It was a new type of stethoscope.
There was a headband and there was what looked like an oval mirror sticking out of the forehead of the headband. With such a device, many gynecologists can place their new-fangled stethoscope on the bellies of pregnant ladies while their antiseptic hands played with their fat titties and their fat pussy-lips.
Such a stethoscope was on Hiram Shingles' head.
He had come by the stethoscope when he used to work at Tweedy Good Samaritan Hospital for veterans and mothers who were expecting two things: a little baby, and a fun time in the stirrups while a Welbyian-like man probed their pussy to make sure they had a hole in it.
Oh, the hospital had been fun to work around.
Or, at least it had been fun for Hiram.
And, although his main task was to change the bed pans, he found out that it was more fun to change out of his male flume outfit and don the garb of a gynecologist.
It was easy fooling the hospital staff into thinking that he had just graduated from MIT as a brain surgeon. Because life is like Lincoln had said: You can fool all the people some of the time and some of the people all of the time. And, since everybody who lived in. Tweedy was a fool – it was simply a case of being duped all the time. It was fun fooling the hospital staff. And it was double fun fooling the patients in the women's ward – those in the maternity wards and women patients who had inadvertently become victims of rape.
Hiram smiled when he recalled those days of being addressed as Dr. Shingles, as he paced up and down the hospital hallways with a somber look on his face, a clipboard under his arm and plastic gloves under the other.
Sometimes, he even got to see babies being born. And seeing babies being born simply reinforced the common fallacy perpetuated mostly by men with big cocks that women could take big pricks up their cunts because no prick was ever going to be bigger than a baby's head. Or some such bullshit.
One time, Hiram had even performed a D amp; C. But such, an operation would take too many gruesome pages to describe. Suffice it to say that the patient didn't die of a hemorrhaging cunt. She died because the spoon was too big for her asshole.
But, anyway, that was how Hiram acquired a brand-new stethoscope.
And it was a good thing that he had five-fingered the stethoscope because he was leaning his head against the wall of roam nine of the Sleepwell Motel, trying to make out what the people were doing on the other side of the wall.
And, with his forehead pressing the stethoscope against the plaster, that left his hands free to do one of two things: jack off or write chapter seven of The Secretary's Brown Pubes.
Naturally, being ingenious, Hiram had done both. Not at the same time, of course. He had jacked off first, and now he regretted that he had jacked off first because there was white goo all over his Mattel typewriter and many of the letters were obscured by the mayonnaise-like substance.
"Shit," he muttered, his neck aching with the strain of putting enough pressure on the stethoscope. He tried his best to wriggle around on the movable sled, but the fucking wagon kept moving back and forth, and the stethoscope was making all kinds of scraping noises against the plaster wall, and the scraping noises sounded like the volcanic rumblings of Vesuvius in his ears, and everything was just getting all fucked up.
Naturally, Hiram hated room nine.
He hated room nine because it was his daughter's room.
And he doubly hated room nine because Rebecca hated to have a painting of Whistler's Mother put into her room because she thought that the fucking old lady looked like her dead aunt – the aunt on her mother's side who had been given a heart attack by God and who had been found rocking with the wind as she slowly turned to stone.
So, that was the start of Hiram's problem.
That and having a typewriter covered with jizz. And having a stethoscope that blasted earthquakey sounds into his ears.
And sitting yoga-fashion on a moving vehicle with a crummy typewriter on his lap and his head in an awkward position.
"Aw, fucking assholes!"
Then, besides regretting the fact that he had come all over his typewriter, Hiram suddenly regretted screaming out his frustrations.
"Aw, fucking assholes!"
"Hey, who said that?"
"What?"
"Who called us fucking assholes?"
"Nobody called us fucking assholes, Mr. Collier. Now, come on, you're gonna lose your hard-on."
"I just know I heard somebody call us fucking assholes, Rebecca."
"Look, you fucking asshole, nobody called us fucking assholes. Christ, Mr. Collier, you're losing your hard-on."
"Goddamn, but I always get the willies when somebody calls me an asshole. Don't you ever get uptight, Rebecca, when somebody calls you an asshole?"
"No shit, Mr. Collier. Look at your prick – it ain't worth a cocksucking damn! And after all the trouble I went to get your prick…"
"Yeah, yeah. I know. And I 'preciate you blowing me for an hour. But, fuck-shit, nobody's gonna call me a fucking asshole without a fight."
"Look, don't worry about it, Mr. Collier. Here. I'll blow you again, and that'll help you forget about being a fucking asshole."
Slurp. Slurp. Slurp.
"Jesus Christ! Boy, that pisses me off! I think your father ought to make these walls soundproof."
"Um-hmmmmm."
"Shit, I'm so pissed off I don't know if I can get it up."
"Um-hmmmmmm."
Slurp. Slurp. Slurp.
"I tell you, Rebecca, if any cocksucking chick in town can give me a hard-on, it's you. Christ, I think it's getting a little hard already."
"Um-hmmmmm."
Slurp. Slurp. Slurp.
"Jesus! I can feel something tingly in my balls! Come on, Rebecca, give my balls a couple of licks, too, okay?"
Sluuuurrrrpppp. Sluuuurrrrpppp. Sluuuurrrrpppp.
"Aaaaaaahhhhhh, sheeeeeiiiittttt!"
"Um – hmmmmmmmmmm!"
"And my asshole! Come on, Rebecca, tongue the old brownie. That always gets the cock good and hard."
"Hm-mmmmmmm."
Slurp.
"Jesus, Rebecca, you can do better than that – Christ! You act like you don't dig tonguing my asshole."
"Hm-hmmmmm."
"Hey, don't worry 'bout it. Lots of cocksuckers don't like to tongue a guy's asshole 'cause they think the guy never washes there. But don't you worry none, Rebecca, my asshole's clean as a whistle."
"Hmmm?"
"Come on, Rebecca! I said my asshole's really clean. Just tongue it a few times, and if you taste anything funny, why you just forget about licking my brownie."
"Um-hmmmmm."
Slurp. Slurp.
"More! Oh God, Rebecca! More! See what it does to my prick! See my prick!"
"Um – mmmmmm."
"Please suck my asshole! Oh God! Please!"
"Hm – mmmmmmm!"
"You cheap slut! I paid you good money for a sucking! Now suck my asshole or I'll tell your pa about what you do for a living!"
Silence.
Slurp. Slurp. Slurp.
"Ah, that's better, Rebecca. Ooooohhh, right there, baby! Ummmmmm! Stick it in there real far, baby! Come on, the old asshole's clean as a whistler, remember?"
Slurp! Slurp! Slurp!
"Yahoooo! Oh Jesus! My cock's so fucking hard! Do you see it! Do you see what's coming out of it!"
Drip. Drip. Drip.
Slurp! Slurp! Slurp!
Writhe. Writhe. Writhe.
"Goddamn! I can't hold it back! It's going to be coming out! Oh Jesus! Here it comes! Loooookkkkk oooouuuutttt!"
Fffffaaaaarrrrrtttt!
Hiram wrote the scene like he heard it.
What he didn't like about the scene was that he didn't need an ass-tonguing scene right now. There wasn't a place for an ass-tonguing scene in The Secretary's Brown Pubes.
Goddamn shit! Nothing was going right. Now, he'd have to worry about his fuck-book publisher jumping all over his ass because he had introduced an ass-tonguing scene where there should have been a sixty-nine scene.
How fucked up could life be?
It was a perplexing question for Hiram. And it frustrated him that there were no viable answers. Unless… unless… of course! That's it!
He had brains… didn't he? He had skill… didn't he? He could write… couldn't he?
Yes! Yes! Yes! – those were very viable answers to all three questions.
Hiram was confident now that with a few changes of anatomical parts he could change the ass-sucking scene to one where Ferris Collier became a butch lesbian and his daughter Rebecca was Tuesday Salary. And the scene would take place just before Tuesday met nun Nancy who was getting whipped and lashed in chapter twelve of The Secretary's Brown Pubes.
Naturally, everything fit perfectly – what genius.
Now, Hiram was ready to write.
He leaned forward gingerly, placed the stethoscope against the plaster wall. Bent over and placed his fingers on the keyboard. Listened very carefully, then began self-dictation as he heard the first sounds coming from room nine.
The first sound he heard was a long, drawn-out fart.
The fart shinned Hiram. It had stunned him because it had sounded as if somebody were squatting on a microphone and was cutting the old cheddar.
The roar was deafening in his ears. Then his sense cleared abruptly. And when his senses cleared abruptly, he was stymied by another puzzling situation – how to spell, that God-awful sound so that his fuck-book readers would know that one of the lesbian fuck-book characters had cut a fart.
He typed: Poooooooooooot.
Looked at it for several seconds, decided against poooooooooooot because it didn't have a farty ring to it.
He typed: Gaaaaaassssss!
Looked at it for several seconds, then decided that gaaaaaaaaaassssssssss would never sound like fffffffffaaaaaaaaaarrrrrrrtttttttt.
Hiram was getting pissed. He cursed. Very softly this time. But he was rip-roaring mad inside, though outwardly he looked like a normal everyday fuck-book writer sitting yoga-fashion on a four-wheeled sled with a sonar device attached to his sweatband.
"Goddamnit!" he cursed quietly. There just wasn't any way to describe, using words, of course, a person slicing the old swiss.
Hiram tried phonetics, put his lips on his sweaty, hairy arm, as it he were going to cannibalize his own flesh, then blew as hard as he could. Fffffaaaarrrrtttt!
Jesus! That's how a fart sounded! So why was it so difficult to spell out.
He mouth-farted on his arm again.
Faaaaaarrrrrrtttttt!
That one was even better.
Fffffffaaaaaarrrrrrtttttt.
Christ, Hiram was really getting the hang of it now. All it took was plenty of practice and he could imitate an asshole pretty good. He practiced some more.
Fffffaaaaarrrrrttttt.
"Did you say something, Rebecca?"
"Hm-umm."
"Jesus, I thought I heard a… er, you know, somebody gassing. Are you sure it wasn't you?"
Fffffaaaaarrrrrttttt.
"See! See! I told you I heard somebody farting. Somebody's farting in the next room!"
"Um-hmmmm."
Slurp. Slurp. Slurp.
"Goddamn, Rebecca, I'm fifty-five years of age. You can't expect an old man like me to get it up again. So don't even try – besides, I can't get it up when I hear somebody fading in the next room." Ffffffaaaaarrrrrttttt.
Slurp. Slurp. Slurp.
"Please… tee-hee, tee-hee. Don't do that! Stop, Rebecca! My cock's just too ticklish right now! Please! Oh God! Tee-hee… tee-hee."
"Hm-ummmm."
Slurp. Slurp. Slurp.
Fffffaaaaarrrrrttttt.
The lesbian was known as Butch Collier. She ate assholes like dessert. She was eating the asshole nearest her lips now like a piece of cake that's given to a Korean orphan.
But the person who owned the asshole was none other than Tuesday Salary. Nobody before her had ever touched a tongue to her whooooppeeee hole. Not even her own self. It was a frightening experience full of apprehensive moments of time where every second filled the minutes with distasteful fear.
Tuesday tried to halt the proceedings of the tongue in her asshole because a familiar ache was happening down there where her thighs joined her upper torso – somewhere near her behind and inside her. It was not completely unfamiliar to her because she had the feeling many times in her life as a secretary when she had sat beneath her desk and had prayed to the Lord Almighty that nobody with good ears could hear what she was about to do with her asshole.
Gas came out of her butt.
And it created a sound like this: Fffffaaaaarrrrrttttt.
The other butch girl did not mind in the least, for she had done that inexcusable thing many times herself even though the smell could have rotted off the flesh of a bull in heat. She was too extremely excited to care about it as her tongue wagged away the gas once or twice before entrancing back into the portal where the stinky gas had exited so abruptly.
"Excuse me," moaned the brown-pubed secretary with a little grin on her lips that the other girl could not possibly have known existed because of the position she was in.
Then they climaxed very quickly against each other. Spending out their juices in torrents that fall like that picture of the little girl walking with an umbrella as salt poured on her scalp which was on a Morton's salt jar.
"Your honey-hole does a tongue wonders," mumbled the shorter of the two homosexuals. "Does mine taste the same as yours does to me?"
"I felt it was a good way to end our first friendship. Please come back when you ever want to taste the honey of my asshole, too. For I will never forget you, Tuesday."
"I love you, too."
"Good-bye and hasta luego," the girl went up the stairs and out the door, of the house that had been Tuesday's home for one years and three months of residing there.
"Yes," Tuesday smirked tearfully, finding her hand to wave it at her first lesbian.