They were all looking forward to their Las Vegas weekend.
For different reasons.
Frieda Higgins was looking forward to going to Las Vegas because she wanted to get away from her husband… forever, if that's how she felt after thinking about her marriage while she played Bingo and the slots.
Bernice Hudson was going to Vegas because of Frieda.
Bernice had always wanted to eat out Frieda's pussy because Frieda was a Goddamn good looking woman. Besides, she had found out who that prick was that had given Yvonne a year's supply of birth-control pills. Which, coincidentally, would also be a good excuse for eating out Frieda's cunt – because Frieda would be like fucking a wife who was married to a coach who ate out high-school pussies like Yvonne Mandell. Especially if Bernice told her about her husband's extracurricular activities.
Hazel Turnbow was going because she wanted to find out about life outside of a textbook. Oh, that disgusting scene in the library, the one where Yvonne Mandell had sucked Coach Higgins' cock, was truly disgusting. But it had also done something to Hazel. Something that was not disgusting.
After Hazel had discharged that McDonald's hamburger, she had gone home that day and discovered a discharge that had came from the other end of her body.
Hazel's panties were not a very pretty sight when she had gotten home that day. They were halfway into the hamper when she had noticed why her panties had felt like mosquito netting for the rest of that afternoon. Because there was something pasty-yellow an the crotch of her white cotton panties.
At first, Hazel was scared. Cancer? Ben? Jaundice?
Then she had realized what that yellowish discharge was. Her vagina had prepared itself for the entrance of a man's… God! She didn't want to think about it!
No, it wasn't right! Hags and spinsters don't have hot cunts! That's why they were ineligible for the game of fucking. Because women like Hazel had not been brought up like the Yvonne of the world.
That was the reason why Hazel was on her way to Vegas. For a spree. For a lark. For one weekend where the smell of sin would be deep in her nostrils, where the odor of crushed walnuts would make her dizzy with passion.
In simple words, Hazel Turnbow was determined to get fucked. To see if that had been the cause of that yellow discharge that had soiled her soul and her white cotton panties.
So now they were still four hours away from Sin City. And the bus seemed to be crawling as it sputtered through the desert.
Hazel glanced at her reflection in the window. She saw bleakness and grayness and a tainted soul.
"Hey, you want something to read, Miss Turnbow?"
Hazel turned to the woman next to her. Hazel was surprised that Mrs. Coogan, the wife of the janitor of Thomas Dewey High School, was an ardent reader.
God, life seemed so full of surprises today; like when she had first boarded the bus with Frieda Higgins, and they were going to sit next to each other because they could convene about books and literature and life in general. But an Amazon wedge had separated her from Frieda. The wedge's name, of course, was Bernice Hudson.
"Hazel," Bernice had said. "Why don't you keep Mrs. Coogan company? She looks like the type that cries on long bus trips."
Hazel had kindly obliged, and she had settled her spindly frame next to Mrs. Coogan's bulky body. Thus, their Mutt and Jeff bodies were in the first bench seat of the bus, right in front of Bernice and Frieda.
Hazel smiled at Mrs. Coogan. Watching her reach into a laundry basket that the fat woman called a purse. Watched Mrs. Coogan search through four bags of Fritos, three cans of Metrecal, until her fat hands extracted a skinny paperback book.
The pudgy hands offered the book to Hazel.
Hazel said: "Thank you."
Then Hazel said: "Oh, God!"
Mrs. Coogan turned in her seat slowly and looked at Hazel. "Somethin' the matter, Miss Turnbow?"
"Where did you get this filth! Mrs. Coogan! This book…"
Mrs. Coogan smiled toothily. "That book belongs to Emory. You know Emory, don't you? Fine man. Does real well on the wages he makes workin' longside teachers like you, Miss Turnbow."
Hazel blushed… again. "Well, Mrs. Coogan, I'm not a teacher. I'm a librarian. And as a librarian…"
"I know you're a book lady, Miss Turnbow. That's why I brought them books along. So you can read them to while away the hours."
Hazel was about ready to issue forth another complaint. Oh, God! Why try? Everyone was doing it, so the kids said. Nothing wrong with letting it all hang out. Different folks with different strokes.
Hazel decided to join the rat race of human life. She glanced at the title of the paperback: The Librarian's Hot Fanny.
Hot Fanny!
No! Hazel wanted to see! How could a librarian own a fanny? It had to be a typo, an inadvertent error on the editor's part, or the proofer's or the writer's.
But then Hazel read the foreword as forward. She shook her head in defeat. The forward read like backward English.
The Librarian's Hot Fanny is about a librarian whose fetish is hidden behind the stacks of normalcy. She is a woman driven to a magnificent obsession, she needs men! And not just anywhere… but on a special place in her body!
Hazel wanted to cry, to scream, to tear her French twisted hair all apart and become a witch in Macbeth. Babble, babble, toil and rabble.
Hazel looked at Mrs. Coogan again, was on the verge of telling the obtuse woman with the triple chin that she wasn't in the mood for reading The Librarian's Hot Fanny.
But she saw that the fat woman was busy eating Fritos and reading The Coach Eats Out.
Hazel shook her head. Sin City wasn't four horns away – it was in her hands, and it would probably take her about four hours to read about a librarian who had an itchy asshole that only the scratch of a cock could put it out. At least that was the opening line of Hazel's first experience with a pornographic novel.
Oh, Bernice could have tried the old "Here, Frieda, let me rub your chest 'cause you look so tired" routine. But that was an old-fashioned lezzie line.
Once in a while that old routine could be heard in the women's head down at the Greyhound Bus depot, or in a Macy's dressing room, or at Campfire Girls rallies.
But Bernice was an old hand with, some new tricks up her sleeve.
Like the photograph she had up her sleeve.
The photograph that she had taken through a nook or cranny in the floor of Coach Higgins' office.
It had taken a lot of effort to get that photograph. Shit, she had had to stand up on some fucking-hot boiler pipes, steadying a Polaroid camera in one hand while the other braced her Amazon body. Naturally the ceiling was a floor on the opposite side – a floor where Yvonne was on her stomach getting her asshole plugged by Coach Higgins' prick because she had forgotten to start on those birth-control pills that he had given her.
Bernice smiled. She looked at the beautiful body that sat next to her in the bus.
God, look at those luscious lips. Frieda's lips were made for sucking tits and tits. Frieda had lezzie lips for damn sun-full, carmine-colored lips. As if they were on the verge of saying: Sappho sells sucks at the seashore.
And her face looked so angelic. With eyebrows that were pencil-thin, a peachy complexion, sparkling eyes; radiant cheeks.
Jesus, if Bernice were a guy, she'd have an erection right now. She would have pulled out her cock and started whacking like crazy just thinking about how those lips would suck the shit out of her cock.
What the hell was she saying? Christ! She wasn't a fucking prick! She was a woman 'cause she had less hair and no balls and a cunt for a prick. Beyond that, though, there wasn't much difference between her and a man.
Bernice watched Frieda hungrily.
Frieda was having a difficult time going to sleep.
For one thing the bus was very old, and it had just been down to Tijuana not for a tour of Mexico but for repairs. So it rattled and rolled with every curve and sloping and hill.
For another thing, she was thinking about Arnold. And what he had said to her during dinner after he had just finished eating her pussy.
"Frieda, there's another football game this Friday. Then we got another one Saturday. So most likely I'll be with the assistant coaches for all of Friday night. Hey! These peas are really good! Why don't you take in a Disney movie or something?"
Frieda wondered if he had noticed her silence throughout the meal. Probably not. He had eaten so Goddamn many peas that they were probably going to come out of his ears instead of his asshole. And he was never one for listening to her in the first place.
The last time he had probably listened to her was when she had said: "I do."
Shit! That had been five years ago!
Frieda tossed and turned fretfully as the image of Arnold's pig mouth filling up with peas to his asshole plagued her drowsy mind.
"Here, Frieda," Bernice said, tapping her on the shoulder. "Go ahead and put your head on my shoulder. I don't mind."
Frieda smiled, said: "Thanks, Bernice. Oh, God! I'm so tired and my back aches. You wouldn't mind rubbing my back for a second, would you!"