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Part 3

I turned the key again and again. The only sound was a weak clicking. After a few more tries, even that was gone. I got a sick feeling in my stomach. My battery was dead. There was no car in Ivana's driveway. I was in a strange town where I knew nobody 2 hours away from where I lived. What now?

I popped the hood and got out of the car, hoping against all odds that it was just a loose battery cable. As I shut my door, I could hear the fucking poodle yapping from Ivana's house. She opened the door and saw me opening the hood of my car. She stood there for a bit, watching me futz around before getting back in and trying again. Still nothing. That bitch was dead.
Ivana came outside and hurried over to the car.
"What is the matter?" She asked, worry in her voice.
I explained to her that my car wouldn't start and that it was probably the battery. Her eyes widened and she got a panicked sound in her voice.
"This no good! You must go now!"
Once again I told her that I couldn't because my car wouldn't start, but if she let me use her phone, I could call a friend of mine and he could be there in a couple of hours.
When I said 'a couple of hours', her eyes popped even wider.
"But my husband, he will be back soon!"
HUSBAND?!
Oh, come on brothers. You knew there was going to be a husband SOMEWHERE in this tale. . .didn't you? I had assumed that when she said that it had been a long time since she had been fucked good and that her husband was gone meant that she was a widow. I guess that wasn't the case.

She saw my own shocked look.
"I tell you he was gone. He plays golf now. He will be back for lunch soon!" She started fluttering around, talking with her hands, her accent getting thicker as she became obviously frustrated.
"No. You must be gone or he will be much angry with me." Inside, I was thinking that yes. . .if I came home and discovered some young guy 'entertaining' my wife, I might be a little angry myself.
"Just let me use your phone, okay?" I said sharply to her. Hoping that her husband had trained her good enough to know when to obey and when to flap her cocksucker. She calmed down, but did not look at me as she led me back into the house. The poodle was yapping around my feet like the little shit had never seen me before. I wanted so much to kick that little fucker, but why make a bad situation worse? I sat on the couch and she brought me the cordless. She left the room. I dialed the phone, trying to reach my friend Redneck Dave. He was the kind of guy I could rely on to haul ass out here and risk getting a speeding ticket for a case of Budweiser. Of course. . . .no answer. Okay. Plan B. This old bitch must know SOMEBODY with a car living around there who could give me a jump.

I went down the hall to give her back the phone and ask if one of her neighbors could help out. She was in the room that we had been fucking in. The bed was now neatly made and she was sitting on the edge of it, her face in her hands, her body shaking with sobs. She looked up and saw me standing there. She wiped the back of her hand across her red rimmed eyes and she gave me a shaky smile.
"What we have done, it is not the normal thing I do." She stammered. I handed her the phone and sat next to her. She flinched away from me as I put my hand on her shoulder, trying to reassure her that it would be allright. I told her that I couldn't get ahold of my friend and asked her if there was anybody nearby who could help out. She shook her head.
"We will have to wait for my husband to come home and hope we can tell him a good story." I nodded in agreement. But I could tell she was too upset to be lying to her husband.
"Just let me do the talking." I told her. "We'd better wait out in the living room." She nodded and walked out with me.

We sat in the stuffy, stale-smelling living room. She sat on one end of the couch, I sat on the other. We did not look at each other. We barely spoke. She was trusting me to come up with a good story to explain my presence, and my mind was racing as I came up with and discarded plenty before coming up with the one that we would use. I told her. She seemed doubtful, but agreed that it was a good one. So we waited.
If the first time I sat in that living room was strange, this time it was downright uncomfortable. Now Ivana did not seem so much the sex-starved old slut who would invite a stranger into her home and suck his balls, but like a vulnerable old lady. I could barely believe that just a while before, she had been grunting for me to fuck her harder while I pumped a load of warm jizz into her loose pussy, but there we were. There was a 65 year old married woman sitting on the other end of the couch with a load of my sperm in her stomach, considering the possible ramifications of cheating on her husband. And there I was on the other end, having lured my way between an old woman's legs through lies and deception, now unable to make my getaway. The liar and the cheating whore. What a fucking pair. Who was worse? Was it any wonder we didn't speak or look at each other? So there we sat in silence, watching one game show after another, waiting for her husband to arrive so we could each tell our lies and I could hopefully make my exit.

Finally, after about an hour and a half of uncomfortable silence, the little shithead poodle jumped up and started barking his ass off! Ivana turned pale and looked like she was going to pass out as the shrill yapping startled her. She looked at me with desperation in her wide eyes.
"That is him! My husband he is home!" She whispered. I took a deep breath and readied myself for my performance. The poodle was spinning around in circles by the front door, yapping and shaking like his God was going to appear. . .maybe that is how we seem to dogs, who knows?

The door opened and the poodle started jumping up and down, clawing at the legs of the man who walked in. A much older man than I expected. Skinny, bald head except for tufts of pure white hair on the sides. Bent, frail, thick glasses. I breathed a sigh of relief. This guy didn't seem like he was going to be a problem. After all, anybody who would wear a bright yellow shirt with pink and blue checkered slacks and white shoes didn't really seem that threatening. But Ivana was clearly shaken by his appearance. She came to her feet and went to him. He bent down and was scratching the ecstatic dog. As he did so, he asked Ivana,

"Whose car is out there?" In a wheezing, reedy voice. Apparently, the old fellow hadn't spotted me sitting on the far end of the couch yet. Seeing the panic in Ivana's eyes, I stood and walked over, extending my hand to him. He looked up from the dog with a bit of confusion in his eyes as he shook my outstretched hand with a weak grip.
"Afternoon, sir." I grinned as I released his hand. "Sorry to bother you, but I seem to having a bit of car trouble. Your wife invited me in for a few minutes until you got home. I've been trying to use your phone to call a friend to come over here and give my car a jump."
He looked me up and down, taking in my button-down and slacks. It's a good thing I come to these "interviews" dressed for business. He shook his head a little in sympathy.
"Goddamn things. . .that's how they get ya. Parts! So many damn moving parts in a car, somethings bound to break down sooner or later. And it's never convenient, is it?" He gave a dry little chuckle. I knew it was going to work. I thought Ivana was going to collapse. I don't think she had taken a breath during the short conversation. He turned to his wife and gave her a quick peck on the lips. If only that old fucker had know what those lips had been doing just a bit earlier. . .

"I'm hungry as hell, why don't you fix us something to eat so I can go out and take a look at this young fella's car?" Ivana practically tripped over herself getting away from us and into the kitchen. The old man introduced himself as Peter and we sat in the living room and made small talk while she cooked lunch. I explained how I had been trying to find a shortcut to the mall when my car had died in front of their house. He bought every word, even giving me directions to where I needed to go. We had a lunch of grilled cheese sandwiches and canned chicken noodle soup. I sat talking and laughing with Peter while his cheating whore of a wife picked at her food, not meeting my eyes. He asked her if she was okay and she looked faint while she assured him nothing was wrong. . .nothing at all. Well, except for the fact that she had just been on her hands and knees with my cock squirting in her old twat. . .but she kept that little detail to herself. He told her that she looked a little ill, maybe the heat? Maybe she might want to go lay down for a bit while we looked at my car. She quickly agreed and gathered the dishes. She quickly shook my hand, hers was cold and trembling as she told me she was glad to meet me, and she made her exit. . .never to be seen by my eyes again as I watched her walk down the hall to the bedroom.

Peter and I went outside and I popped the hood while he messed with the battery cables. We messed around for a few minutes before he backed his car out of the driveway and we hooked up the jumper cables and gave my car a jump. I shook his hand and thanked him while we let the battery charge up for a few minutes, then finally made my escape. . .grinning like a madman as I passed the identical houses with the identical yards, thumping over the speed bumps and waving to the old folks passing opposite in their golf carts. My Granny-fucking escapade was over at last.

Almost.

It turns out the alternator was what was wrong with my car, so it quit on me again a few miles down the road as I coasted into a Denny's parking lot, where I sat drinking coffee and reading newspapers for the 3 hours it took me to finally get hold of Redneck Dave and the 2 hours it took him to come get my ass. Then it took a couple more hours at the part store and in the parking lot pulling my alternator to get me back on the road. That old fucker Peter was right. Fucking cars!

There it is, brothers. The strangely miserable, yet absolutely true tale of the oldest bitch I have ever fucked. Would I do it again? In a fucking heartbeat. If I could find a horny old bitch who was 99 I would pound the dust out of her cunt. But that's just me. I am STILL looking to break my record for the oldest bitch. Every time I look at my e-mails, I'm looking for that magic number. I've already fucked an 18 year old. . .heh. She was still in high school and cut class for her "interview". But she had that Florida State Driver's License that said that she could legally be a whore. I can't get any younger legally so the only direction I have left to go is up.

The lesson? Ah. . .the lesson. I made quite a few mistakes during this particular episode of my strange and miserable life that I hope my brothers will not repeat. This tale does not necessarily put me in the best light, but that's okay, the best lessons come from failure.
Number one:
NEVER go to a bitches house or have her come to your house! I cannot stress this enough. This little episode turned out allright, but who knows what might have happened if things had twisted just a little differently. Always control the situation as far as the meeting place. I almost exclusively use hotels. I never park my car by the room. I am always in the room waiting for the slitch well ahead of time. Make sure SHE meets YOU. . .not the other way around! There is just so much shit that can go wrong from not following this simple piece of advice that I could write example after example of fucked-up situations. Let's just look at a worst-case scenario.
The bitch is luring you to her house so her boyfriend can beat your ass or worse because of what you did to her cousin 6 months before. What? You've already forgotten that little bitch? Guess what. . .she hasn't forgotten you. She can point someone at your website and set up an interview just as easily as she did in the first place. THEN who's the miserable bitch?

Number two:
Don't assume anything! This kind of ties into the example I gave for number one. If you assume that hot little bitch you are going to interview at her house is just that. . .you may be in for a hell of a surprise. I made several assumptions about this episode. That she wasn't married. Then that her husband was dead. That my car would start. That Peter would buy my excuse for being there and so on. As it turns out, the only thing I was right about was my ability to lie my way out of the mess I found myself in. Always plan for the worst-case scenario, brothers!

Number three:
NEVER let a bitch see your car if you can help it! When meeting a bitch at a hotel, I will get the room, park the car on the other side of the hotel, walk to the room and then call the bitch to let her know what room I am in. Why not let a bitch see your car? What if you have a Phat ride? You don't know who that bitch knows. . .her sister might work at the DMV for all you know! Ivana could have easily taken down my tag number and might have been able to somehow track me down. Paranoid? This is WAR, brothers! You fight dirty, so do they! And what if your car doesn't start like mine? Then you are fucking STUCK in a situation that you might just rather not be in. Keep your car out of sight, brothers. That way, if you do break down you won't have some bitch hovering around you while you try to get the piece of shit started.

Three lessons and a nice bit of granny-fucking. I hope this trip on the miserable time machine to the dawn of The Fuck™ proves to be of value to someone out there, whether it is as practical preaching advice, strangely entertaining reading, jackoff fodder, or just head-shaking disgusted bewilderment at the strange man typing this. In any case, my job here is done for now.

Amen