Still Trying To Understand Whoring

Arab Stud had momentarily maxed out and was snoring beside her. Surveying the litter that included twelve empty Glide containers, Morgan applied another lathering of numbing salve.

She fast dialed Wimpy Sixuus' office.

Back in Wimpy's office overlooking San Francisco Bay it was now afternoon. Nothing has changed. Wimpy's PA was even more stressed to the seams of her being. Propping Sixuus up long enough to talk to Morgan once again tested her endurance.

Wimpy Sixuus must talk to this enigmatic woman, the banker vice president assigned to manage his account. Funding for his partners' new resorts in Mexico and Jakarta rested fatefully on her expertise.

As the managing general partner of the venture capital firm, Wimpy Sixuus was Morgan's only contact with her nefarious clients. Wimpy's personal assistant lived each hour on the ragged edge, charged with the task of oiling his sagging parts.

Earlier Wimpy had passed out smoking hash mixed with Humboldt Green in his office bong. His PA was having no success in placating his callers, and Morgan Bancroft had become profane.

Why did the idiot add the "H" to the bong concoction?

"Damn it Wimpy!" the assistant shouted in his ear. "If you don't talk to Doctor Bancroft, she will call the Trojan Walrus down in Tijuana."

While holding her cell open awaiting the revival of Wimpy, my wife surveyed her slimy torso without prejudice having long ago become comfortable with the by-products of her debauchery. Of course, as usual she had mixed a large measure of banker's business with the marvel of energetic sexual intercourse.

Arab Stud grudgingly had coughed up another contract worth a Caliph's ransom in investor funds. Though it fell ahort of the monumental commitment of the earlier vestment, it was respectable.

"Poor Khan, Young Arab Stud supreme," Morgan mused to Connie and Helga as she waited for Wimpy. "Should I tell him he's just another frat boy with great potential but no artistry?"

Garnishing simplistic pump-to-the-orgasm sex with many deceptive quasi perversions made this ordinary vice president of commercial banking into an erotic luminary.

Sexual dynamos in commerce were worth millions in fees, interest and bonus contracts. In short, my wife had become a legend in her own time.

Morgan grimaced gripping the cell madly as a latent pain pierced her anus. Only then did she agree with Connie that Young Arab Stud had used her savagely.

None of the serial participants in the earlier event had assaulted her mouth, vagina and anus with the Sadistic intent that Khan had demonstrated. His anal exercises particularly had frightened her. It had been simplistic savagery meant to inflict pain.

Now she was being subjected to the indignity of enduring the collateral humiliations of Wimpy Sixuus. Repeatedly she had told the terrified PA that she would hang up and not call again.

Known for her determination, however, she held the cell connection, insisting that Sixuus talk to her.

"I must talk to him," she told the PA, "even if he's spaced out and playing poke her poker with Martians."

If the project managers in San Francisco and Tijuana would agree to minor changes, she could sign the lust crazed young Arab and his associates to a $200 million funding commitment for the Mexico initiative. Morgan's commercial bank eventually would receive a fee of $18 million.

"Mr. Sixuus is indisposed at the moment, Morgan," the PA said switching the call to speaker phone. "Can he call you back?"

"Damn it! I must talk to Sixuus!" Morgan said. "I've arranged for 80 percent of the funding of their Mexico venture and much more."

Wimpy's eyes snapped open as the PA dashed him with ice water. Hearing fragments of the exchange between the PA and Morgan had shocked his sensibilities into a low mode of understanding.

If she had 80 per cent signed and sealed, any number of lesser venture capitalists would happily sign for five or ten per cent. Wimpy moved lethargically, but he praised Morgan.

"Atta girl, Morg," Wimpy slurred. "We'll celebrate if you ever get to the Golden Gate."

"Give my bank ten more ventures like this one," she said, giggling despite her aches and pains, "and I'll spend a week on your houseboat in Sausalito and do anal without lube."

PREGNANT QUESTION...

"Why do you do it, Morgan?" Wimpy asked hoarsely. "Why do you continue as vice president of gang bangs when you could win, buy or sell their asses as a banker with your clothes on?"

"Why do you keep killing yourself sucking on that bong?" Morgan responded. "It's the same question and answer."

"Not the same thing at all," he wheezed. "When will you have this Mexico thing funded and ready to go?"

"Tomorrow, I'll be in Cairo for a few hours with old friends who have never failed me," Morgan said. "Your Jakarta venture should be sewed up after my weekend with the Somali pirate."

"Somali pirate?" Wimpy echoed, finding the image surrealistically funny.

"You'll hear from me again after my weekend in The Seychelles; and by then you'll have both projects funded."

"Then we'll discuss our next great leap for mankind," the PA interjected irreverently.

Already loading his bong, Wimpy decided his associates could wait. He would call after lunch to report Morgan's success. Once comfortable, he sucked the mind affectant through the tube, this time "an improved variety of cannabis" from Humboldt County.

Without a doubt Humboldt County, a depressed coastal enclave of chronically suffering souls surrounded by mountains and giant Redwoods, represented Northern California's only productive economic success.

Producing Marijuana was rivaled only by the behemoth porn industry providing life support for Southern MexiCali. Read that as Los Angeles.

"MexiCali sweet dreams, Dr. Morgan Bancroft," Wimpy mumbled. "I'm sending you some Garberville Hash, California's finest."

"Surely you don't think I'd smoke that hashish sewage," she laughed, pausing to grimace as a searing twinge laced her injured anus. "I'd be running the risk of sleeping with you on the banks of The River Styx."

"Wimpy's lights just wimped out, Morgan," the PA said wearily. "Bye, and don't take any wooden STD's."

Wimpy frequently experienced the urge to wiggle through his telescope and dive to the street 12 stories below. This morning the psychotic symptoms had escaped their medical bonds, leaving him frightened and drained of strength.

Poor old Wimpy was about to be fitted for concrete boots and walk on the high seas. Too bad, too, Morgan thought as she applied an astringent to the red welts on her breasts.

My wife liked Wimpy, the stupid little loser. When Wimpy wasn't sailing over San Francisco Bay in disembodied ecstasy, he gave her golden orgasms. Well! As usual, the Trojan Walrus in Tijuana knew best.

Morgan waited and rubbed astringent into her wounds. Her PA, Connie, took advantage of the opportunity to deliver messages that had archived during the night's uninterrupted orgasm festival.

"Your PA called from Atlanta sometime last night," Connie said sluggishly as she clipped the nail of a big toe. "She said you need to call the golden anus as soon as possible."

"Golden Anus" was Connie's code for "call Al Muth, your rectum of a boss back at the home office."

Morgan rolled on her side and sympathized with Arab Stud who held an ice pack to his broken nose. Semen seizures churned her stomach without warning, and she leapt from the bed, failing by only a foot to make the toilet.

Dr. Morgan Bancroft swallowed Advil and massaged her mauled breasts as she once more fast dialed the number for her home office. Holding for her boss was no novelty.

She glanced nervously at the Arab Adonis snoring beside her. Momentarily disturbing doubts stirred. Her husband, Sen. Stew Bancroft, had never looked like this Arab stud; but she was suddenly, just for the tick of the clock, acknowledging a pang of guilt.

By now I had obtained the tapes from elaborate surveillance system of the Gulfstream 650. I had paid a robber baron's ransom for them. But I continued to consult the court depositions and testimony for my primary situational reconstructions.

FROM THE SYSTEMIC EARS OF THE MIGHTY GULFSTREAM 650 (An after market add-on by owner after delivery):

"When did I talk to Stew last?" she asked Connie, a wave of dejection passing quickly.

"Probably the last time you wore panties," Connie said, lazily enunciating her words.

"Put a cork in it, Connie," Morgan mumbled. "I don't need a Dollar Store conscience."

"At least put on your panties," said Connie Boydston, who sat filing her nails in the lounge forward of the salon. "Our flight crew will be coming back soon."

Through the port Morgan could see tell tale streaks of a pending desert sunrise. Almost departure time, she realized, and another night runs into another day.

Hearing Al Muth's voice refreshed her memory of her justification for refusing to work in the confines of the home office. She cringed as Al's surly snarl came through her cell phone.

Al earned his pay. She admired his dedication to family and his fierce fidelity in marriage; but she perceived that he loathed her, considered her "two layers lower than whale shit whores."

"Did you get my voice mail?" he asked. She had not heard his message or read his e-mails, and he continued, "Your senator is refusing to give us that Somali refugee relief bill."

Sen. Stew Bancroft had rattled a few cages when he confessed that he was "bottling up" the Somali relief bill.

"Damn! Damn! Damn!" growled Morgan in disgust with herself. "I haven't called my husband since I left London."

"Maybe you should correct that oversight," Al said without inflection. "It's complicated, but in the new provisions of this new assignment, you'll see that we have been informed by three clients that if we get the government aid grant of $100 million, they will match the funds and accept only five points."

"Our fee?" Morgan asked.

"Our usual 15 per cent," he said.

"Sen. Steward Bancroft will see that the Somali bill is passed," she said slowly, already envisioning her approach to her husband. "I'll be home Monday, and he'll have you bill out of committee by Wednesday with string recommendation." Morgan had no qualms or doubts.

Stew always had suffered from a strength sapping addiction to the tormenting pleasures afforded by her body.

Connie snorted. She indifferently speculated that Morgan would be the first to "contribute a pussy to science to be studied alongside the brains of Einstein and Edison."

Both women watched intently as the Arab stud who controlled or influenced spending of billions opened his eyes, stretched and reached for Morgan. By the time they would land in the Seychelles, he would have signed off on another $50 million in venture capital.

And Morgan's investment bank would have banked another fee of 15 per cent.

*****

UNCOLORED FRIENDS IN A

DUNCE'S VACUUM

From depositions, court testimony and tapes:

Young Arab Stud had not finished with Morgan. Impassively, his eyes, black and cold, had bored into her as she ended her conversation with Al Muth. Her sudden preoccupation with business had removed him from her awareness.

"Don't!" she sighed decisively, slapping Arab Stud's hand away.

Morgan punched her cell's instant dial. Young Arab Stud relentlessly pursued his quest to appease his reawakened appetites.

"Dragoso, Vuvucu, Searchlit and Alibama," came the bored nasal voice at the D.C. office of the low profile lobbying firm. Morgan told the receptionist to ring Axtel Vuvucu.

"Mister Vuvucu is on vacation," the receptionist said, her sing song irrationally irritating Morgan. "Mister Vuvucu will be in the office again one week from Monday."

"Bastard!" Morgan shrieked as she threw her cell against the soft accordion door that separated the bedroom from the salon. Axtel Vuvucu was having sex with his wife again.

"Slimy men!" Connie said derisively, mocking her fuming sisiter-in-law.

Connie pushed back the thin divider and watched Morgan from the salon. Her role in her sister-in-law's version of life's insidiously rich pageant was to feed the slot machine of equilibrium. Irreverence rivaled brilliance in Connie's estimation.

Unresponsive to Morgan's discipline, Young Arab Stud continued with calculated insensitivity, his insistent fingers seeking to awaken passion once more.

Again Morgan punched her cell's instant dial.

Young Arab Stud opened her soft, inflamed folds.

"Axtel Vuvucu, here" a hoarse, breathless voice answered after her third redial.

"You're with your whore wife!" Morgan hissed. "Wasn't gonorrhea enough for you? Are you trying to win her HIV lottery next?"

Another intense exchange began between Morgan and another disembodied voice far removed. Vuvucu swung irrationally from whining lizard to cautious Mighty Mouth.

Once again Morgan's carnal jester of the moment scored three fingers in her Nest of Eve. Young Arab Stud ignored her attempt to repulse his crude digital invasion of her swollen, feverish cavity.

"I am not with anyone, Morgan," the unctuous voice responded. "I came away for a few days of solitary R and R."

Morgan's expertise at "carving the male turkey" was unchallenged in the annals of the Feminist wars. Axtel Vuvucu had known from their first betrayal of their spouses that Morgan's universe never ceased to rock with turbulent victories and stormy appeasements. Morgan had never conceded anything.

"Get your butt back home to Georgetown by the time I get there Tuesday," she said. "And have another panel of STD tests run."

"Okay! Okay!" her lover wheezed. "It will be done."

Squealing involuntarily at the contemptuous invasion of her mystical orifice, Morgan gritted her teeth and willed a silence, always a successful tactic with Axtel Vuvucu.

"I'm calling you about Stew," she said, forcibly calming herself. She repulsed Young Arab's hand. He bristled and resumed his digital assault. She did not persist in resisting his Sadistically probing fingers.

Between gasps Morgan demanded to know who gave the order to destroy Senator Stewart Bancroft. Mixed emotions produced a greater thrust if irritability than she intended.

"We couldn't hold off, Morgan," Axtel Vuvucu responded, his voice achieving a more customary level of power. "Your damned hubby was about to wreck our Somalia appropriation, and that would have derailed some very sensitive money plans."

Morgan's persona as vice president of capital calibrated whores prevailed over the remnants of Loving Wife. She grimaced as Arab Stud crudely pinched and jammed.

"Don't pretend you care about pencil dick Stew," Vuvucu said, regaining his arrogance if not his swagger. "Senator Pathetic dropped off your radar when you banked your first ten million.

Dr. Morgan Bancroft exhaled with a degree of bitter resignation. Wearily she cut her utility lover and D.C. apparatchik down a notch before resuming her vaginal vanquishing of the brute fingered Arab Stud.

"I'll be back in D.C. after I go to Jakarta tomorrow and meet with some people in The Seychelles this weekend," she said. "I'll take care of little Stew, and all you need to do is get your stupid ass back to your office and wait for me."

Arab Stud produced a fierce burning sensation as he once again savagely explored her critically abraised canal. His grim countenance both infuriated and frightened her as he fiercely probed her depths; and she made an Olympic contortion in twisting, planting her feet on his chest and launching him onto the floor.

Simultaneously the Gulfstream's jets roared to life and Connie advanced to the fallen desert warrior, deftly placing the muzzle of her .38 in his gaping mouth. Both the fallen swordsman and the pistol packing sister-in-law were astounded by their awkward juxtaposition.

"In case you're interested, Happy Hooker, the pilot says we're on our way to Jakarta by way of Cairo," Connie hissed, "but you have time to jettison mighty finger if you wish."

Connie once again was astounded as she watched her sister-in-law demonstrate her incredible powers of persuasion. With each episode, Connie understood more comprehensively why Morgan was dubbed the queen of venture capital.

Arab Stud's incomparably handsome features had once again moistened her hammered vagina. Connie observed with incredulity as Morgan ingeniously stroked Arab Stud, both instinctively and intuitively, and charmed him with her own special brand of seduction magic.

Morgan hugged him as she escorted him toward the door of the Gulfstream and kissed him sloppily. Connie was certain that her having placed the muzzle of her pistol in his mouth as a refresher of his respect and manners had killed any hope of his participating in any additional funding.

Once again, Connie had guessed wrong!

"No one makes me have 'la petite mort' like you," Morgan said as she embraced Arab Stud moving toward the door.

They kissed with a maximum saliva dripping off their chins.

"We need to prepare for take-off," Connie warned.

Connie stretched a grin across her mouth as she, too, hugged Young Arab Stud and reaffirmed his Rivaling Big Tex as the world's "biggest whatever."

"And I'm reserving two nights for you in London next month," as she fondled him and offered another exploratory delight in her oral cavity.

Connie shook her head in admiration and amazement as her sister-in-law worked her magic. Only minutes earlier, the heir to some mysterious desert sheikdom had bruised his buttocks when Morgan had kicked him off the bed.

Though Connie had calmed his rough sexual advances by placing the muzzle of .38 in his mouth, the Arab Stud whispered endearments and affectionately rubbed Morgan's ass before he descended to the tarmac grinning moronically.

Morgan closed the door to the jet's cabin; and when she turned to face Connie, she triumphantly waved another compendium of papers constituting a commitment by Arab Stud to invest an additional fifty million in a variety of ventures.

*****

A BOUNTY ON AMERICAN WHITE MALES

What is this? An order to appear before the Senate Ethics Committee had appeared on my laptop. An hour earlier my law associate in Atlanta had found a copy of a petition for divorce in my personal post office box.

Welcome to the 21st Century, Senator.

Being sworn in as a U.S. senator was one of my life's four "Red Letter Days." Any day became a "Red Letter Day" when I circled its number on my calendar in red ink.

These festal days represented my most treasured moments. My wedding day had held first rank. Birth of my son and daughter came next. Getting sworn in as a senator competed with graduation from law school for third place.

Like any other human superlative, however, each celebrated event had an alpha and omega. Obviously, someone had decided my life had reached the omega.

Sacraments do not simply crater. Someone cracks them. At least my marriage crashed and burned the same day that two representatives of the ruling cabal threatened me. They warned me of injurious consequences if I failed to deliver the Somali relief bill out of committee. By inference my wife was a facilitator in the scheme.

Any day could become black when the storm clouds blanked the sun; or a female federal cop and a congresswoman swaggered like racketeers. They demanded that I lead my committee to authorize $100 million for Somali relief.

"Senator Bancroft," the federal cop whispered, "it would be to your advantage to listen to Congresswoman XXX."

When I fast dialed the capitol police, the extortionists laughed and faded away. They waved as they seamed into the crowds in the hallway and mouthed, "Appropriate the Somalia relief money!"

It wasn't going to happen.

Impediments blocking the Somali bill in my mind were insurmountable. Of the most fatal of the legislative flaws was the brazen reality that the $100 million request was only $80 million beyond reason. Anyone could smell the corruption, perceive the usual suspects gathering around the trough.