Recently, while trying to overcome writer's block, I asked my friend Johnny to give me three random words that I would use to write a story about. The words he chose were vaginal, waterfall, and Jesus. This is what emerged.
"Another Long Island?"
I looked up at the voice. This was not the same bartender that had been feeding me drink after drink all night long. This one was thinner, sassier, one might presume…easier?
"Yeah," I replied. "Keep it coming."
I stared up at the television above the bar as she poured my drink, stronger than the others: liquor to the top with just a splash of cola and lemonade. Reflecting upon the endless bottles of whiskey, tequila, and gin was Iron Chef Cat Cora preparing maple and cayenne caviar. My dinner jumped up to my throat.
"Doing okay?" the same voice asked as she handed me my beverage. I hadn't realized that the gag had been so noticeable. I diverted my eyes from the television to see the bartender, a young girl no older than 22, dressed in a low cut yellow tank top and tiny cut-off jeans that would make Daisy Duke herself turn the deepest shade of red.
I figure people behave more Christian-like when the Messiah is watching. Now take off your pants."Fine," I said. "Just not a fan of this fancy cuisine I suppose." I gestured to the TV. She turned just in time to see the challenger add dark maple syrup to Bacardi Silver, making a sweet molasses something-or-other. She returned my disdain with a finger down the throat and an exaggerated retching sound.
"There's only one thing that can get that taste out of my mouth," she said as she pulled a bottle of Jose and two shot glasses out from under the bar. As she was cutting up limes I told her I didn't think I had the cash to cover another drink.
"Don't worry hun," she told me with a sleek smile, "this one's on the house. No one should be subjected to a foul drink like that without a proper chaser." I looked away too soon. Was that a wink or wasn't it? The maple glazed rack of lamb was not worth missing that key signal.
"Here," she said, sliding one of the shots my way. I went to reach for the salt shaker when she grabbed my hand. Looking at me with those deep green eyes she pulled my hand up to her face, close enough that I could feel her warm breath against my skin, and licked one long line across the webbing between my forefinger and thumb.
"Is this standard procedure for all customers?" I nervously asked as she shook the salt onto my damp hand. Smiling, she coyly shook her head as she extended her hand to me. I could smell lavender amid the alcohol of spilled drinks as she passed it under my nose. I looked up into her eyes as I extended my tongue. I definitely didn't miss the wink this time. "I'm off in ten," she said, adding salt to her hand. And then in one fluid motion she licked the salt, took the shot, and sucked on the lime as she walked down to the end of the bar to tend to the only other customer in the joint. As she walked away, I was hypnotized by the exaggerated swagger of her hips.
I quickly downed my shot and my Long Island and headed outside to have a smoke to calm my nerves. It'd been weeks since I'd been with a girl, months even, and tonight it looked like a distinct possibility. I slapped myself a few times to sober up, cursing myself for ordering such strong drinks all night long. I was on my second cigarette when the smell of lavender returned.
"Got one of those for me, cowboy?"
I didn't miss the allusion to Pulp Fiction, but chose not to ask if that's where the line truly originated in her mind because I feared I wouldn't be able to mask my disappointment if she told me anything different. Lighting her up, I stared off into the distance.
"I don't really smoke you know," she said. She must have noticed the puzzled look on my face. "I was just seeing how giving you can be. You passed the test." Dropping her cigarette, she took my hand and led me around to the back of the bar and up to a yellow SUV. Of course her car was fucking yellow. I immediately forgot about the hue of her vehicle as she pressed me up against it and planted her lips against mine. I could still taste the lime on her tongue.
Then she opened the door and shoved me into the back seat. Climbing on top of me and straddling my hips with her long legs, she began kissing and biting my neck. It was then that I found Jesus.
He was standing on her dashboard, one hand raised to the heavens, the other across his breast: both marked with a tiny dot of red to symbolize the stigmata. His gentle but stern glare prevented me from fully enjoying roughly two thirds of this young lady's tongue exploring the inside of my ear.
"Religious are we?" I asked, shrugging my head toward the statuette. She turned her head toward our Lord and Savior and let out a little chuckle.
"Not quite," she said with that sexy smile back on her face. "It's my security system. I just figure people behave more Christian-like when the Messiah is watching. Now take off your pants."
"Whoa, whoa, whoa!" I exclaimed as I looked around. "Here? There are still people in the bar. Aren't you afraid they'll come out and see?" And slipping her hand down my pants, she told me she didn't care who saw.
Removing my trousers, I made eye contact with Jesus and gave silent thanks for not letting the alcohol affect my body too much.
"Good thing you weren't drinking whiskey tonight, huh?" she asked as she pulled me out. She didn't know the half of it.
I thought it could only happen in pornos. I never thought it was a natural occurrence.Feeling myself slip inside of her, I kept wishing the Jesus statue would just look the other way so that my sinning might go unnoticed. I don't know if you've ever tried to get your rocks off while having a staring contest with the man who died for our sins, but I can tell you it's no easy task.
"Get on top of me," she moaned. Looking at our cramped backseat love nest, I didn't think such a maneuver was possible, and I let her know as much.
"It'll work, it'll work," she insisted. "Just lay me down and then stretch yourself across the center console from the front seat. Trust me; I've done it loads of times." I did as she said, my booze-soaked mind not quite sure whether it should be relieved or concerned by such a revelation. At least this way all Jesus could lay his judging eyes upon was my pale white ass.
With her legs pinned behind the front headrests, it was not lost on me that this was easily the strangest position I've ever attempted during the act of coitus. Looking down and thrusting into the girl that made my drinks earlier in the evening, I couldn't help but think that the service now was much better. Her body was flawless: tan soft skin, perfect perky breasts, but the burning stare I felt from behind kept me from fully enjoying the situation. I got so lost in my inner drunken rambling that I almost didn't hear her warning.
"Watch out," she told me between pants. "I'm about to cum! Watch out!"
Confused by her cryptic advice, I stopped a moment and sat back on the passenger seat. Before I could ask her what she meant by "watch out," my question was answered.
I thought it could only happen in pornos. I thought it was a special effect, or even a special skill one could master over time. I had no idea it was a natural occurrence, and sure as hell had never seen it before this night, but in the darkness of the parking lot I witnessed my first female ejaculation. Squirters, I found out later, they're called. Females whose orgasms produce a shooting effect, like a man's. Squirters.
Squirt would be an understatement of what I observed. A water pistol squirts. A bath toy squirts. This was a fucking geyser. I opened the side door and narrowly avoided Old Faithful's spray. I was standing on the rocky pavement in nothing but my socks as I saw the dash, the radio, the clock, the vents, my god everything get coated with her juices. I was already reaching for my pants as she sat up.
"What the fuck are you doing?" she yelled. "Close the fucking door!"
Still processing what had happened, I surveyed the situation: her, naked and spread eagle in the backseat of a vibrant yellow gas guzzler, perched on her elbows with a scowl in the place of her once bright smile; the front seats and dash, glistening in the glow of the streetlights, freshly coated in her cum. It's then that I saw it.
Looking up past the digital clock, past the emergency light button, past the GPS system, I saw the Lord, and running down his cheek was a droplet—a single tear—collateral damage of the waterfall that just occurred.
I ran home in my socks, repeating Hail Marys the whole way.
This story was a lot of fun for me, so if you enjoyed reading it and would be so kind as to leave a comment with three random words, I'll pick my favorite to write a story about every week (or as soon as I get around to it).