Chapter 9

The next night and the three of the following weekend turned into more pages straight out of the Arabian Nights for George Ross. His newfound sex life made him suddenly feel twenty years old and ten feet tall. During the week, he had Betty every night. He dreaded the passage of the days until Alice and Fred came home and brought the whole dream to a rude awakening. Oh well, he had one more weekend to look forward to. By Thursday, that weekend seemed like it would never arrive. He was like a little boy waiting for Christmas. He got terribly bored hanging around the house watching the stupid daytime TV shows while Betty was in school. This day, while Jimmy was taking his two-hour afternoon nap, George decided to go down to the Barrel Inn and have a few drinks, shoot the shit and perhaps a few games of pool with the boys. At least that would make the time pass faster until Betty came to the house after school.

George, of course, had no way of knowing it but while he was at the bar drinking and gabbing with the boys the phone at home rang incessantly. Not being there during the entire time, it rang every five minutes but he couldn't answer it. Missing that call was destined to change his life. When he returned a little after three in the afternoon, Jimmy was screaming in his bed. The constant jangling of the telephone bell had kept him awake and frightened since he realized that it meant that he was alone in the house. George thought that the youngster had just had a bad dream. Soon Betty arrived and bathed and played with him and he was quite calm by the time she fed him and bedded him down for the night.

At eight o'clock a television show came on that Betty had to watch in connection with a school assignment. They were late finishing dinner and getting the dishes cleaned up and by the time they went into the den it was nearly eight. They had time to take off their clothes but not to do anything about it.

Maybe it was the drinks that he had had that afternoon or perhaps some subconscious apprehension, but suddenly George found himself as horny as a stud farm stallion. The mere sight of Betty's nude body with the big lovely tits and the firm globes of her ass had given him a roaring hard-on that threatened to burst right through the taut skin of his cock. Betty was neither unaware of it nor uninterested in the sudden development. The sight of his huge horsecock in such a magnificent erection always made the blood pound in her head and in other places. It would be a criminal waste not to put that beauty to immediate use. Perhaps she could service it and still pay enough attention to the show to get by at school the next day. It was worth a try.

On a sudden inspiration, Betty got down on her hands and knees on the carpet in front of the TV and signaled George to kneel behind her. In this way he could get at either entrance he chose, dog fashion, while they both watched television. In George's present condition, he needed no second invitation. Kneeling between her own knees, he guided the burning tip of his highly aroused prick into the creamy slit of her cunt. The show that she was watching bored him and he preferred to look down at his own action. He spread her buttocks wide in order to have an unobstructed view of his big hard cock burying itself in the juicy gash of her sex and then being exhumed only to bury itself again. It was like the grunions run and bury themselves in the sand over and over again. As he looked down, the little pucker in the center of the lovely cleavage winked up at him invitingly. What the hell, he could fuck her anytime. This was too good an opportunity to cornhole her to pass up. He wondered if that would distract her more than what he was doing now.

"I've got a half a mind to pull it out of your cunt and shove it up your lovely hot ass," he told her.

"Go ahead," she invited.

His throbbing prick was well-coated now with her pussy juice and as he placed it on target it burrowed easily into the tight stricture of her soft warm asshole.

"God, but you've got a marvelous asshole," he told her during the next commercial. "It's always like a virgin's tight little cunt. I love it."

Betty loved it too because she began humping back wildly, bouncing his dangling balls between her open thighs as she met his every thrust into her rear.

Between the distractions of the television and the wildly abandoned passion of their anal intercourse, neither of the naked lovers had heard the taxi arrive or the front door opening. There was no warning, to time or place to hide. Suddenly, the overhead lights were switched on and Fred strode into the room to discover his father-in-law buggering the nude baby-sitter. It all happened as quickly and unexpectedly as a bolt of summer lightning.

Fred flew into an immediate tirade shouting and screaming obscenities and barely giving old George time enough to yank on his clothes before he grabbed him by the belt and the nape of the neck and threw him bodily down the front steps of his home while the frightened child from next door trembled naked in the den, petrified at the ensuing scandal.

George picked himself up and ran down the street. He hid in the bushes across the street and watched until fifteen minutes later Betty left alone and returned to her house. At least they hadn't marched her home to report what they had seen to her parents. That, at least, was one thing to be thankful for. Why couldn't they have phoned from the airport when they flew home ahead of schedule? He had no way of knowing that they had tried for hours to phone him from Chicago and were sure that some horrible tragedy had befallen their son. George had a little over six dollars in his pocket and no place to go, other than to the Barrel Inn.

Walking to the bar he realized that his sex odyssey had followed the pattern of a James M. Cain novel in that it had all ended right back where it had begun. It had started when he discovered the young boy with Betty and had seduced her under threat of exposure after throwing the lad out of the house. It ended by him being discovered and thrown from the house. He had no idea what would happen to him now. Alice was the only family he had left in the world and surely he could never enter her home again. It would be even worse after they searched his room and found the all-too-obvious souvenir "battle flags."

Slowly, he made his way to the little neighborhood bar and ordered two double belts of bourbon.

Later, when he regained enough composure to think coherently, he thought of his old side-kick Jack Finlay. He and Jack had gone through college together and worked with each other for many years. Jack was the only real friend he had in the world and if there was anything George Ross needed right now it was a real friend.

When their unemployment insurance had run out, Jack had been one of the lucky ones. He had no family to provide for his keep and had qualified for county and state relief payments. As part of this aid program, he was given a large room in a downtown hotel catering largely to senior citizens and enough cash to live like a gentleman. George had often resented the fact that these impersonal relief agencies had treated Jack infinitely better than his own loving family had treated him.

From the phone booth of the bar, George reached Jack through the hotel switchboard and reported his current dilemma as briefly as he could. He tried to disguise the note of desperation that must have crept into his little recital. After a brief pause that seemed like an eternity to George, Jack's words came across the line like the voice of a guardian angel.

"Sounds to me like you need more than a friend, little buddy. At the moment you sound more like you need a few stiff drinks. Fortunately, I just got my county check this morning so I'm fairly affluent, at least for a few days. Do you have enough cash to take a cab down here?"

"Yes, I think so," George admitted sheepishly. It's always hard to let friends know just how broke you are.

"All right, tell you what you do. You grab a cab and get on down here and out of that neighborhood before your son-in-law has a posse out looking to string you up. There's a little bar next to the hotel, called 'Rudy's'. I'll meet you there. Don't try to economize and take the bus. If you don't have enough dough to pay off the cab, get what you need from Frazer, the bartender. I'll phone him now and tell him I'll stand good for it. You can bunk with me. I'll make the arrangements with the manager here and then we'll get you set up on the same relief program I'm on. Get your ass down here as quickly as you can. The first thing we'll do is hang one on tonight and talk it all out until we get your head screwed back on right. At the moment you sound like an emotional basket case." He hung up before George could even mutter "Thanks."

Rudy's was several cuts above the Barrel Inn which was the only bar he had frequented the past couple of years. There were polished paneled walls covered with brass plaques, red-leather booths and bar stools and, above all, a friendly atmosphere. Most of the customers seemed to be old friends.

"You must be George Ross," a pleasant voice called to him from behind the bar. "Right over here, Mister Ross. What's your pleasure?"

George knew that he had exactly fifty cents left after paying the cabbie. At least he could order a beer while he waited for Jack. His hesitancy must have shown because the bartender added, "The first drink for a new customer is always on the house here. After that, Finlay said to put them on his tab. He'll be along shortly."

"That's very kind of you. I guess I could use a shot of bourbon. Are you Frazer?" George asked his newfound sponsor.

"That's right, Frazer Macmillan. Scotch in name but generous in nature," he grinned and produced a bottle of Jack Daniels Black Label and a double shot glass which he filled to the brim. "Any friend of Jack Finlay's gets nothing but the very best in here,"

" he smiled and moved down the bar to other customers.

George sipped the fine bourbon appreciatively. After the rotgut that the Barrel served it tasted like the nectar of the gods. It was as though he had stepped into a new life in a new world. Already, it began to feel good to get out of the low-rent district.

Jack Finlay arrived five minutes later. George recognized the beautiful head of wavy gray hair before he could make out his friend's facial features in the dimly lit bar. Jack had a kind, easy-going manner that did more than any tranquilizer to ease his jangled nerves at this awful point in life. He was one of those rare humans who genuinely enjoy helping their friends without ever making them feel obligated. Through the years that they had known each other, George had often seen Jack lend a buddy his last twenty bucks with no hint of the fact that it left him penniless. Thank God for a friend like Jack Finlay, he thought. Obviously, his own opinion of Jack was shared by others since there were many friendly calls of "Hi, Jack" before he even reached George's side at the bar.

"Welcome to our happy darkness in this veil of tears," Jack quipped as he slapped his oldest friend on the back. "It's nice to have you aboard."

"Thank you very much, old friend," George mumbled simply. He never seemed to be very good with words when something meant a lot to him.

During the hours between their meeting and closing time at Rudy's, Jack demonstrated his cogent knowledge of basic human psychology by getting his frightened friend quite drunk, like a scared ostrich, George's best defense at the moment was to hide his head in the sand of temporary oblivion.

At two a.m. he led George, a trifle unsteadily, to his room and bedded him down on the couch while he pulled down the in-a-door Murphy bed upon which he slept.

The next morning, after a healthy breakfast, Jack took George down to register for state and county financial assistance. Three weeks later the papers were processed and George was assigned his own room at the hotel. Jack had the manager do a little switching around and George was assigned the room next to his. The connecting door was unlocked and the two old friends now shared a poor man's suite. It was a far cry from the six-hundred-dollar-a-month houses in La Jolla that they had rented during the heyday of the aerospace program, but it was still many steps up the ladder from the little room off the kitchen in which his dear daughter and her husband had ensconced him. Two days later, George's first checks arrived. They totaled to nearly two hundred dollars. It was more money than George had seen all at once since his wife had been killed. His budget of late had been geared to the five-dollar-a-week allowance Alice had slipped him out of her household money. He thought that it was a sad commentary upon our current society that a man who had contributed so much to his country's current status should have his standard of living so drastically elevated by going on relief.

A little at a time George had relayed the facts of his anti-social experiences at pedophilia to Jack. He had regarded the narration as a sort of confessional to cleanse his soul. He was, therefore, a little taken aback when Jack finally commented.

"Why, you lucky old son-of-a-bitch. I haven't had a decent piece of ass in over two years. The only nooky we get around here is the old whores that crawl out of the woodwork once a month when our relief checks arrive. You're a damn fool. Obviously, those young broads dug you for some inexplicable reason. They probably miss you as much as you miss them. Why don't you look them up. You know where they go to school. You could bump into them accidentally on purpose on the street near there one day."

It took three days of waiting around the school before George spotted Betty. She saw him at almost the same instant and ran into his arms.

"Oh, I've missed you so, George. Why didn't you come back for me. My life has been miserable since they threw you out," she sobbed.

In the rear booth of a nearby soda shop they talked while the blaring jukebox drowned out their conversation. It developed that the other girls were anxious to see him too and take up where they had left off. Perhaps, it would be easier now that he had his own pad. Before they parted, George made sure that Betty had remembered the name of his hotel. She could get the number out of the book and call him there. He didn't want her carrying around his phone number in her purse. He had some tricky arrangements to make before she phoned him that evening.

Back at the hotel he explained to the manager that he had these four young nieces whom he had always helped with their high school homework. They could hardly do this in the confused atmosphere of the lobby or public rooms and so he got permission to have them come to his room for the purposes of study assistance. George did not bother to mention the subject that he was helping them to learn.

The next afternoon, Betty and the hairy little blonde Cathy visited his room and they had a wild sex ball. His young nymphets had developed into full-fledged nymphomaniacs and, thinking that they had lost him, they had been laying everyone in sight. Even these two young sexpots demanded more attention this afternoon than George could provide. When Jack arrived unexpectedly, they were happy to take him on, too. They were in a frame of mind to welcome all mature comers. Their mental attitude opened up vast new financial vistas for poor-old-over-the-hill George. Cautiously, he spread the word among the sex-starved male senior citizens of the hotel that fresh young quim was available in his two-room suite three afternoons a week-for a price. All the girls were interested in was experienced mature cock. They were blithely unaware that their sex mentor, George Ross, was pimping for them rather than just assisting them socially. They even brought in occasional new recruits.

George opened a secret bank account in which to deposit his ill-gotten gains. The balance of this account built rapidly as he began to formulate plans of opening a full-fledged whorehouse where young girls would specialize in catering to the sexual whims of older men. The months began to swim happily by as this bank balance spiraled. He was almost within sight of his goal.

Everything that happened to George Ross always seemed to happen on a Thursday. It had been a Thursday when he had been laid off of his last high-paying job in aerospace. His unemployment had run out on a Thursday. It had been a Thursday night when his wife had been run over and killed, and still another Thursday night when Fred had walked in and caught him red handed buggering Betty. Goddamn, how he hated Thursdays!

Now it was another Thursday when he was in the hotel suite screwing Cathy up that hairy asshole of hers while three other old goats from the hotel were engaging in various other forms of sex acts with his other young protegees. The phone had rung a couple of times but he had been too happily engrossed in his buggery to get up and answer it. Now there was a pounding on the door. It was probably just another overanxious client for the girls' services. He would simply have to wait. At length the pounding stopped and there was silence for five minutes. He didn't hear the key in the lock when the manager opened the door for his social worker who feared that he might be lying dead on the floor of a heart attack as so many of his charges were lately. The square little civil servant flew into a temper tantrum when he walked in on the orgiastic activities of the older-younger sex group. He insisted that the hotel personnel stand guard at the doors to make sure that none of the erotic participants leave until the authorities arrived and then he phoned the police.

The minor females were hauled off to juvenile hall. The "customers" were charged with disorderly conduct and released on their own recognizance and George, the obvious villain, was charged with carnal abuse and contributing to the delinquency of minors.

Once more, with success almost within reach, the bubble had blown up in George's face. He was led from the hotel in handcuffs. From the expression on the manager's face, George knew that, once more, he had closed a door in his life that he could never hope to reopen.

Down at police headquarters he was fingerprinted and posed under the bright lights for the mug shots with the long numbers hung around his neck. Although he had several thousand dollars in the hidden bank account and could readily afford to get his own bail, he didn't dare do so for fear that the source of his hidden wealth might come to light.

For six endless days and nights George sat in a dank cell awaiting his day in court. For company he had two black pimps and a pickpocket. There is a grapevine, even in jails, and his cellmates soon learned that he was despoiler of young girls. Even in the society of these low-life companions, George Ross was a social outcast.

At last he had achieved the stamp of official recognition to his role as a dirty old man.