*Author's Note: Any and all persons engaging in any sexual activity are at least eighteen years of age.
Disclaimers: Yes, I need an editor and no, I do not want an editor. Yes, it jumps around too much, yes there's too many people to keep track of, yes it's too long, yes it's too short, yes it's in the wrong category, yes this is stupid shit, and yes I suck.
But if you're that upset by it all? Just email me your bank account number and routing information and I'll refund every penny you paid me to read this story.
For those of you that have not hit the backspace key, I hope you enjoy this tale.
*.*.*
Albert Rosenberg knew he'd screwed up the moment he saw the flashing lights in his rearview mirror. Tijuana Jack had ice cold draft beer and it was served by a beautiful woman with Texas sized titties on full display.
But that was still no reason to sit and have seven of them. Having seven beers and then deciding to drive home had been a real screw up.
"Had anything to drink tonight, sir?" the Oakleaf police officer was courteous.
"Yes sir, far too many," Albert confessed, opening the door of his car.
"Sir, stay in your car," the officer ordered.
Fifty minutes later, Albert was sitting in a cell, glumly looking at the gray cinderblock walls, the gray steel bars, the gray cot, with its gray sheet and gray blanket.
"Hey, how's it going?" a young man on another cot cheerfully said.
"Like shit," Albert mumbled.
"So, what'd you do?" the young man asked. "Must have been serious if they put you in here with me."
Albert was suddenly afraid. Had they put him, a drunk, in with a serial killer? True, it was his third DUI in two years, true he would lose his license, again, for at least a year.
But he wasn't a dangerous man. Albert had heard the horror stories of people that drove in a blackout and came to, only to realize they'd killed a family in an automobile accident. He'd sat impassively while this girl sobbed because a drunk ran over her and now she'll never walk again.
But those stories didn't apply to him. Albert Rosenberg was always careful as he drove, always exercised diligence.
"Brandon Wright," the young man said, happily sticking out his hand.
"Albert Rosenberg," Albert said, shaking the young man's hand.
"Jewish, huh? Tell me, Albert, have you heard the good news? The good news that our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ died for your sins?" Brandon asked.
Then the handsome man collapsed in a fit of giggles.
"Sorry, man, sorry," he giggled.
He gained his composure.
"Was raised by the Reverend Always Right, I mean, the Reverend Alan Wright and his beautiful wife, Mrs. Never Home, I mean Mrs. Natalie Wright. No matter what the argument, dear old Dad can find some fucking biblical quote to back his argument up, and dear old Mom is so fucking whacked out on prescription pills she doesn't know what day it is," the young man said.
The handsome young man smiled, green eyes shining. Albert wondered if the young man might be on some sort of drug; he seemed too happy given their surroundings.
"Let me tell you how it started, Albert Rosenberg," Brandon said.
1.1.1
My father had it in his head that I would follow in his footsteps, become a self-righteous pompous sanctimonious prick. Maybe that's not how he saw himself, but that was how I saw him. He was a good old fire and brimstone, hellfire and damnation preacher. Every Wednesday night and every Sunday, twice on Sunday, he would rail and scream and scream and jump up and down, preaching judgements.
He never seemed to preach about Jesus dying to forgive our sins, never seemed to talk about the loving side of God. Just the vengeful, vindictive God.
And because I'd been born a son, a good looking young man, with thick brown hair and beautiful green eyes, because I was tall and muscular, because I had a good, strong voice, I would be a preacher.
I don't think so.
Right after I graduated from High school, my father decided I would go to Atwell College of Divinity. I was already registered to Connelly College here in Oakleaf, Texas. But Dear Old Dad pulled some strings and suddenly Connelly had never heard of me and Atwell was welcoming me to the fall semester.
So, I stole fifty bucks from my mother's wallet and bought a bus ticket for Houston, Texas. Why Houston? Why not?
On the bus, I met this older man, probably my father's age. We sat and catted the whole way to Houston.
When we pulled up to the terminal, Matt, that was the nice old man's name, Matt asked me if I had a place to stay. I told him I didn't.
It had been a whim, a total lark, an adventure.
"Well, I got an apartment couple of blocks from here; come on," Matt said.
So I went with him. He held onto my arm, as if he was afraid I'd run, or someone else would steal me away from him.
His apartment turned out to be just this one tiny ass room. There was a twin bed against one wall, a small table and two chairs against the other wall. And on the table was an old television and a vcr machine. We had a vcr at home, along with 'Family' movies. There was a stack of tapes on the table too and I went and looked at the tapes. I was sure this guy didn't have 'Old Yeller' or 'The Computer Wore Tennis Shoes' in his collection.
'Anal Actions' and 'Cock Sucking Sweethearts' were just a few of the titles he had.
While I was looking at the titles of his tapes, Matt was busy making us some drinks. As he stirred the vodka and orange juice, he mentioned that he had a couple of joints too.
This got my attention. I've drank a few times; my best friend Derek Davidson's mom is a bit of a drunk. My dad doesn't like me hanging out with Derek, but I like Derek. And I like his mom and his older sister.
In fact, the first time I saw Vickie, Derek's mom, I thought she was his sister. She's got long blonde hair, slightly pudgy face, pouting lips and really nice boobs. Since she's only five feet tall, she looks a lot younger than she is.
Actually, I have no idea how old she is; she must have been only eighteen or nineteen when she had Linda, that's Derek's older sister.
Linda looks exactly like Vickie, even down to the height and big boobs.
But we, Derek and I have never been able to score any weed. Linda one time said she knew someone that knew someone that could get us some, but she just took our fifty bucks and laughed at us.
Matt rolled a joint, then turned on the television and there was already a tape in the machine. He rewound it and we sat on the edge of his bed. He put his hand on my leg as he lit the joint and I watched as 'Cum Bath' flashed on the screen of his television.
He handed me the joint and I took a mammoth hit and almost coughed. But I didn't want to look like a punk ass bitch in front of Matt so I held the smoke in, eyes watering.
Then I did cough when the movie started. On the screen was a massive cock and it was spurting jizz all over. Then the camera backed up and I saw that the huge dick was spurting cream all over this guy's face.
