The Donkey Punch
“Hi sugar, I’m Pauline.”
I didn’t even have to move. She came to me. I had just drained my glass and was working myself up for a trip to the pisser before stumbling over to her spot at the bar, but I guess as soon as Jack left, she zeroed in.
I stick out a hand and say, “Hi Pauline, name’s Dennis.” Then I sit there and wonder why the fuck I’m talking like Roy Rogers all of a sudden.
She grabs my hand and I immediately regret having offered it. She sits next to me in a grand display of clanging, over-sized jewelry, and I resist the urge to wipe her hepatitis handshake on my pants. Pauline smells of cheap drugstore perfume, a lot of it, and she doesn’t look too healthy up close. From the other end of the bar she didn’t exactly appear to be fit as a fiddle, but sitting right next to me, my skin is crawling. Poor girl has clearly seen some rough times over the years, as evidenced by the half-moon shaped scar under her right eye.
“So, I heard a rumor about you.”
Uh-oh.
“Oh yeah? What kind of rumor.”
Pauline leans closer and says in a cigarette-and-gin infused fog, “Word is you’re a TV star.”
I laugh and look around for Jack Mehoff, but he seems to have disappeared. “Well, I’m not sure what people have been saying, but that’s not entirely accurate.”
Pauline sidles right up next to me and places her lips against my left ear. “Don’t worry,” she whispers. “I won’t say nothing about the show. I know it will get you disqualified.”
I pull back and look at her. She’s got a wild, excited look in her eyes. I don’t know what all Jack told her, but it must have been enough.
She pulls me close again and says, “I want on the show. And you don’t have to worry about a thing. I like the rough stuff.”
So much for small talk. Ten minutes later, we’re in her pickup truck, heading for the motel.
Life is filled with many questions.
Why is the sky blue?
Is there an afterlife?
Why am I here?
And of course: Is it possible to wear three condoms at once?
I don’t know the answers to any of those yet, but I’ll be fucked if I leave this bathroom before I come to a definitive conclusion on that last one.
I’m thankful for many things. You might not think it based on what you’ve read so far, but I promise, I am truly appreciative for certain little things.
Viagra is one of those things. Vodka is another.
Without those two beauties, I would not be where I am right now. And where I am right now is coupled to the anus of a very bony, very loose, very frightening woman who I have come to learn quite a bit about.
The following is true of fair Pauline:
– She has been to prison. More than once. And not as a visitor.
– She has quite probably committed murder, or at the very least a form of extremely aggravated manslaughter. I gather this is the reason she was in prison, and I very much hope it’s not the reason she was in prison more than once.
– She actually prefers anal sex to vaginal sex. Says it feels better, she does. While she talks about the difference between her rectum and her vagina, I can’t stop imagining a long, wide, cold, dusty hallway.
– The last man to lay a fist on her is now collecting disability checks from the government and goes by the new nickname of “Lefty”. And he might also be her uncle.
These are things Pauline has related to me while I’ve spent the past twenty minutes pounding her bottom with what she calls my ‘flesh hammer’. It confuses me to learn that the woman who claims to enjoy the rough stuff, in her words, is also the same woman who allegedly severed the hand of a relative after he struck her.
And I have to donkey punch this woman in the kidney.
What will she do? Get pissed and cut off my dick? Or will she like it? Will the punch be considered the ‘rough stuff’ and lead to a positive response? Why did she hack off her uncle’s hand? Was it because he punched her outside the sexual arena? Has she ever had sex with her uncle? OK, probably a dumb question. More like, how often did she have sex with her uncle? From what I’ve learned of her so far, that seems to be the more apt query.
She’s still talking. I’m having sex with her butt and she’s talking like we’re sitting at breakfast having a cup of coffee and trying to decide if we want to go to Home Depot or Menards to pick up wallpaper. Only in this case, Home Depot is more like ‘my cocksucker of a second husband’ and picking up wallpaper is ‘impaled his ball sac with a Phillip’s head screwdriver’. The matter-of-fact tone she uses when discussing things I’ve only ever heard about on an episode of Dateline is rather disconcerting.
And in the back of my mind, I can hear Mongo. He’s certainly getting antsy in the other room, spitting Slovakian cuss words at me to hurry the hell up and get this over with. And I have to agree with him here. I need to just grow some balls and take care of business. I don’t know how much more of Pauline I can take, and even Viagra wears off at some point.
But I can’t pull the trigger just yet. I have doubts. Fears about the well being of my appendages. She already told me she likes it rough, right? Isn’t that basically a free pass to attempt a simple donkey punch?
Good God, is this how rapists rationalize their actions?
Goddammit, stop this shit! Just give her a quick thump and get the fuck out of here!
Right. Just do that and it will be all over.
Pauline is still talking, and I think maybe she’s doing it for the cameras. She knows she’s being filmed. She wants to be a TV star. She’s expecting something to happen. She’s waiting for me to do it. She already knows it’s coming, she said so herself. So what the fuck is my problem?
Probably, I don’t have any fucking desire to punch a woman, that’s what. Shit. I need another drink.
No, this is it. Just punch this chick already.
OK. Here goes. This time for sure.
I raise my right fist. I try not to think about Uncle Lefty and his missing hand. I close my eyes and swing.
“Ah, there you are,” Pauline says. “I was wondering if you fell asleep back there.”
Nothing happens. Did I not hit her hard enough?
“Come on, I thought you were a tough guy,” she says. “That all you got?”
She’s looking back over her shoulder with a mocking smirk. Apparently my rough stuff is not very rough at all. I swing again, a little harder, and with my eyes open this time. I connect just below her ribcage, which is quite visible through her skin, like I’m fucking a skeleton covered in a sheet. This time I feel something, a tightening of her asshole. It sends a tiny electric shock through me.
“Yeah, now we’re talking,” she says. “Come on hardass, hit me.”
So I do. She squeezes me tighter.
“Yeah! Again!”
And I do, again, harder.
And again. She’s backing into me in earnest now and I wonder if she has any nerve endings at all in her rectum, or if perhaps she’d had a pneumatic tube installed back there at some point. Each blow results in a tighter squeeze and it actually starts to feel pretty incredible, even with three rubbers on.
I hit her three more times, a quick boxing combo of left-right-left and her body shudders and her asshole clamps down hard on my shaft.
“Come on, motherfucker!” She sounds angry now, but she continues to ram her sharp pelvic bones into my hips. “Let’s go, bitch!”
I’m getting close now. Time to finish this shit like Mortal Kombat. I raise both fists and bring the pain. Two perfectly placed shots to the kidneys. The Double Hammer Fist. Game over, motherfucker.