By Cindy and Walt
Gulfport Mississippi was home of the Shrimper’s Festival, but it would always be in my mind as the place where I was born again. I woke up the first day of the festival in a cheap motel. I should have been depressed with the size and shabbiness of the place. I might have been, if the sun hadn’t been shining so bright.
The bright sunshine was proof that I had slept well. Long and hard was how I judged it. I didn’t have to force myself to get out of bed. I was eager to see what the day held for me. First things first, damn I need food. It isn’t that I know it’s time to eat. I fucking need food, I thought with a happy smile.
I didn’t take the anti depressant that morning but I did carry the bottle with me, just in case. I did put my ‘get out of town free’ bag back into the truck. I did that before I drove to the first fast food place I seen on the drive to the motel.
The coffee had improved at all the fast food restaurants making them my place of choice for breakfast when on the road. Too bad I couldn’t say as much for the food. In my experience there were several types of eggs prepared in fast food restaurants. Worst of all was the hockey puck egg. It was also my least favorite.
I guess it was supposed to be a fresh egg poured into a biscuit cutter, then cooked hard. In fact it was hard as a hockey puck and about as appealing. Even so that morning I found it tolerable. I even had hash brown potatoes in a little bag with it and of course two cups of their really good coffee. The coffee made it all bearable for me.
I drove the small truck to the large field where the vendors were supposed to set up shop. I had my letter confirming my reservation in hand before I went in search of an official to assign me a space. I had chosen, to start with, what had been described in the online brochure as an intimate festival. I assumed that was their idea of how to describe a small show.
There would be no more than fifty vendors the information said. I was one of them. For the show I had found a photograph on line of a shrimp boat. I studied it then drew one freehand. My shrimp boat was just a little more streamlined. I hoped that would make it more appealing, but I had no idea. It would be my first experiment with festivals. Well first as an exhibitor anyway.
From the truck I removed a small table and a canvas sling chair. Then out came the box of art supplies and finally the box of drawings for sale. I expected to maybe make the expenses, but I doubted it.
I set up the displays low to the ground. Partly because the shorter stands took up less room in the truck and partly because people didn’t mind looking down at things at table height. I had a clothesline kind of display. It was easier to handle, if the line was a little higher than my waist. It took up less room in the truck than individual stands would have as well. As long as the wind didn’t blow too hard I was fine. In Gulfport the wind cooperated and remained a warm gentle breeze off the gulf.
I had barely gotten setup before they opened the flood gates. People came drifting by my space. They were mostly lookers but I expected nothing more. The economy sucked and people in the Gulf area were not immune to the high cost of government, and the higher cost of unemployment. The Gulf Coast was suffering except for the executives in the resort areas. Gulfport was fifty miles from a tourist area, so it suffered. I sat with my mp3 player blasting upbeat music through the amplified speakers, and it brightened my mood anyway.
One thing I had going for me was my looks. I should say my lack of good looks. I found that young couples stayed longer than they had before I let myself go. The women, who controlled the discretionary funds, no longer felt threatened. They stayed to browse in the certainty that their husband or boyfriends were not going to embarrass them by hitting on me.
One of the couples brought their five year old son in for a drawing. Just a quick ten dollar one but it was something. I took a quick shot with the camera then suggested they come back in about half an hour. I sat drawing the boy while foot traffic picked up. People stopped to watch me draw. They spoke to me and they browsed through my display. I sold one large and three small pen and ink drawing while I worked on the print.
There was a half hour between the delivery of the little boy drawing and the close of business on day one. The slightly chubby woman arrived around closing time. “I was told you drew stray dogs,” she said.
“Who said that?” I asked cautiously.
“An old crippled mountain man,” she explained. So she was an envoy of the Church Camp crew.
“Not any more,” I said trying to brush her off.
“Then you didn’t make this drawing?” she asked showing me the drawing of the dog and road kill.
“Yeah, I made that one,” I said. “But it was a long time ago.”
“Jeremy said to give you this,” she said handing me the plastic box with the name of a crematorium on it. “Jeremy said to tell you that he found him asleep under the cabin and he just didn’t wake up.”
Of course I teared up, then said, “Tell him I said thank you.”
“He also said to tell you that he was holding your job if you ever wanted it,” she said then left without an answer.
“Tell him thanks for the ashes, and thanks for the offer, but I won’t be back,” I said to her back. When she left, I thought about it while looking at the plastic box and I knew that I had told her the truth. I would not be going back.
Like all the other vendors I had packed everything up, but not loaded it onto the truck. The festival was providing a night watchman and the weather was supposed to be dry all weekend. That being the case the only precaution I took was to spread the all purpose tarp over everything. I tied it down before leaving for the night.
I went back to the motel that night after stopping for a heavy carbohydrate dinner. Burgers and fries and even a chocolate milk shake found its way onto my tray. Once in the room I checked to see if there was a wifi signal. Of course there wasn’t one in the budget motel. I rested for an hour to give the heavy meal time to settle, then went back to a drive inn restaurant who advertised wifi. I bought a coffee and sat at a booth checking my email.
“Watching porn,” the young looking, but middle-aged man asked.
“You wish,” I said with a smile. I was surprised that the smile came naturally.
“Yeah, it’s a guy thing I guess,” he said smiling. “I saw you out at the festival.”
“Oh you a visitor, or a vendor?” I asked. “I’m a vendor sort of.”
“Oh and what is a sort of vendor?” I asked.
“I own a food caravan,” he said.
“I know what a food truck is but I don’t think I ever heard of a caravan, unless you mean a camper,” I said. I had the British meaning in mind, a camper.
“Not exactly but sort of like that. Instead of a food truck I have three different rolling carts,” he said.
“Really that’s interesting are they push carts?” I asked.
“Exactly, we roll them around the festivals. One sells hot dogs, one sells ice cream and one sells pastries,” he said.
“So you don’t really cook anything?” I asked.
“Nothing but the hot dogs and those are just on a gas grill inside the push cart,” he said.
“I saw them going around earlier. So what do you carry them around in, a big truck?” I asked.
“Not that big really. It’s just a cube van kind of thing. We travel with that, a pickup truck and a small car. It’s really the most efficient way to go. If we have a mechanical problem we can load one cart on the pickup and move the equipment that way. It is slow, but we wouldn’t miss the show completely.”
“The ice cream truck was on a bicycle good humor thing?” I asked.
“Yes that was my son’s idea, so it’s his business. Wife has the hot dog cart we park it at the entrance. If it has to be moved, I do it. My daughter runs the pastry cart.”
“Oh yes the girl with the boobs,” I said.
“Oh yes and the soft ass,” he said and then laughed.
“Are you guys staying at the motel?” I asked.
“No we are camping. I just came here to pickup burgers for us all,” he said.
“Well good luck to you,” I said.
“You too, Miss?” He made it a question.
“Martin, Iris Martin,” I stated.
“Well Iris, I’m Bobby Joe Dupree,” he said.
I stood to leave then asked, “What do you do between shows?”
“A little of this and a little of that,” he replied smiling again. He had a very pretty boyish smile. My guess was that his ‘this and that’ wasn’t entirely legal.
“Well it beats having a job I guess,” I said.
“Yes it does,” he replied. “How are you with puzzles?”
“Terrible,” I suggested.
“Too bad,” he said. “Well I’m off to the campground with the bag-o-burgers special.” Then he was gone leaving me standing in the restaurant dining room.
“What the fuck?” I asked myself. “I guess he is just a kook. Everything doesn’t have to be about me and Swamp Dog.” I ended the conversation with myself, when my download from an erotic fiction site ended.
As I was packing out my trash from the Burger Barn, I found a schedule of festivals. I recognized it as a print out from the web page where I had searched for southern festivals. I did not print it out, but the place had been filled with vendors from the festival. It had cheap, fatty food and WiFi, why wouldn’t it be?
I almost trashed it but decided to keep it instead. Something gnawed at the back of my brain. The only person I knew to be at my table was the food vendor freak, Bobby Joe Dupree. The list could be a message from Bobby Joe, or someone else’s trash. On closer examination I noted the small dots by the names of some festivals. Was that what he meant about puzzles? I wondered. I had two more days to find and ask him. I walked to the pickup, then drove back to the motel.
I read the story that I had downloaded in the restaurant. It was all about father-daughter incest. Something about it reminded me of Sam and his estranged daughter. I touched myself remembering the pain he caused me. I also remembered the thrill of that first giant orgasm. It was caused by the pain, the pleasure and the mind fuck that all came together in a mind blowing orgasm. I had experienced smaller but still thrilling orgasms before and after but nothing like Sam. The smaller orgasms had parts of the experience, but no one had ever had it all before Sam. I should also say no one had since either.
I touched myself until I orgasmed. It was like the junkie chasing the feeling of that first high. I hated the feeling but I also loved it and tried desperately to recreate it. I fell asleep after falling far short of it.
The next morning I had to decide what to do for exercise since I was coming back to life after almost a year of being pretty much out of it. I had gone from thirty something to almost thirty two without a single good memory. That was a bitch that would prey on my mind forever, I feared.
I took a long fast walk around the neighborhood. I still didn’t have the strength for a long run. I didn’t want to run for ten minutes then be out of breath, so I power walked. Thirty minutes out and thirty minutes back. Then I went back to the room and showered.
When I left the shower I dried my inch long hair and noticed that it was ragged looking. Since most department stores opened at 7 AM, I had time to stop to pick up an electric hair clipper. I figured I could use it on my mop. It wasn’t the saving money which motivated me, it was the convenience. I could do it anytime, if I had one of those.
I stopped on the way to the festival. I managed to arrive at the festival park fifteen minutes before the gates opened. I even had everything arranged before the first visitor walked by.
The day was long because I had still forgotten to bring a cooler or coffee thermos. I made a note about that. The first festival was to iron out the bugs. I met a lot of people and gave each of them a card with the address of my website. I hope to get a few Internet orders from the show. Hope does spring eternal, I thought.
I looked for Bobby Joe, but he was not to be found. Oh I saw his wife and his kids, but Bobby didn’t show his face during the day. I wasn’t all that interested, but it would have been nice to ask about the list of shows.
When I double checked the list against my summer plans, I found that of the 16 festivals marked by someone, presumably Bobby Joe, I had nine on my list as well. I thought about checking out the others, but I didn’t have enough Internet time to do it. Not until I got home anyway.
Sales weren’t great but I paid for the weekend, so I was satisfied. If I had camped out like Bobby Joe I would have had a small profit. I decided I didn’t need a profit, small or otherwise. So camping on the ground wasn’t going to happen.
The festival ended with an outdoor concert. It was a Cajun Music Festival. The music wasn’t very pleasing to my not so music loving ear. I had never heard Cajun music, so I stayed and watched the concert. It ended at midnight. I knew I was going to stay another night at the motel so my room was ready when I returned to it.
It was 2 AM and I was ready for bed when the knock came on my door. I opened the door only because I recognized the ice cream vendor. No not Bobby Joe, it was his teenage son. He had been serving ice cream from his bike cart all day.
“My dad is Bobby Joe, he said I should come see you. He thought you might be lonely. He would have come himself, but my mom would have a fit,” he said in one continuous stream. “He said you would understand.”
“I understand alright, but I don’t need the company son,” I said.
“My name is Billy Joe,” he explained. Are you sure about the company, it ain’t no trouble,” the kid said.
“Oh hell come on in,” I said. I was a little turned on I admit. It had nothing to do with Billy Joe, but I was a little horny. I never used words like that not even when I was talking to myself. That night something was a little different. Maybe I was finally home, I thought.
“You want a drink,” I asked. “I got some diet coke and there is a vending machine on the patio out back.”
“I’m fine. Do you mind if I smoke?” he asked.
“I guess not,” I said watching him pull out a baggy. Inside with what appeared to be pot. There were two cigarettes in the bag as well as a handful of loose trimmings.
He lit the cigarette then offered it to me. I had not had pot since high school, but I did remember how to smoke it. I also remembered how relaxed it made me feel. I could use that relaxation these days, I thought.
I hadn’t seen pot in a baggy for at least a couple of years. About the same time that the government put it’s finger into health care and into law enforcement, they removed the prohibition on marijuana. That allowed it to be sold to the public just as long as the grower and the seller paid the tax on it.
Overnight a new generation of pot growers hit the market place. The idea was that controlled sales would get the vicious criminals out of the business. The government of course would have a huge new revenue stream as well. The mood altering was not much more than alcohol.
As always happens poachers still found their way into the stream. The new scam, which was very difficult for the government to stop was for the legal growers to sell a part of their crop off the books so to speak. They still sold most of their product to legal manufacturers. Most of the product’s legal distributor had been in the cigarette business. That was before it was more or less closed down.
Since they had the facilities and the contacts to bring the new product to market quickly, they were first on the bandwagon. Most estimates had the amount of legal pot on the market at 75%. The other 25% consisted of illegal growers and dealers. The baggy was a sign that Billy Joe was a user of the cheaper and highly illegal product.
“How you like that weed?” he asked after I had a coughing fit.
“Smooth,” I choked.
“Takes some getting used to, I know. This ain’t your drugstore pot,” he informed me.
“I don’t know the difference. This is the first I have smoked since high school, fifteen years ago.
“Well take my word for it, this is the primo stuff. I know the grower. His seeds come from South America. He is willing to cut me out a few kilos from the harvest. He has a new crop every month. He grows in green houses on what used to be a cotton farm,” Billy said.
“Sounds nice,” I agreed. “It’s been a long time since I smoked weed.”
“Well I’m glad you remember,” he said. The kid was young but he was already involved in the business. It was a business that had once been filled with men who would kill to keep their street corner. The hard drug dealers still would kill you, if you tried to cut into their business. Those guys had pretty much moved out of the pot business. It was pure economics. There wasn’t enough profit in business at that point in time.
“Billy hon, tell me why did your dad really send you here?” I asked.
“I’m supposed to be sure you show up at the next festival. He also said to get you to smoke a little pot. To see if I could screw your mind up a little,” he informed me.
“Is that the purpose of the pot?” I asked.
“No that’s the purpose of this,” he said standing. He opened his pants and pulled out his barely average sized penis.
It was the first penis I had seen since I returned from the island paradise. It was also hanging from a sweet kid who seemed harmless. He had given me the pot to relax me and it worked. I didn’t want to throw up nor did I want to kill him. I wasn’t quite sure what it was that I wanted to do.
“Please kiss it for me,” Billy Joe begged moving closer to me.
It took me a long minute to decide. Finally I pulled him to me. I leaned forward a little to kiss the slightly damp and musky smelling cock head. I had been forced to suck the one previous to Billy Joe, so it took me a while to realize the effect that my lips had on him. It also took a moment or so for me to realize the effect his cock had on me. I realized that I wanted to suck him deep into my mouth and wallow in the feeling. I knew that I was doing something wrong, but I just didn’t care. His small penis felt so good in my mouth that I almost cried. I had forgotten what it was like to enjoy the feeling.
“Please take off your shirt,” he begged.
I quickly removed my knit top. My much smaller than usual boobs fell out. The surgeon had made them small so they would stand up and not sag. He had trimmed away the excess skin and fat so they were small but they were well formed. Once my breasts were free, I returned to sucking on his penis. The size makes it absolutely like a child nursing. It just felt right.
It even felt right when he began pumping my mouth. Then it felt even better when he came in my mouth. I was able to capture almost all of his semen. I felt a thrill run through me as his thick warm cum almost came back up, but I managed to keep it down.
I have to say, in Billy’s favor, once he came he didn’t forget me. He took a few deep breaths, sighed then went to his knees to pull down my cut off jeans and panties. He began to lick and suck on my clit. It was hard for me to believe the strength of my response. After what happened to me I had thought I would never be able to relax enough to enjoy sex again. I guess it was the pot.
I was absolutely relaxed when I lay my hands on top of Billy’s head and rubbed his thick hair while he licked and sucked on my clit then pulled my labia into his mouth and sucked. Someone had taught him well. He went back to my clit and I exploded in a strong orgasm. It had been long enough so that even his slightly clumsy actions sent me over the edge and into a beautiful orgasm.
Obviously enough time had passed so that he had recovered, because he lifted me from my chair and guided me to the bed. I lay back and he lay on top of me. He worked his almost completely erect penis into me. I felt him slide easily into my well lubricated vagina.
I felt him working on my tight vagina. It had been months since I had any sex so I had begun to shrink. Even so I quickly adjusted to the size of his penis. “God I love your cock in me,” I said. When he heard that he increased the speed with which he worked his penis in and out of me. It took only a short time for him to finish. I didn’t cum again, but it was fine. I had an orgasm and I gave him two. I considered it a successful fucking.
I fell asleep. It was a comfortable feeling to feel his arms around me as I drifted off to sleep.