through medical science, turns out to be, va fa cuoio, fuck my ass. Why this particular orifice, he wonders, as he fucks her ass with his artificial hard on. What Pete wants is romance. He wants to stare into Cleo’s eyes and make love to her in slow motion, missionary position, or he’d be happy to squirm on the floor as he had with Samantha, or give it to her in the back seat of a car like he did with Barbara, not ass fuck her like Heidi when she was drunk. Va fa cuoio doesn’t feel like magic.
The blue pill provides Pete with the stamina to be the stud he never was. He fucks Cleo like they are doing a scene in one of Desirée’s movies. But why complain? Out of body sex is better than no sex, hard is better than soft, and eventually when he comes, satisfaction is definitely achieved.
CHAPTER 10
T he Berrymans, a Canadian couple on their way home to Toronto after a weekend shooting craps in Atlantic City, check into a deluxe room overlooking the stream.
Ingrid is a robust woman of uncertain age, Icelandic by birth, family name Stefansson, the same as Pete’s once was. When Jamie informs her of this fact, she calls her old auntie in Reykjavik and determines that he is her long lost Jewish cousin. She insists on meeting her mishpucha, a Yiddish word that she recently learned.
Jamie delights in calling Pete on the intercom to meet and greet Ingrid. “Your mishpucha is at the front desk.”
“What time is it?”
“Almost noon.”
“Almost noon!” Overslept again and he has a splitting headache, another unheralded side effect of the blue pill. The sight of Cleo beside him instantly changes his mood. Could the geezer be falling in love? She’s snoring lightly, turned away, legs pulled up, Precious playing peek-a-boo with his mind.
• • •
Charles Berryman has a red face and a pear shape. Born in Rye, England, he met his wife Ingrid in college. They immigrated to Canada where until recently he managed a bank. Charles had done quite well for himself until his net worth evaporated and he was forced out of his job. He’s finishing a cell phone call with more bad news as Ingrid freshens her lipstick.
Here comes Pete, hair askew.
“Petur Stefansson?”
It’s been a long time since anyone called Pete that. He nods to a big hipped woman with full breasts and a warm smile.
Ingrid sees the family resemblance immediately. “Mishpucha,” she shouts and gives him a mighty hug, kissing him wetly on the mouth getting a taste of Cleo. “I’m Ingrid Stefansson, your father and my father were brothers. We’re cousins. You look just like them.”
Pete never had any connection with his Icelandic relatives because Big Petey’s parents didn’t accept his mother who was a Jewish atheist. Now they speak Yiddish?
“All the anti-Semites in my family are dead. I even have a Jewish lawyer.” She smiles and elbows Pete in the ribs. Ingrid is a kidder. “Say hello to my husband Charles.”
The man’s face is ashen.
“Are you alright?”
“The bank seized our cottage by the lake.”
“Too many mosquitoes on the lake,” cracks Ingrid.
Charles laughs. “Without my darling I’d blow my brains out.” He hugs Ingrid. “She makes me laugh and I love her dearly.”
“Icelandic humor?”
“Cousin, what do you think gets us through long winters besides sex and booze? Icelanders are very funny people. Your cousin Ole won prizes for his standup.”
“What kind of prizes do comedians win?”
“Booby prizes.”
Charles breaks up.
“I always assumed my sense of humor came from the Semitic side of my gene pool.”
“Like your natural sense of rhythm?” Ingrid delivers the line as if she and Pete were a comedy team.
Charles’ gaze is drawn to the main house where Cleo, naked, waves to Pete from the bedroom window. Everyone enjoys the view including Jose, who’s raking leaves. “Speaking of rhythm,” Pete says picking up the conversation, “it’s not common knowledge, but a Jewish sailor
The blue pill provides Pete with the stamina to be the stud he never was. He fucks Cleo like they are doing a scene in one of Desirée’s movies. But why complain? Out of body sex is better than no sex, hard is better than soft, and eventually when he comes, satisfaction is definitely achieved.
CHAPTER 10
T he Berrymans, a Canadian couple on their way home to Toronto after a weekend shooting craps in Atlantic City, check into a deluxe room overlooking the stream.
Ingrid is a robust woman of uncertain age, Icelandic by birth, family name Stefansson, the same as Pete’s once was. When Jamie informs her of this fact, she calls her old auntie in Reykjavik and determines that he is her long lost Jewish cousin. She insists on meeting her mishpucha, a Yiddish word that she recently learned.
Jamie delights in calling Pete on the intercom to meet and greet Ingrid. “Your mishpucha is at the front desk.”
“What time is it?”
“Almost noon.”
“Almost noon!” Overslept again and he has a splitting headache, another unheralded side effect of the blue pill. The sight of Cleo beside him instantly changes his mood. Could the geezer be falling in love? She’s snoring lightly, turned away, legs pulled up, Precious playing peek-a-boo with his mind.
• • •
Charles Berryman has a red face and a pear shape. Born in Rye, England, he met his wife Ingrid in college. They immigrated to Canada where until recently he managed a bank. Charles had done quite well for himself until his net worth evaporated and he was forced out of his job. He’s finishing a cell phone call with more bad news as Ingrid freshens her lipstick.
Here comes Pete, hair askew.
“Petur Stefansson?”
It’s been a long time since anyone called Pete that. He nods to a big hipped woman with full breasts and a warm smile.
Ingrid sees the family resemblance immediately. “Mishpucha,” she shouts and gives him a mighty hug, kissing him wetly on the mouth getting a taste of Cleo. “I’m Ingrid Stefansson, your father and my father were brothers. We’re cousins. You look just like them.”
Pete never had any connection with his Icelandic relatives because Big Petey’s parents didn’t accept his mother who was a Jewish atheist. Now they speak Yiddish?
“All the anti-Semites in my family are dead. I even have a Jewish lawyer.” She smiles and elbows Pete in the ribs. Ingrid is a kidder. “Say hello to my husband Charles.”
The man’s face is ashen.
“Are you alright?”
“The bank seized our cottage by the lake.”
“Too many mosquitoes on the lake,” cracks Ingrid.
Charles laughs. “Without my darling I’d blow my brains out.” He hugs Ingrid. “She makes me laugh and I love her dearly.”
“Icelandic humor?”
“Cousin, what do you think gets us through long winters besides sex and booze? Icelanders are very funny people. Your cousin Ole won prizes for his standup.”
“What kind of prizes do comedians win?”
“Booby prizes.”
Charles breaks up.
“I always assumed my sense of humor came from the Semitic side of my gene pool.”
“Like your natural sense of rhythm?” Ingrid delivers the line as if she and Pete were a comedy team.
Charles’ gaze is drawn to the main house where Cleo, naked, waves to Pete from the bedroom window. Everyone enjoys the view including Jose, who’s raking leaves. “Speaking of rhythm,” Pete says picking up the conversation, “it’s not common knowledge, but a Jewish sailor
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