full uniform, shaking hands more than usual. The stage area is packed, with everyone facing front, while tables and booths are filled with men watching or participating in the floor show. Lap dances are taking place at every other table with young girls grinding into the laps of men their fathers’ ages.
Fat Tina’s staff members patrol the crowd, warning someone when he’s getting out of control and escorting them outside if needed. Their hot-pink T-shirts feature a crudely drawn obese woman spread-eagled with a rooster between her knees. They pass out condoms with the Fat Tina logo as if they’re Dum Dums suckers. Rolly is usually one of those guys, but I don’t see him. I spot Tina behind the bar and make my way through the crowd.
“Hey there, Clay,” Tina says. “It’s about time you came out to see me.” She speaks loudly to be heard over the crowd, but she isn’t screaming. Easily twice my size, she has to be holding down five hundred pounds. She carries it well, or I guess as well as one could. She’s wearing a loose, sleeveless gauze dress—blue with a pattern of huge orchids—that trails the ground. She doesn’t try to hide her arms, which are as large as medium-sized dogs and sway back and forth like porch swings. She wears
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