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FRIDAY FICTION WITH JOCKO WEYLAND

Hey kids, it is once again time for some Friday afternoon fiction. Here's another longer one by Jocko Weyland to take you into the weekend… [said in a smooth-jazz radio voice]

Family Affair

Up at the house by the lake in the middle of summer it was a real family affair with Michael and Charemaine and the two kids and I was there as the uncle by proxy. Swimming, canoeing, picking mushrooms and cooking, Quinn-Li taking his first dips in the lake and Marina crawling around. Very G rated, a wholesome atmosphere all around, just taking it easy being virtuous except for the occasional sneaks down to the lake for a cigarette. In general it couldn’t have been a less prurient environment if you tried. Then one day about six in the evening we were sitting on the porch and the sound of a car coming up the drive made itself known, a jarring intrusion because out there in the woods a mile from the paved road a car motor reverberates through the wilderness. We looked through the trees across the water and saw flashes of orange alternating between the leaves, following the sound as it went behind the trees around the end of the lake and then a big Chevy Suburban appeared. We were like, who the fuck is this? Well, that wasn’t actually said since the children were present, but it was so unexpected and usually days go by up there without any reminders of civilization. The Suburban lurched to a halt and who gets out but Will. Turns out he still has keys to the gate, something I don’t think Michael knew, but Will is great and it’s good to see him. He was all smiles and manic energy saying, "You guys are here" (I suppose this was a surprise and not quite what he was expecting) and shook hands, "How are you doing?" and all that. Man, it’s been a while. Nice paint job on the Suburban, Will. "Yeah, it’s ‚Äòtangelo,’" he laughed. As this was going on the passenger door opened and this girl climbs down. She might have been a "girl" about twenty years old but she was definitely a woman and Oh Lord it was a sight to behold. My first thought was Jesus you’ve got to be fucking kidding and an impulse to burst out laughing came over me. Her legs were tanned and seemed to go on forever as my gaze roved upward to where they finally ended in the shortest pair of Daisy Duke shorts I’ve ever seen. Dukes of Hazard style all the way, and they barely seemed to cover her pudenda. Just insane. Above that paltry patch of denim beyond her mesmerizing and exquisitely flat stomach she was wearing, if that’s the right term, what basically amounted to a red handkerchief as a top. Hardly concealing what was without a doubt a tremendously curvaceous bosom, that little red handkerchief top strained for all its worth. A little over-the-top you might say, right out of a chainsaw manufacturer’s pin-up calendar, but you couldn’t deny the impression it made. That incredible body emanated unapologetic, un-self-conscious and unadulterated young but fully formed female sex appeal at its most overpoweringly powerful. And she was wearing cowboy boots. Simultaneously I tried to keep my tongue from hanging out of my mouth and not laugh because it was so at odds, so in contrast to the serene ambience uncomplicated by matters of sex that had been peacefully prevailing a few minutes before. The five adults exchanged pleasantries and the two kids did whatever they were doing for a few minutes and Will said we came up here to take some cheesecake shots and if you don’t mind we’ll be down by the lake. At one point I asked, "So how’s the aging satyr?" referring to the old lech who owned the one nightclub in a nearby town who Will had regaled us with lurid tales about a few summers before, and now he laughed nervously and looked alarmed. "I’m fine." He thought I was asking about him. "No, the other aging satyr," and we all had a good laugh about that. Well nice to see you, and they got into the tangelo Suburban—that bronzed right leg tautly telescoping as she climbed in—and drove down the road, leaving sundry agitated vibrations in their wake. There was a moment of quiet only disturbed be the rumblings and bumpings of the Suburban retreating down the hill and then Michael said "What about the mosquitoes? She’s going to get bit." It was dusk and July and those ferocious creatures were starting to swarm.  I said, "Yeah, man, the mosquitoes are really going to be after her." We stood there for a moment, in what might be best described as awe, then Michael said he had something to do in the kitchen and I said I’ll be in in a bit and decided it was time to take one of those secret smoke breaks. Ambled down the trail to the lake and peeked around some branches looking at the far side by the beaver dam where I could see the tangelo Suburban and two figures, one crouching and photographing and the other lying on a rock, posing, cheesecake-like. It was almost a hundred yards away so couldn’t really discern any details but maybe that was for the best. Left a lot to the imagination. As the cigarette inexorably burned to its end I strained for a better view to no avail and thought about the mosquitoes and her body and then it was time to go up the cabin for a wholesome, hearty dinner.

JOCKO WEYLAND