Page 11 of Savage Daddies
Three balls potted with two hits.
Giggles feather the atmosphere. I turn my head and locate two club whores staring my way. They wear G-string lingerie that rides all the way up their asses. My dick twitches slightly, but just in default, the way it’s supposed to for the female species. Women these days are all the same, to be honest. They’re beautiful and have perfect facial harmony, but that about sums it up.
What’s a pretty face if there’s no soul inside?
Society seems to be getting shallower by the day.
I joined Venom Vultures motorcycle club four years ago because I was bored and heartbroken, and needed to distract my mind from the fact that my wife had just divorced me. Newly single, the club whore’s giggles and hair twirls gave me a shot of confidence for a time, but a couple months in, everything lost meaning.
They only do that because I’m deemed somewhat attractive. Because I win pool and ride Harleys out into the desert. Apart from that, nothing interests them.
And why should it? My own wife wasn’t even interested.
I force a pitiful smile back at them and take another swig of stout. This shit beats coffee any day.
Wrangler jabs his cue into the ground like a warrior holding a spear. “Go over there.”
“Nah.”
“When was the last time?”
“A couple months ago.”And it was shit.“But more importantly”—I cross my arms over my chest—“when wasyourlast time? Celibacy isn’t natural, man.”
Wrangler tightens his lips and looks away. Almost four years ago was the last time he stuck his dick into a woman. Correction—angel. It was distressed-denim-jeans girl that brought the three of us closer. Some call it fate, others call it chance. I simply call it the best night of my entire fucking life. There was something so carefree about that girl that revived me. Made me believe in raw, unfiltered passion again.
Slowly, though, over the years, it dwindled away, like it does when you live in an appearance-obsessed city. My ex-wife—who seems to have vanished off the face of the earth since the divorce—was the exception, and so was the mysterious girl from the masquerade who showed all of us the best time of our lives. One could argue that she was even better. Even more of an exception. The mask prohibited me from taking in much of her face, but those glowing green eyes still interrupt my REM sleep occasionally. My mind likes to remind me of her often.
She’s the kind of girl that crosses your path only once.
The kind of girl with Aphrodite as a mother.
And that’s an objective opinion. Wrangler, for some fucked-up reason, decided to abstain fromallsexual activities at the ripe young age of nineteen. He broke the streak only once, and it was forher.
“You know when my last time was.” Wrangler hardens his brow. “And you know we’re not supposed to talk about her. The past is in the past. Discussing a girl we bumped into almost four years ago won’t manifest her back.”
If only.
HIT!
Another miss from Wrangler.
That’s OK. Rounding up cattle is more his forte.Was,anyway, back when he worked on his family’s ranch, or whatever country thing he used to do back in Texas.
“God only puts angels in man’s path once, and it’s for the simple reason that angels are creatures of heaven, not earth.” Bullwhip takes his shot.BANG!Two spots potted.
“Good hit.”
Bullwhip takes one long stare at me and goes for his beer.
Humble as ever.
He’s an interesting one. Complex. He enforces a whip more than he speaks. Battering people is his talent, not words, although what came out of his mouth just then sounded pretty poetic. His splintered lip and long silences put some of the club whores off, but other girls are adrenaline junkies and like to get their rocks off with what they call “America’s toughest outlaw.”
Heispretty tough.
Puts all humans, even some trees, to shadow with his height.
Taking my turn again, I line the cue up with the white ball and hit.
