That Empty Colon Feeling
Joanie gets relief and goes out to celebrate
**
Another big thanks to my amazingly talented editor Ken. Thank you, Ken. You make my stories readable and -- I hope -- enjoyable.
**
Sometimes I get constipated. It happens to lots of people. It's why drugstores are full of "solutions" to the malady. I don't like most of them, since they're fairly brutal on my system. Instead, a heavy dose of prunes or -- better -- dried apricots usually solves my issues. I have a French recipe for prunes with wine, involving a vanilla bean which tastes exquisite. In season, I use a Beaujolais Nouveau, a typically delicious, young wine with a heavily grapey flavor. It helps to take the edge off of constipation.
The only good thing about being constipated is the feeling of relief you get when it's over. I had that wonderful empty colon feeling last Friday. I was all smiles the entire day when at work, and also on the drive home after work, not even minding the heavy traffic. The radio was playing my favorite songs. Everything was going right. I stopped at a CVS en route home and used my coupon to buy some expensive, lubricated condoms without any latex. It was either that or more toothpaste. Tough choice, but then I get a new coupon weekly.
I'd been chaste for over a year, but I had hope.
I needed a celebration. A bar in a little farming town a bit of a drive away served food on the weekends and had a more than decent selection of boutique micro-brewery beers. The bar was called "The Office," so that men could tell their irate wives they were still at the office and not be lying. Nobody was ever fooled.
Having grown up on a farm, I knew how to dress sexy for the rural crowd, and I did so. A short skirt to show off plenty of thigh, and no bra to encourage my nipples poking at my sweater, plus slightly heavy make-up with bright red lipstick and I was looking pretty good. Blue eye shadow brought out the faded blue of my eyes. Plus, I had my patent-pending empty colon smile extending from my left ear to my right ear.
I work in the office at the Caterpillar plant, on the east side of town, making sure the employees get their pay. Of course they'd get it one way or another, but I make the process run smoothly. If you control a man's paycheck you're always treated well.
I called my best friend Mary, hoping she would join me, but she had a hot date. I next tried Leanna, but she was busy taking a Covid test, since she felt rather sick. I Sled my Italian friend Serafina. Serafina gave me pause because she had a pretty face coupled with a body Sophia Loren would have envied. I always feel ugly in her presence, but at least I wouldn't be going alone. She didn't answer her phone, nor her cell phone. I decided fuck it -- I'd go to The Office alone. I'd gone there before often enough -- just never alone.
It was likely Jim-Bob would be at the bar. He usually was, always sitting on the same barstool. The Office should have named the barstool after him. Jim-Bob was one of my admirers, and the fact of the matter is, I like to be admired. He had a huge advantage over other men in his peer group, too: he wasn't married.
I was nervous going to The Office alone, looking all sexed up. When Jim-Bob gave me a welcome as he did, it was much appreciated. He motioned me over to the barstool next to him, even though Cal was sitting there. Jim-Bob and Cal are my favorites of all the men who frequent The Office.
As if by magic, Cal rose from his stool. He gestured for me to sit down. Cal knew if he stood behind me in the right way he'd be able to look down at my light, fall-weight, boat-necked crossover sweater, which did a poor job of hiding my boobs. Occasionally it would gape open, and when it did that, Cal would see a fair amount of breast.
Cal probably also knew my policy of not wearing a bra on Friday nights. That meant he would get some special looks, checking out the degree to which my nipples poked at my sweater, but I'd retain my modesty -- mostly. It also meant I had a primo seat right next to Jim-Bob.
Jim-Bob was a lot to look at, but precious little of it was good. That aside, he was a nice guy, and a good conversationalist as long as you liked sports, corn futures, soybean futures, and pork belly futures as topics of conversation.
I like sports, and one out of four isn't bad where Jim-Bob is concerned. Also, Jim-Bob listens to his doctor, and he was in the process of losing his rather huge gut. At his current rate of progress, he'll be a good-looking, thin, and muscular guy with a ripped six-pack in around fifty years or so. He had, after all, a handsome face as well as nice hair, and plenty of it. What's fifty years among friends? He'll be around 80 after 50 years, and I'll be a spring chicken of a lass of only 74.
In an interesting departure from the norm, I let Jim-Bob buy me an IPA. He bought one for Cal, too. Jim-Bob has his generous moments, another plus for him. In an even bigger departure from the norm, I let Jim-Bob buy me an entire steak dinner. The Office has wonderful steak dinners. An occasional steak is good for a woman, replenishing the iron that drains out of her when she has her period. Mine had just ended.
We both knew Jim-Bob buying me dinner was not merely generosity but also an attempt to bribe his way into my black lace, bikini-cut panties. My smiling acceptance of a steak dinner was therefore just a tad dangerous, all the more so if I wasn't up for a tumble with Jim-Bob just then. The jury was out concerning what I wanted. Sometimes, life just happens, you know?
Despite his huge -- and I do mean huge -- size -- sometimes he was called Jim-Blob, but always behind his back -- Jim-Bob had a reputation of being quite successful with the ladies. I'd heard a lot, but never once had I heard a complaint about him.
Neither Jim-Bob nor Cal knew that I was on an empty colon high, further fueled by Guggman Haus IPAs. I was finishing my fourth beer by the time my "very rare" sirloin steak arrived, complete with its foil-wrapped baked potato with butter, sour cream, and chives, deep-fried onion rings, and iceberg lettuce salad. I had missed lunch and had my usual breakfast of orange juice, coffee, and nothing else, so I was just a tad famished. I had been drinking on an empty stomach.
Jim-Bob has a big nose. He still has a handsome face -- some men wear big noses well. According to Mary a big nose means a big cock. I had the impression that Jim-Bob was going to give me the opportunity -- if I wanted it -- to verify "Mary's Rule," as it was known in the circles I traveled. Mary Simmons had already verified her own rule with quite a few men, according to the local gossip. And when is gossip ever wrong?
It was a delicate business. I had been flirting with Jim-Bob at The Office for over a year now. We'd discuss basketball
ad nauseam
, especially the Pacers. I didn't think there was anything left to say about Tyrese Haliburton, but Jim-Bob proved me wrong.
We were friends, but having sex, and I mean actual,
bona fide
sex, changes things. Did I want that? Did he? Maybe it was better just to stay friends and to limit the sexual interaction activity to casual flirting.
One thing was clear: Cal wanted to have sex with me. Cal is not subtle. Cal worked at Caterpillar too, and sexual relations among employees were forbidden. Very old-fashioned, if you ask me. Nobody asked me. Getting fired was not an option for me, for a variety of reasons. So sex with Cal was a non-starter. Sorry, Cal. Maybe in the next life?
Usually at The Office I nurse a single beer. This time I was on such an empty colon high that I consumed four beers even before my steak arrived. By the time my steak and apple pie à la mode was done, and before my coffee, I had drunk three more beers, and -- at Jim-Bob's insistence -- a healthy glass of bourbon whiskey. I think it was Whistle Pig bourbon, but my memory is hazy. It could have been Knob Creek, I suppose. I was one hell of a sloshed girl. I was going to have to Uber it home and pick up my car on the morrow
I had to get home, due to my dog. She was a full-size poodle named Frenchie, and she needed her own dinner and then to go out for a walk, for urination and possibly even a poop. The steak I had (daintily, of course) devoured was a T-bone, and Frenchie would go bananas over the bone,
First, however, I had to get off my barstool and stand up. That's not easy to do if you're wearing a short skirt and are amazingly drunk. Even the apple pie had not sobered me up. Nothing, however, fazes Jim-Bob. My own, personal theory is that his huge gut is akin to the hump of a camel. He stores all the whiskey and beer there and then slowly lets it into his body as needed. Jim-Bob knew my predicament -- the man is not stupid -- and he quickly stood, authoritatively took my arm, and then announced he was driving me home in his car. He was gracious; I was impressed.
Cal left the bar with us, and in the street just outside it he politely asked if he could kiss me goodnight. I had never before kissed Cal, nor Jim-Bob for that matter, nor any man who was in the bar that night. Indeed, my sexual activity had been restricted to my fingers and my vibrator for more than a year. What was different that night was that I had never before been so drunk in public, and certainly not falling-down drunk.
The problem is I don't kiss casually. I fell into Cal's strong arms and gave him a kiss that -- my guess is -- he'll never forget. I could feel his penis grow during the kiss as it pressed against my body. Cal does not have a big nose like Jim-Bob, but a man can have a big cock even with a small nose if what I felt is any measure. Who knows, though: Experience has shown my judgment is poor when I'm plastered.
It occurred to me that Jim-Bob might have been freaked out by my kissing Cal. After all, I'm as white as snow and Cal is ebony black. Also, I had not yet ever even kissed Jim-Bob. Luckily, Jim-Bob did not seem to be racist; he could have been jealous. He knew I was drunk.
I quickly discovered all was good. As I climbed into Jim-Bob's brand-new F-150, Cal gave my rear a hard slap. I laughed it off, and off we went. I let my skirt ride up my legs a bit to give Jim-Bob an alternative to staring at my nipples poking at my sweater -- that is, when he wasn't looking at the road ahead.
We gabbed about all sorts of things, excluding religion and politics. After around ten minutes Jim-Bob asked why I was in such a good mood, not that he was complaining. I explained I was drunk as a skunk in a funk in a trunk. Of course I was happy: I'm not a sad drunk, nor a bellicose drunk. No, I'm a happy, carefree drunk.
"You were as giddy as a schoolgirl before you even touched your first beer," Jim-Bob said.
