“And then she told me to stick my finger up her ass and finger fuck it while I ate her,” Colder said at this point in the story. “I did it, and that’s what set her off. She came really fast after that.”
Following the orgasm, Mindy pulled him to his feet. She then got on her hands and knees on the bed and told him to fuck her. He readily agreed to this plan and dropped his pants, not bothering to take off his work boots or his shirt. Before he could make entry, however, Mindy handed him a condom in a wrapper.
“Put this on first,” she ordered.
“So, Mindy provided you with the condom?” he was asked, just for clarity.
“Of course,” Colder said. “I don’t carry condoms around with me at work. Why would I? Despite all the porno movies that make it seem commonplace, shit like this never happens to guys like me. Not even with normal chicks.”
He then went on to describe a frantic, aerobic exercise level sexual encounter in the rear-entry position while Mindy continuously exhorted him to spank her ass, to stick his fingers in her asshole, and to ‘fuck me like you hate me’.
When it was over, she told him to throw the rubber away and get out. He did so, still wondering if he was in the middle of a wet dream or something, but Mindy did give him a little something to remember her by. It was a pair of slinky red panties. There was a picture of them in the magazine. The picture showed the crotch of them, which was slightly discolored. There was a quote from Colder that he could still smell Mindy’s essence on the panties when he sniffed them.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” Matt whispered when he finished the first section of the article. There were two more sections to go, each an interview with another man that Mindy had allegedly had a brief, anonymous fuck with.
Matt saw that the story was to pick up on page 44. He started to flip through to read the rest but got distracted again, this time by the pictures of Ginny Jacobs. She was as smooth as a baby’s butt and oiled as well. He decided to peruse the shots for a few minutes and got lost in them. By the time he finally made it through the section, it was 2:55 PM, only five minutes until his guest was to arrive. He put the magazine aside until later.
The doorbell rang at 2:59. Matt’s hard-on had retreated by that point (mostly anyway) and he went to answer the door. Standing on his porch was a man in his mid-forties, smoothly bald, wearing a grey business suit and carrying a briefcase. He had an earring in his left ear and a pair of dark sunglasses covering his eyes. It was Jerry Stillson, presumably. He smiled when he saw Matt standing there, a good old-fashioned used car salesman grin.
“Matt!” he greeted, as if they were long estranged friends reunited at last. “It’s good to see you again!”
Matt was unamused. One of the things he and Jake Kingsley held in common was a deep hatred and mistrust of phoniness. “This is the first time you’ve ever seen me,” Matt reminded him. “We’ve only talked on the phone before.”
“Well ... yeah, it’s only an expression,” Stillson said. “I feel like I’ve met you before. After all, it was me and my team who put together all those Intemperance concerts back before you and the boys ... well ... you know ... assumed control of that responsibility yourselves.”
“Before we renegotiated that shitty contract we signed in the beginning, you mean,” Matt said. “The one where you were able to force us to wear leather fuckin’ pants on a stage blazing with more light and more heat than the fuckin’ sun while a bunch of lasers shot over our heads and explosives went off blowing our fucking bass player into the audience.”
“Uh ... yeah, exactly,” Stillson said, his smile now faded into nothingness, his expression turning troubled. “Listen, Matt. Maybe we’re getting off on the wrong foot here.”
“We got off on the wrong foot the first time you called me up and told me I would be in breach of contract if I insisted on playing my Strat onstage. You remember that conversation?”
“Yes,” he said slowly. “I remember it.”
“And then you went whining to Acardio and Doolittle like a little bitch when I told you to go ahead and breach me.”
“Well ... uh ... yeah, I suppose. Water under the bridge now though, right?”
“I’m still playing that Strat onstage,” Matt told him. “I have never stepped out to perform in front of an audience without that Strat in my hands. Not even once.”
“Yes!” Stillson said, the smile returning. “I know! I was totally wrong on that issue. I admit that freely now. Your Strat has become an icon, an integral part of your story. There are actually urban legends about it.”
“Yeah,” Matt said sourly. “I’ve heard them.” And he had. The most popular and widespread of these legends was that Matt’s Strat was somehow enchanted (probably by Satan Himself and probably because Matt had sold his soul to Satan, but this was open to debate) and that it was, in fact, the only guitar he could play. If he were to put his fingers on any other guitar, he would not even know how to make a G-chord, let alone rip out a riff or a solo. And, subsequently, anyone else who tried to play the Strat, no matter how proficient and talented at the instrument, would be unable to grind out even a single note with it. This story greatly offended Matt, not just because it was ridiculous bullshit and there were people in the world who were moronic enough to actually believe it, but because it implied his talent was artificial and not the result of thousands of hours of practicing and perfecting the art of playing the instrument back in his adolescence and early adulthood.
“Anyway, you and your Strat are the reason I’m here today,” Stillson said. “I have a very lucrative proposal to make, as I mentioned when I set up this meeting. Will you allow me to come in and explain it to you?”
Matt stared at him for a moment and then shrugged. “Yeah, I guess so,” he said with a certain reluctance. He stood aside to allow the man to enter his home.
Stillson did not take off his shades once inside. Matt did not give the man anything resembling a tour of the home. He led him through the entryway, through the entertainment room (without offering any refreshments), through the living room (without bothering to introduce him to Kim, who was still watching TNG, although by this point it was a different episode) and into his composing room, which was windowless, soundproofed, cluttered, and smelled of marijuana. He waved him to one of the chairs near his desk, upon which sat a bong full of dirty, foul smelling water, and a paper plate with crumbles of marijuana bud still speckled across it.
Matt sat down in his own chair behind the desk. He burped, farted, and then turned to his guest. “All right then,” he said. “What’s all this about? Give me the details.”
“Uh ... sure,” Stillson said, still trying to get used to the surroundings. “Right to the point. I like that. However, I did bring some rather fine uncut Peruvian flake with me. I’ve heard you enjoy a little blast now and then. Perhaps I could line us up a few rails to break the ice?”