on the menu (The Full-Body Tongue-Wash? The Interracial Triple-Team?). Naturally, all the sex talk—not to mention the ever-present and extremely sexy cartoon cat—made the men horny. Some of them, in fact, seemed to be suffering from acute horniness, a horniness raised to elevated and possibly unhealthy levels. Golden did not want to admit to himself that the ban on brothel visits was making it worse.
Last week, for example, Golden had come out of the trailer to find Leonard Odlum humping a trash barrel. Leonard was a hyperactive redneck from eastern Oklahoma with the attention span of a kitten. Never without a cheekful of chaw and his trusted companion, the Dixie cup in which to spit it, he was always bouncing on his toes, performing disco dance combinations and yelling incomprehensible phrases at people who were out of earshot. And on this day, it seemed, he was humping a trash barrel.
When Golden asked what he was doing, Leonard said, “Who? Me?”
Holding his spit cup aloft with one hand and grasping the edge of the empty steel barrel with the other, he thrusted and caressed his crotch against it with an air of abject helplessness, the barrel occasionally making a hollow ringing like a broken church bell: Tong Tong Tong .
“Come on, get back to work,” Golden called, weakly. “Before you hurt yourself.”
“I’m on break,” Leonard grunted, “and this is what I’m doing.”
Down at the gate two drivers from the gravel pit were standing next to their dump truck, pointing at Leonard and laughing. Releasing his grasp on the barrel, Leonard turned to Golden, his hips still twitching slightly, holding his spit cup above the fray. Golden took a step back.
“See here?” Leonard said. He looked down at his pants, appalled by what he saw. “Lookit. It just keeps on like this, you oughta be glad I came across this barrel before you showed up.” He walked around in a circle, his twitching crotch leading the way. “You let us at those hookers ever’ now and then, this wouldn’t be happening!”
Golden couldn’t tell if this was all an act or if Leonard was in genuine distress. When Leonard started to reacquaint himself with the barrel again, Golden retreated to his trailer to hide until Leonard was finished. Several other workers had shown up to cheer and whistle. One of them yelled, “I hope the intercourse is consensual, Leonard!”
Now, according to several of the crew, Leonard had moved on from the barrel to the real thing; over the past two days he’d bragged to just about everyone he’d come across that he’d gone over the hill and got himself a hooker named Boutique, who he’d lit up, he’d said, like a High-9 slot machine. He had insisted from the beginning that making red-blooded men like him work in the close vicinity of so much available pay-for-pussy without being allowed to partake was a violation of his basic human rights. “This is America,” he’d yell at anybody who’d listen, “ ain’t it ?”
“I’m not trying to be a bother,” Golden told Miss Alberta, “but I’d like to make sure my man actually came in here before I confront him about it. It would make things easier for me.”
“No doubt it would,” Miss Alberta said. “But we take privacy very seriously here, Mr. Richards, and we don’t make a habit of revealing who our clients are, even when the request has been so politely made by a gentleman such as yourself. If that answer doesn’t suit you, you can take it up with the Supreme Court, or the honorable Ted Leo, who will tell you the same thing.”
Before Miss Alberta was finished, Golden was already backing out of the room like a crab. When he got to the doorway, he clapped on his hard hat, which was, he realized, the exact color of some of the dildos. “I didn’t know there were rules for things like this, or I wouldn’t have asked.”
Miss Alberta took off her bifocals and slumped into her chair with a sigh. In an instant her tone changed from
Last week, for example, Golden had come out of the trailer to find Leonard Odlum humping a trash barrel. Leonard was a hyperactive redneck from eastern Oklahoma with the attention span of a kitten. Never without a cheekful of chaw and his trusted companion, the Dixie cup in which to spit it, he was always bouncing on his toes, performing disco dance combinations and yelling incomprehensible phrases at people who were out of earshot. And on this day, it seemed, he was humping a trash barrel.
When Golden asked what he was doing, Leonard said, “Who? Me?”
Holding his spit cup aloft with one hand and grasping the edge of the empty steel barrel with the other, he thrusted and caressed his crotch against it with an air of abject helplessness, the barrel occasionally making a hollow ringing like a broken church bell: Tong Tong Tong .
“Come on, get back to work,” Golden called, weakly. “Before you hurt yourself.”
“I’m on break,” Leonard grunted, “and this is what I’m doing.”
Down at the gate two drivers from the gravel pit were standing next to their dump truck, pointing at Leonard and laughing. Releasing his grasp on the barrel, Leonard turned to Golden, his hips still twitching slightly, holding his spit cup above the fray. Golden took a step back.
“See here?” Leonard said. He looked down at his pants, appalled by what he saw. “Lookit. It just keeps on like this, you oughta be glad I came across this barrel before you showed up.” He walked around in a circle, his twitching crotch leading the way. “You let us at those hookers ever’ now and then, this wouldn’t be happening!”
Golden couldn’t tell if this was all an act or if Leonard was in genuine distress. When Leonard started to reacquaint himself with the barrel again, Golden retreated to his trailer to hide until Leonard was finished. Several other workers had shown up to cheer and whistle. One of them yelled, “I hope the intercourse is consensual, Leonard!”
Now, according to several of the crew, Leonard had moved on from the barrel to the real thing; over the past two days he’d bragged to just about everyone he’d come across that he’d gone over the hill and got himself a hooker named Boutique, who he’d lit up, he’d said, like a High-9 slot machine. He had insisted from the beginning that making red-blooded men like him work in the close vicinity of so much available pay-for-pussy without being allowed to partake was a violation of his basic human rights. “This is America,” he’d yell at anybody who’d listen, “ ain’t it ?”
“I’m not trying to be a bother,” Golden told Miss Alberta, “but I’d like to make sure my man actually came in here before I confront him about it. It would make things easier for me.”
“No doubt it would,” Miss Alberta said. “But we take privacy very seriously here, Mr. Richards, and we don’t make a habit of revealing who our clients are, even when the request has been so politely made by a gentleman such as yourself. If that answer doesn’t suit you, you can take it up with the Supreme Court, or the honorable Ted Leo, who will tell you the same thing.”
Before Miss Alberta was finished, Golden was already backing out of the room like a crab. When he got to the doorway, he clapped on his hard hat, which was, he realized, the exact color of some of the dildos. “I didn’t know there were rules for things like this, or I wouldn’t have asked.”
Miss Alberta took off her bifocals and slumped into her chair with a sigh. In an instant her tone changed from
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