Wally's Cock

Clearwater was somewhere outside Freelton─could have been north or the opposite, possibly east or tempestuous west, I’ve never been one for directions, but then I’ve discovered some amazing sites along the way. Anyhow it was off Highway 6, then there was that Freelton exit and a slim highway, and if you paid attention, on the right side, a wood sign with “Clearwater” scrawled in black paint. Take that path, drive along with branches scraping your car but don’t pay any mind like when your kid falls and scrapes a knee, and then you come to a log house and another make-shift sign saying welcome. Two Rottweiler’s will come running and barking up to your car and if you go further they’ll chase you down and they’ll win every time. And then Wally a tall skinny guy will amble up to your car, his cock and long hair swinging in the breeze.
“Folks,” he’ll greet you every time you ease up, with the stones rolling under your wheels. “Here for the day or weekend?” And then he’ll wait, smiling and occasionally scratching.
“Just the day, this time,” we’d say every time. We never stayed for the weekend.

Wally was a tall guy so if you rolled down your car window and if he stood beside the car and if you leaned forward to hear him because of the racket his hounds were making, you’d get a real close-up of his prick. I was weird that summer─spent most of my time lying on the flat hot rocks beside the quarry with my eyes closed or checking out the clouds. “Looks like rain today,” I’d say or “This is the life,” when the sky opened blue and wide. The first summer I took my top off and kept my lime and blue bikini bottoms on. I also had a bikini with ties on the side so the material rode up the side of my hips and I liked that. The second summer when some of the women were weaving daisy garlands in their pubic hair, I slid of my clothes, did it really fast like jumping in cold water, which the quarry water was all summer. Sometimes I opened my eyes like when one of the members squatted beside me –
“Want a beer?” he said and I looked up to see his prick grinning away at me.
“I don’t drink beer,” I said.
“No beer?” he said.
“I like the smell, though,” I said and closed my eyes.
Abie stood up. “Her father used to drink beer.”
“Gotja,” the man said, tugging at the brim of his blue “Coors Lite” cap.

The first summer after I married Abie, we went on a science weekend with the other counsellors from Green Acres Day Camp. Most counsellors shared a bunkhouse, but Abie said “We’re newlyweds, you know what I mean,” and so we had the tiny cook’s room off the kitchen to ourselves, which didn’t really matter, because of the horses grazing orchardgrass and bromegrass in the pasture.
“What’s that?” I said to Abie, both of us in our Tyrolean hiking boots and flannel shirts.
“His cock,” Abie said.
“His cock,” he said, smirking at me.
“But I’ve been horseback riding since I was a kid and I never ─” I said.
“Well, maybe they gave you old nags,” he said and I burst into tears.
Which was really weird considering I’d started sucking on cocks at Manitou-wabing when I was twelve years old and Micheal Breier was still alive.