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Jezebel
and the Hung-Like-A-Horse Whisperer By
Elizabeth Foreman Gather
round my little literati children and I will tell you a tale of woe, or whoa… Jezebel
was a hussy, a true to colors tramp. Her life goal was to find a man who could
give her access into the world of adult entertainment. (Porn, for those of you
who are idiots.) It was not that she wasn’t a smart girl, nor that she had no
other talent; it was simply that she enjoyed being different. Instead of the
nine-to-five girl she was somewhere between the 11pm and 3am type, the on her
back type. Her
frequent plastic surgeries had left her thirty-year-old body somewhat taut but
finally she began to look just like Barbie, only a little fatter -- okay, a lot
fatter. Because she knew she could never be a real star, she decided it was ok
to settle for being a local one. Her daily routine consisted solely of finding
men in her little town of Hefferville to make movies. She even began to write
scripts with dialogue on her own. It
was a Tuesday afternoon and she went to the grocery store to buy some of her
usual products. She picked up some food here and there but the bulk of her items
were sexual in nature, like the economy sized pack of condoms, fraternity
strength, and enough KY Jelly to fill a bathtub. (In fairness, she did develop a
penchant for peanut butter and KY Jelly sandwiches during the filming of
“I’m Going to Stick it in Your Peanut Butter.”) She then went next door to
the hardware store, just as she did every Tuesday to do some “man huntin’”
and buy some chains. (Take that, Adina Howard!). Not
long after Jezebel had set foot in the door, her eyes met with a tall man whom
she had never seen before. He was foreign, probably from one of those exotic
countries like Canada, she thought to herself. As she looked him up and down,
she realized he would be perfect for her new movie: “Jezebel and the
Hung-Like-A-Horse Whisperer.” He was the kind of guy who could make her
famous! She
pranced up to him. “I have a proposition for you.” She
went on to explain her idea; as all men are whores, he agreed to do her movie.
They decided to meet that night and start filming, but they would need practice
first. Jezebel hurried home and prepared for her visitor. Because
she liked to be really freaky, she decided that they would start off with some
role-playing and then move into the more erotic movie rendition. After laying
her wardrobe selection out on the bed, a Fruit-of-the- Loom grapes costume, she
lit some candles and set up her camera. She waited excitedly and watched some of
her old movies to get her in the mood, the kind of mood that anyone dressed in a
grape costume would need previous to some serious rimming. She waited longingly
and changed many times before finally settling down in her most highly sensual
ensemble. It was ten-fifteen when the knock came on the door. “Let’s
hope that’s not the only knocking that will go on tonight.” She said aloud
as she raced to the door. She opened it to reveal her dream man standing there.
“Oh, I see you’ve brought your own costume,” she stated, checking out his
ass. He
was dressed as the Indian from the Village People. Jezebel contemplated all the
fun positions the two could tangle themselves into. “I don’t even know your
name.” He
replied something along the lines that it didn’t matter but she was too busy
fantasizing to care. He
walked up to her awkwardly, thieving a sheet wedgie from its resting crack and
demanded his money for the film. Having no money to give the man, she promised
him that once the movie was sold, he would get half the earnings. He agreed and
then began to get into character, both literally and figuratively speaking. He
approached Jezebel, knocked her vase from her kitchen table and threw her on top
of it. (The table, not the broken vase shards). His hand slid up her leg, then
to her thigh, “This is it,” she thought. Then just before he slid home, he
stopped. “What
is it?” Jezebel inquired impatiently. His eyes were fixed on something; she
followed his stare which lead her directly to the entertainment center. “Wow!
That’s a big TV, eh? Must be good for watching hockey games and waffle-making
shows, eh?” Suddenly
she noticed the dim light in his eyes. He was the kind of guy who was only good
for a fuck. Jezebel began to wonder if he would even be able to read his lines;
in fact, she was sure he couldn’t read. She didn’t care. Holding
his body close to hers, she felt the tender feathers press against her nose and
the heat of their bodies was too enticing to worry about such details. He began
to remove her clown outfit. (Oh, I didn’t mention she was dressed as a clown?
Clowns are sexy.) He started with the curly red wig and ball nose, then
proceeded to remove what was left of her attire, culminating in the removal of
monkeys-in-bumper-cars-anal beads, which she felt lent just the right
authenticity to a pornographic clown. He,
on the other hand, wasn’t too hard to undress -- all she had to do was take
off his feathered vest because he had come without pants. He refused to remove
the headdress, but she didn’t care. He mentioned something about it making him
feel like the “Last Mohican.” They
tore into each other like hamsters on crack; not just because they were banging
like no tomorrow but also because they both had those huge front teeth one would
associate with rodents. Their physical love knew no terminal velocity. This
became quite apparent when the table gave out underneath them. The table did not
share their stamina. Jezebel
decided it was the perfect time to begin filming the movie. She briefly
discussed his lines but could only think of his tomahawk inside her. Her desire
for his hot man cream was overwhelming and she decided that a little more
practice wouldn’t hurt. They did it everywhere, on the sofa, the tub, even on
the stairs. They began to get dirty on the stove but she burned her butt on the
burner, which had previously been cooking something. Secretly she kind of liked
it, but didn’t want to appear abnormal to the man (because having sex with a
total stranger is completely normal and acceptable). Their professional
positions made the Karma Sutra look elementary. Her
favorite position was when he had her suspended by her ankles between the tub
and toilet. It would have been perfect if she hadn’t kept smacking her head
against the bowl like an angry pendulum. Still, even the discomfort of the
porcelain cracking against her cranium was no match for what was smacking the
other end. It
had been about three or four hours before the two began taping their horizontal
tango, despite the fact that it wasn’t always horizontal. She decided to forgo
the script and make a movie about pure animal attraction, unscripted. It
wasn’t what she had hoped for but she hadn’t planned on an illiterate
Canadian either. They
made quasi-passionate love for the entirety of the night until the wee hours of
the morning, when he was forced to go to his day job at the local Taco Bell,
which was also the location for his favorite cuisine. Jezebel was excited to
know that he had such discriminating tastes and that he still enjoyed what they
did. (Yeah, you pretend you don’t know what I mean, but I see that smirk.) The
next morning, without even editing the tape, she took it down to the local porn
store. Hard-on Harry was waiting there to buy her video and put it out for
distribution to Hefferville. She gave him the tape not knowing that it would
become the most famous pornographic film in history. The film went on to sweep
all categories of the Porn Oscars and won several “Stiffy” awards, including
“Most believable Indian Chief”. Within a year, Jezebel became the most
famous adult entertainer in the country. Her dream had come to fruition and she
was living like a true porn star-with inexplicable itching. As for the Canadian,
he was deported back to Canada where he spent the rest of his life working at a
Taco Bell. The end, eh? ____________________ This
was found when asked for a biography: “Dear
K-Master Flex and ‘The Squad,’ “This
piece was the bastard offspring result from a day of escalating
college dares. I enjoyed it, writing it, living it
-- I mean... just writing it. Anyway,
please feel free to bombard me with sexy hate or fan mail, so long as they
ascribe to the aforementioned ‘sexiness’ requirement. Fans and haters
alike can lyrically tag this ass at cicicik@yahoo.com. Also,
to my sexy Latin cabana boy, I hope your pants are full of jokes! “-Mrs.Robinson”
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(c) Defenestration Magazine, 2004