Chapter 8 #3
“You’ve essentially outed me as a poop-kinkster.
They think I like to eat shit, Jonathan,” I growl.
His entire body shudders when I use his full name, and a soft whimper escapes him.
I don’t know what the fuck that’s about, but I make a mental note to use the name again and see if I get similar results, because the sight of him like this is fucking divine.
Johnny launches out of his chair, glaring at the crowd. “The fuck are you freaks looking at?”
“Johnny?” Bubba says into the microphone, but Johnny just shakes his head.
“No, Bubba. I love the pretty poem you were just telling us, but I ain’t going to sit here and let them shame him. It ain’t his fault he likes to eat shit. I ain’t fuckin’ into it, but y’all ain’t going to hurt his feelings like this. He’s a good fuckin’ boy!”
“Ah, hell,” Bubba says, flinging his hands in the air, sending the microphone flying.
“I ate shit once,” A butch lesbian at a nearby table tells her girlfriend.
“Not now, Congresswoman G*****,” the alleged girlfriend says.
“What?” Johnny asks, his face a picture of confusion. “What did I do wrong now? I was just trying to be supportive.”
“You announced I enjoy eating poop. In a hotbed of hipsters with bad hair and tacky, hideous, chunky jewelry. I don’t care if you tell them I jacked off in your lap the other day, or that I throw cum-filled balloons at you as you sleep—”
“He does what?” the alleged girlfriend asks.
“They call that a Swedish Snowglobe,” says the butch lesbian who resembles Congresswoman M******* T***** G*****, but for legal purposes absolutely is not Congresswoman M******* T***** G*****. “The cum balloon thing. It’s a fun prank, but I prefer to hit them with the ‘ol German Gusher.”
“What’s that?” the girlfriend asks.
Not-MTG leans in and whispers something into her lover’s ear, pissing me off, because I kind of want to know what the fuck it means too. Luckily, Bubba Jenkins is a man of the world, and he has seen many things.
He takes a seat beside me in the booth and whispers, “That’s when a woman straddles your shoulders as you sleep and pins you down.”
“Weird kink, but okay. What does that have to do with Germans or The Gushers Candy Company?”
Bubba snorts a laugh. “Not the candy, although it isn’t far off. When you wake up, she’s playing with her pussy.” I blink at him, still confused. “Hence, the gushing.”
“What is this mysterious gushing geyser you keep going on about? For God’s sake, stop speaking in vague riddles and land the fucking plane, Bubs.”
“Just as you’re waking up, she squirts on your face.” He delivers an unnecessary uppercut to the air. “The ol’ German Gusher.”
“Dear Lord,” I say, unable to process anything he’s just said.
Women can squirt? What do they squirt? Is it semen?
Or would it be sewomen? I don’t see why not, considering women belong on the sea just as much as men.
Either way, I didn’t know this was even a thing.
But then, I know absolutely nothing about female anatomy.
Maybe I could ask Deidre if she has any book recommendations which could explain it like I’m five.
I might not be bisexual, but Johnny and Bubba are.
I may need to know these things to hold conversations with them.
I want to know about their interests, and if those interests include women, I want to know the lay of the land for topical discussion.
“I’ll tell you, Ezzy, there ain’t a whole lot of things much sweeter than waking up to the sight of your wife fingering herself over your sleeping body.
Hearing unfiltered lust in her voice as she brings herself to the edge.
” Johnny’s got his eyes glued to the table, clearly trying to escape the moment, just like I want to.
“The initial rush of wet warmth as she squirts all over you.” He arches an eyebrow like he’s testing me or something.
“What?”
“You ain’t freaking out. I figured you would.”
I shrug. “I throw balloons filled with semen at Johnny’s face all the time. Who am I to judge?”
He snorts a laugh. “I could tell you about the Florida Panhandle. You’d like that one, Ezzy. Me and Johnny did it once.”
I’ve got my cup in my hand, and it takes all I have not to crush it. “Bubs,” I warn, my voice much harsher than I expected. Bubba smirks like he expected this all along. Good. That means he knows what’s coming next. “Did you touch Johnny’s penis?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know, Little Man?”
“Yes. That’s why I fucking asked. Did you touch his cock, yes or no?” I give him two-point-five seconds to respond before shrieking, “Answer the question!”
“No, baby, I didn’t touch his penis. The Florida Panhandle was a YouTube challenge.
I whacked Johnny’s ass with a skillet.” He swallows, letting the three of us marinate in his silent surety before nodding.
“I want to touch it, though.” He looks over at Johnny.
“I want to touch you, Johnny Boy.” His eyes meet mine.
“And I want to touch you, Ezzy. Tonight.”
Johnny looks at me, and I look right back at him, needing to know what he thinks of the idea. If the tent in his jeans is any indication, I’d say he’s fully on board.
“This doesn’t mean I’m in love with you,” I tell Bubba, because I’m not, and I don’t want to get his hopes up.
Bubba cups my cheek. “Do you want to be in love with me?”
“I’m not sure.” It’s my turn to blush like a nervous virgin. “Is it okay if I don’t know yet?”
He nods. “Yeah. You can take all the time you need.” He kisses my neck, then Johnny’s. “What do you say we head home and get this show on the road?”
Johnny and I stare at each other for a split second before we both nod.
“Break a leg,” Congresswoman G***** says.
“Eat shit and cry,” I growl.