Peter Oh’Tool smiles and says with a cocky, raised eyebrow, “This performance earned me my first ‘Fuck of the Year’ Woody at the AVNs. You can see why it’s called the alligator fuckhouse.”
The film rewinds and Peter turns to the side to show the action again, pointing out several key elements to the technique.
“First, it’s important not to give away your intentions. The key here is the element of surprise. When you bite her, try not to break the skin, but do it hard enough to scare the shit out of her. That sudden fear releases endorphins that will come in handy once you’ve flipped her over.”
The video plays in slow motion as the on-screen Oh’Tool moves into position. “Notice how I wrap my arms around her and don’t let her move. You can’t have her squirming out of position if you want to make this happen. Lock that shit up tight. Then, when you’ve got control of her, throw a leg in front of her thigh. That’s the key to executing the death roll without flopping out of her. If you think you can get both legs over and still keep your dick inside her pussy, go for it, but I wouldn’t recommend it for amateurs. Remember, I’m a trained professional.”
Cue a ‘trained professional’ wink and greasy smile. I fight back nausea as Peter plunges ahead. “When you got her on her back, she’ll buck around like a fish on dry land, so hold tight and plant your heels on her thighs. Once you’re there, it’s go time, baby.”
The video picks up again and we relive the magic of ‘Harlot O’Hara’s’ magical orgasm once more. Peter Oh’Tool begins to bump his hips in time with his on-screen self, clearly enjoying it all over again. Once it ends, he turns back to the camera and smiles.
“And there you have it. Now, go get ’em, gator!”
Interlude 2
The Baby
Some important information about me:
I’m part ginger. I’m not talking full-blooded. I don’t have a shock of orange on my head (it’s more of a ruddy brown). I’m not transparently white and prone to sunburn (I can get a tan, but it’s touch-and-go; tan becomes burn very quickly). And I’m not covered with freckles (they do come out when I burn, though). My dad passed his gingerly genes along to me. He’s your prototypical redhead. The guy would practically burst into flames whenever we went to the beach, which was not very often. My mom was dark-haired and Italian all the way through — her great grandparents came from Sicily to Ellis Island and were purported to bleed olive oil if cut. Sicilians tended to stick together, so my grandparents were pretty hardcore, but my mom broke from tradition in a big way by finding someone about as far from her end of the gene pool as possible. I fell somewhere in between them. My grandpa (never a big fan of my dad, whom he referred to as ‘The Carrot’) liked to call me V-8.
So, I’m about as white, round-eyed, and pale-skinned as they come. This is important to know.
After my divorce from Carrie, I hung around pretty close. I had to, because she was going to have my child. And because she was threatening all sorts of legal maneuvers designed to milk me for every dime I had, which wasn’t much. I still hadn’t found full-time work since the warehouse fired me, and since I got fired by a fucking warehouse, it seemed I wasn’t very desirable as a potential employee. Because I never finished college. Because I quit to become a husband and support my wife. Because she spent all our money but refused to GET A FUCKING JOB HERSELF.
You see where I’m going with this. Huge resentment issues.
So, fast forward approximately nine months. I’ve still got my part-time job — a fabulous, budding career in the food services industry. The only thing keeping me from either blowing my brains out or driving as far west as the $285 in my savings account would carry me was this baby on the horizon. Carrie didn’t let me come to the doctor appointments, but I still found out when they were and how things were progressing. I told her she owed me at least that if she was planning on getting any more money from me. She begrudgingly gave me copies of the ultrasound picture and eventually let me come to a checkup in the last trimester. I got to feel the baby kick. It was an amazing, transformative moment. I cried.
As I looked at my ex-wife, with my hand on her large belly, my daughter kicking my palm, with tears in my eyes, I could feel the ice begin to melt. That wall that had built up between us over the last few years seemed to be slowly dissolving. Neither of us said anything, but I could sense the difference. We had a new connection. This little life inside her, this ‘product of our love’ as the saying goes, proved to me there really had been love there between us at some point. I thought a lot about the beginning, how it was when we first got married. I stopped obsessing over the end when it got bitter and nasty. I threw that out. I was done with holding a grudge. I thought maybe this could work, maybe we should make it work for the sake of our daughter.
I started coming over to the house regularly to check on Carrie, make sure she was OK and had everything she needed. I would do stuff for her so she could rest. I made dinner and did the dishes. I washed laundry. I read stories and sang to our little angel in the womb. I even crashed on the couch a few nights. The closer we got to the due date, the more it felt like things might work out. Carrie felt it, too, and even said so. We didn’t talk about re-marrying just yet, but I was definitely thinking about it. I had hope for the future for the first time since we were still newlyweds.
Then the baby came.
For whatever reason, Carrie didn’t want me in the delivery room with her. I protested at first, but she was in labor and not in the mood to discuss things. She gave me a look. I knew what that look meant. I stayed in the waiting room. I was in there for nine fucking hours. I sat in every single seat. I read every magazine from cover to cover, four times. I nearly got kicked out at one point. I was a wreck.
Finally, Carrie’s mother came out to tell me the baby had arrived. She was not smiling.
“You shouldn’t go in there,” she told me.
“Why the hell not? I’m the freakin’ father. I want to see my daughter.” I was pretty slap happy from sleep deprivation and nervous stress at this point.
Carrie’s mom just shook her head. She couldn’t look me in the eye. “Wait here for a little longer.”
I wasn’t pleased about it, but I did. Twenty minutes later, a nurse came out and said, “Mr. Porter? Follow me and we can go and see the baby in the nursery.”
Not your baby. The baby.
She pointed her out for me, lying in a bassinet amid half a dozen other squalling newborns.
“Which one is she?” I looked where the nurse was pointing, tried to follow her finger. “Is that her, next to the little Chinese baby?”
The nurse just said, “Um.”
I read the name on the tag at the end of the bassinet.
She wasn’t next to the little Chinese baby. She was the little Chinese baby.
The wisps of red hair I was expecting were in reality short, straight, and black. The light, pale skin that should have resulted was more olive in color. The eyes were of a shape typical to the Asian world and not the creamy, large, round eyes of my sun-sensitive forbearers.
This was not my child.
“Are you sure that’s the right one?” I asked the nurse.
She still couldn’t meet my gaze. She just nodded. “I’m afraid so, Mr. Porter.”
Everything inside me broke right there. I walked out of the hospital without another word. Carrie didn’t even bother to try and call me.
I haven’t spoken to the bitch since.
The Alligator Fuckhouse Part 2