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unnamed story (Part 18)

At that very moment Samantha and Jennifer were choosing to dwell on the more positive possibilities of their current situation.

“We could sleep in the White House” said S.

“We could see if we could break into Fort Knox” countered J.

“Tomorrow we should break into the big museum downtown and redecorate with some priceless art.”

“Now you’re talking” said J enthusiastically, “We could see if there have any Francine Paul. How cool would that be?”

“Depends. Who’s Francine Paul?”

“You don’t know Francine Paul?” asked J.

S shook her head.

“She paints lesbian erotica.”

And there it was. The toe in the pool. The subject had been broached.

They made small talk for the next hour but eventually the topic came up again.

“I was just thinking … if it’s just us left on Earth. How is it going to work?” J said.

“How will what work?”

“You know …. relationships. Will Patti share Clay or are we all doomed to a sexless existence?”

S Laughed. “God I hope not.”

J paused as if building up to something. Then she said that something.

“Have you ever been with a woman?”

S blushed so hard that her cheeks actually burned briefly. She felt it.

“No. Have you?”

“J said “Yes”, her cheeks throwing up a little empathetic red.

“I’ve thought about it but never done it. I kissed a girl on a dare once.”

They both laughed at the innocence of the statement and there was a surprising lack of tension. They moved on to finding something to eat and eventually it was time for bed.

The previous night they had both slept on couches in the living room, feeling it was too intimate to sleep in someone’s bed in case someone walked in to find them there. No longer worried about unexpected company they decided to venture upstairs and find beds for themselves.

J asked S if it would be ok if they stayed in the same room and S said yes.

No sexy music started to play in the background if that’s what you’re hoping for.

They got into bed and said goodnight.

“I don’t know what you’re thinking but I’m not trying to hit on you” said J.

S laughed.

“I would like to put my arm around you though. I’m feeling a little lost.”

S said “Ok.”

Her arm went over her and then her hand came to rest on Samantha’s chest. One molecule of Jennifer’s finger made contact with one molecule of her shirt and that molecule pressed down ever so slightly on one molecule of Samantha’s left nipple.

Boing.

 

Not only are you now going to feel a wave of bitter disappointment that I’m cutting away from the potential lesbian antics of two attractive females but I’m going to do so to recap a dream that Clay had that night that involved absolutely no lesbian antics.

Believe me, you’re not missing anything. I’m the kind of writer that uses the word ‘boing’ when describing lesbian antics. And I call them antics. If I were to describe a lesbian encounter in any detail I might actually ruin lesbianism for you.

In Clay’s dream he was a golfer. He was coming down the 18th fairway with a share of the lead in a major tournament. This despite the fact that he hated golf. His approach was good and he ended up on the green with a chance to eagle.

For those of you unfamiliar with golf, an eagle is any of the various large diurnal birds of prey (family Accipitridae) noted for their strength, size, keenness of vision, and powers of flight.

His opponent’s ball landed very close to his. In his dream the PGA no longer assumed gender so his opponent appeared to be either a large rugged man in the throes of a sex change or a giant lantern-jawed female going through gender reassignment. Whatever it was, it was wearing a skirt and lumbering towards him.

Clay approached his shot, lined it up and purposely missed it. You see, the PGA had also recently changed the overtime rules to determine a winner. They no longer played a sudden death hole. Instead they had the two golfers each select a club from their bag, walk to the putting green and fight to the death.

It had been a rating’s winner.

Clay wanted nothing to do with fighting so he was ready to come in second. His adversary though made it clear that they were also willing to keep missing until he eventually tapped it in and Clay suddenly remembered that this enormous person might have overheard a joke he had made earlier at their expense, involving balls and holes and other golf metaphors, and perhaps it was their intent to force his sudden death.

Eventually he sunk his putt and he was asked to select a club for the upcoming combat. He went with a wood. The he/she opted for a five iron. Every cable station on the planet cut to the golf tournament when news spread that another overtime was about to commence.

He or she or whatever it was advanced on Clay. It took a mighty swing and Clay offered up his club to try and deflect the blow. The force of it literally snapped Clay’s driver in half, leaving him with a short but very pointy weapon. He took the pointy part and drove it between the legs of his towering opponent, up the skirt and into whatever penis or vagina lurked beneath it.

Blood fountained everywhere. In slow motion it must have been breathtaking. Within a few minutes the other golfer crumpled to the ground and expired.

Fans all converged on him. He was handed a trophy and microphone were thrust in front of him to inquire about his thoughts on the big day.

One of the microphones belonged to a beautiful reporter and moments later, you know how dreams go, he was back in the clubhouse plowing her.

When he awoke he was disgusted with himself.

The reporter had been a brunette.

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