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Mother visits her daughter for omugwo, gets pregnant for her son-in-law

A mother who went to do Omugwo for her daughter has allegedly gotten pregnant for her son-in-law (her daughter’s husband).

Social media user, Uncle Chike shared the story on his page where he revealed the mother who is 57 year old has fallen pregnant for her son-in-law who just welcomed a child with her daughter.

Mother visits her daughter for omugwo, gets pregnant for her son-in-law

He wrote;

Man …fear PH women. How can you go for Omugwo and get pregnant for your son in-law? How? Why is a 57yr old woman pregnant for her son in-law? What sort of “end of the world” nonsense is this?

Source: Lailasnews.com
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Everywhere Konji!!! 85-Year-Old Woman Caught In A Group SXX With 5 Men. GBAMLOG.COM

85-Year-Old Woman Caught In A Group SXX With 5 Men

An 85-yr-old woman has been arrested after she was caught having group sxx in woodland in Connecticut, the United States in the penultimate week.

On Aug 9, concerned citizens called the police to report a public hook-up happening in the wooded area. The octogenarian was spotted with 5 elderly men including her husband having an orgy.

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All six were apprehended and charged with breach of peace.

The senior citizens are identified as Joyce Butler, 85 – the only woman participating in the orgy – her husband Richard Butler, 82; Daniel Dobbins, 67; Otto D. Williams, 62; Charles L. Ardito, 75; and John Linartz, 62.

Image result for 85 year old woman

According to the Fairfield Police Department, the senior citizens were busted while getting hot and heavy at the Grace Richardson

The Scene of the group sex; and four of the culprits.

Conservation Area during a surveillance operation on public hook-ups in the area. Two of the suspects, Daniel Dobbins and John Linartz have additionally been charged with public indecency.

Dobbins was previously charged with second-degree breach of peace by Connecticut police after witnesses said they spotted him walking around a park naked before police found him inside his car “with his shirt and shorts draped over him and no underclothes.”

The culprits have been released and will appear in court at a later date.

Leave your comments below…

Source: dailyadvent

MYSTERY CLASSICS: THE DEAD TALK TOO MUCH FOR MY TASTE by Jamie Ruff | GBAMLOG.COM

I was so desperate I took a job attending funerals. It’s not as goulash as it sounds. I would open and lock up the church after the funeral. In between, the minister would officiate and comfort the family, but he couldn’t be expected to arrive a couple of hours before the funeral and stay an hour or two after. I was usually there five hours. The pay was decent enough.

The saying is that dead men tell no tales, but they do; and those who attend their funerals tell even more. The departed and the attendees tell everything. His obituary will say he was a faithful husband, but why is his girlfriend sitting on the aisle across from the wife? If he was such a loving father why didn’t his oldest daughter show up, and why doesn’t someone mention her name? If he was such a good husband, why is his wife nearly dancing a jig? I think she killed him. She has the look of someone who has been relived of a burden.

Family and friends, they try to put the best face on the corpse, but I can see it – he, or she, lies right there for all to see; to examine if his illness or age wore away his strength and vitality like his weight. Gaunt faces; sunken eyes; drawn lips, even before they were sown together. Old wrinkled fingers that squeezed pennies or let opportunities slip away.

People want to talk at funerals, especially to someone who doesn’t know. That way they can share it as news to a stranger instead of the gossip it would be to a family member or friend; and if you judge, so what? You’re just some guy waiting for the punch to give out so that the family will go home, never to be seen again. One person tells you the departed’s every accomplishment, but, sooner or later, someone else tells you his faults – maybe not directly, but they will tell. The particulars about the dead are like advertisements for houses, there is far more there than is revealed and the truth is concealed between the lines. She loved children because she had none, and that was because she couldn’t conceive; he riled against abortions because the one he forced a girlfriend to have so long ago still haunted him; he gave generously to good causes but cheated his partner and stole the business; she loved life, but committed suicide; he will be buried beside a wife he was forced to have instead of the man he loved. They will share a headstone the size of a small northern state: beloved wife; beloved husband, it says.

I’m afraid for my own funeral. Not because I’ll be dead, but because all my secrets will be revealed to the stranger sitting in the back of the room waiting to wash out the punch bowl. Who does he think he is?

MYSTICAL ROMANCE: LAST LOVE by Yoto Yotov | GBAMLOG.COM

I do not see myself as a decent person. I realize that the notion of right and wrong is something relative. It all depends on the concrete situation, since something you consider good can be unpleasant or offensive for someone else under different circumstances. There is no universal good. I, in particular, think that it’s of primary importance that things should be good for me, even if it might seem a bit egocentric. Yet this principle has never failed me. Actually, one can be selfish only to a certain point. I think that this moment in one’s life comes when you meet the one and only person you want to spend the rest of your life with. This is the time when you begin to crave for a real home, and you ponder what it really means to be a man. For me, this moment had not come yet. Even by my standards, I was not a good man, but it was of little importance to me, and I didn’t have to worry myself with how to try to change this fact.

So far my life had passed in wandering in forgotten and far-off places, and unwittingly, the carefree days turned into carefree years. I had visited so many towns that I no longer remembered their names. Nameless little dwellings at the edge of desolation and survival had been my home for a day. In the larger towns to the East, I did stay long enough to get acquainted with the darker sides of human life. But who am I to judge why the darker side of life is more fascinating? Some people claimed that I had killed dozens of men. But I knew that they were not so many, and for sure they wouldn’t be missed. The devil of youth was in my eyes. I faced every challenge with a head held high and a grin. The other attribute of youth I truly possess—overflowing confidence—was no stranger to me, either.

I had nowhere to go in particular and plenty of time to get there. I was merely following the curves of the old and obviously unused road, filled with curiosity as to where it would lead me. Well, it did lead me somewhere. It reached an inn or at least to something that passed for one around here, and beyond it there was nothing—only woodland. I decided to spend the night at the inn, so I moved toward the old massive building, able to withstand the whims of time and men who visited such amazingly beautiful and totally useless parts of the world. The main hall was spacious, a little dim but clean and well kept. There were wooden benches next to the tables, and the floor was covered with straw. Obviously, this was not only an inn but also the home of the innkeeper and his wife.

As I entered the inn, I saw them sitting around a table close to the counter, having dinner. Both of them were middle aged and not so thriving but seemed happy. The innkeeper stood up to greet me, and I halted so that he could have a good look at me and size me up with his judging gaze. During my wanderings, I came to understand certain things about people, and I knew everything about the man standing in front of me. I had met hundreds like him, who were in pursuit of happiness and a place to call their own. People feeling at ease both in the towns and in the wilderness. Men and women who were not used to bend down to authority. They were good-hearted and noble, and I was always glad to have such people close to me in times of trouble—not one caused by me, of course. But they also had one annoying streak in their character—they considered themselves the salt of the earth and didn’t listen to anyone’s opinion or advice.

It was clear he didn’t like me a bit, but at the same time he was not shocked by what was standing in front of him.

“Good evening. We don’t have so much visitors lately, but as long as you have money to spend, you’re welcome.” He was precise and to the point.

I held back my smile. I’m never wrong. He offered me a bed and a meal but, at the same time, kindly reminded me that these services were not for free. He was not rude but knew what he was offering and its worth. I gave him a silver coin and sat next to them.

They were nice people, and the absence of visitors also meant the absence of news. Dinner went on for hours while I was telling them the hottest gossips. And when I didn’t know something, the little devil in my eye winked, and I came up with the most shocking and spicy stories. Now the family would have something to talk about for days ahead. What is this world coming to? Later, I found my room to be quite charming—small and dusty, with two beddings. You should be amazed at what people call a bed these days! I threw my bag on the one and lay down on the other, without even taking off my shoes. I was so tired…

The waves crushed below my feet. The wind messed my hair, in an attempt to blind me. Even up here on the rocks, I could feel the salty sprinkles that the wind deliberately lashed across my face. I don’t remember how I came here, what I was doing, or even who I was, but obviously things didn’t look good. I was just standing there, and strangely enough, I was enjoying the rough sea. I saw the life itself in the vast, delirious chaos of waters and wind. Despite the fury of this untamed beautiful nature, I felt at peace. I raised my gaze to the sky, and the clouds parted. They opened a small gap, and the moon’s rays slipped toward the earth. They reflected on the ground and glowed. High in the rugged skies, there was a dragon gliding. Black as night, it was flying above to get me. I was convinced that it had come for me and that there was no escape. How can it be possible? I don’t even believe in dragons! Its wild roar broke through the wind, and it dived toward me. I had to get away and go somewhere far, far away from here. I turned and froze. All the fear gathered inside of me melted away and vanished and gave place to unnamed terror. Just a few steps away from me there was a figure draped in black, holding a deadly weapon in its hands. Clearly I was alone, pushed to this corner of the world, with nothing to protect myself. I was close to the edge, and I knew it. The silhouette moved toward me and raised its head. It slowly pulled down the hood while I stood as if in a daze, gasping for breath. Extremities were playing inside of me tonight. A waterfall of black curves dropped underneath the hood. The greenest eyes that I had ever seem stared at me, and I found myself drowned in them. I could never imagine a more perfect face. It was both gentle yet and strong and complete. My wanderings had come to an end. She was here, and I had nothing else to ask for. She was the one I would love for life, and without her, life would be a living hell.

I woke up sweating and sat on the bed. The same old dream, night after night, was becoming more and more obsessive. At least this time I didn’t wake up screaming. The moment the dragon dives toward me and I turn around and try to run, I usually wake up—except for tonight. And that face. I hope and wonder if this dream is sent to me by someone or something. It was only a dream, yet I had fallen in love with the girl, and I had to find her. I was awake the rest of the night, staring in the dark, while her scorching eyes burned inside of me.

Next morning, I went down to breakfast, and probably something in my manner gave away my feelings, so I was left alone in peace to have my meal. I paid, and after saying good-bye, I continued on my lonely path. I had no intention of going back, so I turned toward the woods, without any specific direction, just following old trails left by animals. I didn’t care where they would lead me. I kept on walking and remembered that damned dream. They whole day passed in wandering. As night fell, I stopped at a small, sheltered meadow, the kind that people believe is visited by sylphs. I started a fire but wasn’t feeling very hungry, so I lied down and hoped to sleep and be visited by the same dream. I wanted to ask her so many things. Consciousness tried to give way to oblivion.

Perhaps I was too eager; no dreams came that night. I tried to calm myself by listening to the sounds of the forest. I had always found peace in the nocturnal serenity and the hum of nature. The sound of a branch breaking. Then another one. No wild animal makes such noise. Someone was coming toward me. I stood up cautiously and alert, the knife ready in my hand, pointed in the direction of my visitor. Clearly someone was walking across the meadow toward me. Maybe there was no malice intended, and it was just a youngster who was about to experience one of the greatest mistakes of his life. The night visitor stepped into the ring of light, and everything became clear.

The girl from my dream was standing in front of me. She was here, yet it was totally surreal. Still she was flesh and blood and full of energy overflowing underneath her clothes.

“I’m totally freaked out.” Well, I can’t be blamed for not knowing what to say to a girl.

She smiled and sat opposite me.

“How…why? I…” I couldn’t stop babbling.

“Slow down! Stop! Too many questions, too little time. Will you come with me?”

“You know that I want you.” Finally, I said something deep.

I felt as if her face grew paler, but maybe I was wrong. I knew absolutely nothing about that girl, after all.

“I know. Believe me, there isn’t anything I want more than to be together. And we will be together as long as it is possible.”

“As long as it is possible? What do you mean? There isn’t anything that can keep me away from you.”

“You’re so naïve…You don’t get it, do you? I’ll have to pay dearly even for the little time we’ll be together.”

I stood up and moved toward her. She took my hand. For the first time everything was perfect. I was at the place where I was supposed to be. I was home—here, with her. It didn’t matter what she said. The important thing was that she was next to me, and I wouldn’t let anything—or anyone—keep us apart. Not even death do us part.

We walked through the trees and enjoyed the touch of our hands and the fact that we were together. We reached a creek, its water lit by the moonlight. She pressed her body next to mine, and our lips joined in a kiss. Time stopped, and we were the only two people on earth. Her dress fell to the ground, and she ran to the creek laughing and dived into the silver water. She emerged from it, sparkling all over, and in that moment, I knew that I was the only one to witness such beauty. We were together, and we were one. This was our night, and this was our world.

Hours later we rested on dew-sparkled grass and watched the break of dawn.

“I must go, my love,” she said. “You should know that I have never loved till now, and my heart belongs to you. Maybe someday we’ll be together, free from the worldly chains.”

“But…” I began. She placed her finger on my mouth and nodded.

“Don’t. Only remember me. We’ll meet again. I promise!”

She stood up and, without looking back, ran toward the trees. Even then, I could see her cheeks covered in tears.

“I love you,” I cried. I guess I always know what to say.

She halted and turned around. For a moment I thought she’d come back, but she turned and was lost in the greenery. Next to the creek, I was at a loss, and far off, I heard the swift flap of massive wings.

* * *

 

This is the story of my love. This is the way I told it to the young girls, but they enjoyed it, nonetheless. Such romantic creatures—they don’t seem to mind taking care of endless complaining, grumpy old veterans. The old army barracks were now the home of rusty soldiers like me, who had nothing to their name and nobody to care for them. People who had spent their entire lives in the army, for some reason or other. I had my reason—I was looking for her. I tried to find my love on the battlefields, but she didn’t come for me. I knew she would find me someday. Yet I never shared my secret with anyone. Somehow I had sensed in my dream what she was and why she carried a weapon. I was never mistaken even for a brief second that the scythe is for harvesting hay.

Now at my deathbed I am sure she shall find me at last.

“Hello, my love. It’s been a lifetime since we’ve been together, hasn’t it?”

I never imagined that Death could be just a feeling. At last she’s here for me, and she is smiling back. Damn it, I do love this smile!

MYSTICAL CLASSICS: TRUTH OR DARE by Ryan Thomas | GBAMLOG.COM

“Who is up for a game of Truth or Dare?” I ask, looking between Tim and the two girls inside of the pool, the back of my shoulders leaning against the ledge.

“Me! I am!” Lauren screams. “How exciting! Let’s do it! Woo!”

She grasps the neck of a Bacardi Limon. She hoists the bottle above the pool’s surface, as she wades in the six-feet-deep water, repeatedly pushing her right arm out to stay afloat. Her eyelids flutter — after she guzzles a few shots worth of liquor — and she continues to use her left arm for sustaining the Bacardi in air . . . post-drink. Next she leers at Tonya, whom is vastly more coherent and nearly sober after drinking a can of Bud Ice. Tonya drank a shot or two of Raspberry Vodka, as well, which has barely loosened her up. Other than a quick “Hello” to the both of us, she hasn’t said anything since our arrival. We showed up here to Lauren’s (i.e. her parent’s) impressive estate about ten minutes ago.

Lauren raises the 70 cl bottle — pressing it to her lips, awkwardly — before draining the last of its contents. She screams “Woo!” again. She whips her hair, flipping it left and right, inelegantly splashing her delicate, bony shoulders.

“I’ll go,” Tim says, laughs uproariously.

“Well, first . . . why don’t the ladies decide,” I say, looking for my High Life and not instantly finding the fat, heavy bottle.

Tonya watches my eyes, so I decisively flash her with a flirtatious smile. Next I push myself up — using the flat surface of my slippery palms — and lift out of the water. I sit on the pool’s concrete rim. “Tonya, you up for a game of Truth or Dare . . . or what? This is getting boring. My fingers are beginning to wrinkle like my prune-shaped privates over here.”

“Shit yea,” Tim adds, as if similarly prunish. “Let’s play already.”

“Too immoral,” Tonya warns, looking to Lauren with visible anxiety, until further vocalizing her genuine concerns: “I don’t know, Vince. Something bad could happen.”

“We’re not two bad guys,” Tim argues, moving water with his outstretched arms, repeatedly widening them and carrying them inwardly again, doing so while kicking his legs. They flicker, at light speed, other times conversely appearing to travel extra slowly. “We’re not evil, Tonya . . . Lauren.” His suave, winsome grin grows several inches, conspicuously evincing his eagerness. “Just sinners . . . right?”

He cackles and violently splashes a spray of water toward Tonya. “Play the game!”

Tonya deflects most of the water, showing impressive reflexes shielding herself by using hands and forearms as facial protection.

“Bad guys and sinners are pretty much one and the same thing,” she says, intentionally glaring in my direction. After dodging a new splash of soaring water, she erects her head and surprisingly her fuchsia fingernails slip like magnets away from each other in a sonorous snap, and — after lifting her same hand — she points at where I sit along the ledge. “Watch your boy, Vince. He’s out of control.”

“I’ll let you know why they aren’t the same,” I say, after rediscovering my thirty-two ounce of Miller High Life. It’s located to the left side of my hip, a foot away and completely knocked over on its side. I grab the neck, open the bottle, swig a bit of beer, and brush water off my Scooby Doo designed board shorts. I’m still a die-hard fan.

“Go ahead. Explain. I’ll listen,” Lauren says, outwardly enjoying my introductory set up on the surface of her covergirl face with a tiny, pert grin.

“The difference between them . . .” I begin, trying to sound officious and knowledgeable. ” . . . Tonya, is that a sinner — by very nature, at the core — does not intend to harm a soul. Bad people, evildoers . . . now, they’re an entirely different subject.”

“And why’s that?” Tonya responds.

“Once again, bad guys commit acts of evil. Right? What’s evil, really? Evil is when you hurt — or, even — when you wantor desire to hurt yourself or someone else. Point being, the wrongdoing is malicious and fully intentional. The deliberate decision to hurt your fellow woman and man, well . . . that just might be the worst transgression there is. Period.”

Again the thick-glassed bottle of Miller is angled toward my mouth. I swallow a couple more ounces of foamy, golden-brown beer. “Of course, a sinner’s propensities are typically related to partying. Far be it from me to be hyperbolic, but sinning can be incredibly fun. We do it to loosen up, rid ourselves of unwanted inhibitions and actually enjoy life. If sin is carefully controlled, it can hardly harm anybody. Nobody dies from it. Nobody ever gets hurt too badly. Wouldn’t you agree, Tonya?”

Tonya looks toward Lauren — as her sister sets the Bacardi bottle on the edge of the pool. It falls backward with a small, unceremonious plop into the water. Lauren even kicks it by her tiny heel, swimming away.

“Yes,” Tonya agrees, just slightly grinning. “I guess that is a sensible way of looking at the difference between evildoers and sinners. Perhaps I was overreacting just a little.”

“So, now we can play a game of Truth or Dare?” Tim asks, boldly.

Tonya still holds a noticeable amount of trepidation.

“We’ll keep it controlled, then?” she whimpers, nervously.

“Who’s first,” says Tim, raising his wet hand and waving it. “I’ll go,” he says. “Do me. Hey — everyone hear that — I just said do me. That’s hilarious.”

“Fine,” says Lauren. Her eyelids lifting and falling down from drunkenness, she effortfully lunges toward Tim in slowed, moon-walking style leaps. “Truth or dare, Timmy. You’re so cute. Like a puppy dog. I just want to pet you all day . . .”

She pats the empty air, then — so the imitative gesture is better seen — slaps the blue water’s surface that’s comfortably heated at seventy-two degrees, until she arrives in similar bobbing fashion to Tim’s front side. “Say dare, Tim . . . or I’ll chop your prick off with my fingernails.”

She arranges her apple-red fingernails into a threatening cat’s claw, adding, “Choose dare. Don’t make me castrate you, Timmy.”

“Dare,” Tim says, unemotionally, eyes tethered in solemnity to Lauren’s.

“Good boy,” replies Lauren, as she excitedly claps once. She gestures with the bright fingernails now pointing at the shallow side of the pool. “Go French-kiss Tonya. I want to see tongues entwining like Lesbians during sex. Thirty seconds of noisy making out. Half a minute . . . or it won’t count guys.”

Tim looks at Tonya impassively treading water with her arms and legs. He races toward her without checking for agreement on Tonya’s face. Tonya acquiesces, choosing to hop over — rather than swimming toward him — at a slow-moving advance. They embrace like old lovers and their lips connect together exchanging tongues for the requested period of time.

“Woo!” Lauren screams, but then something catches her intoxicated attention.

She discovers another bottle of liquor near the glass table. The table is deliberately situated in front of the latitudinous vista, obviously so her prosperous family can view the flora and wildlife — consisting mostly of birds, coyotes, and occasionally wolves — whenever peering inside the vast canyon behind Lauren’s home.

She fights through water to the edge of the pool, lifts out, sprints over the wet concrete in a frightfully tentative fashion, presumably in pursuit of the liquor bottle. She amazingly reaches the table without experiencing an injurious pratfall. She secures the bottle in her shaky grip, and — after almost dropping it, but catching the bottle with her knees — carries the liquor back to the pool and jumps into the water. She rises back up with the bottle of Raspberry Vodka.

“Who’s next?” she exclaims, loudly.

“Vince,” Tonya says.

She looks over to me with an aloof, joyful expression, as Tim confidently leaps back to the deeper end of the pool. He then pushes off the wall like an Olympic swimmer — two feet at a time — and his medium-height body (five feet and nine inches) torpedoes all the way through the middle area and approaches the six-feet water again.

“Fine, I’ll go,” I say, holding my beer, enjoying the elevated view from the ledge.

“Truth or dare?” Tonya asks, eagerly.

“Truth,” I reply.

“No, you chicken-shit —” Lauren interjects, exhibiting her cat-like claw and vehemently shaking her head in angry protest. She raises the Raspberry Vodka, only now to discover there’s no more liquor inside of the bottle. For a second or two, clearly, her disappointment overcomes her facial expression, but then, after a demonstrative shrugging of her shoulders, she heaves a sigh and follows that with a perky sweeping of her head. Her hair immediately fans out and shoots pellets of water away like an aqueous sort of machine gun.

“Don’t be a loser, Vince,” she says, throwing the bottle on the grass.

She turns at the edge of the pool and forms the kitty claws once more. “Don’t think I won’t chop your Johnson off, too. Vince chooses dare. He is doing a dare.”

“Fine. Dare, then. If it will make Lauren happy, I’ll —”

“— Terrific!” Lauren practically shouts.

Tonya looks at us, inspecting Lauren and myself while choosing the dare.

I swig the very last of the Miller High Life, discard the bottle by getting out and responsibly depositing it inside the only waste receptacle. Afterward, my strongest desire is to immediately slip back into the warm pool.

“I dare you to suck Lauren’s nipple,” Tonya says, surprisingly. “Go,” she says, clapping, finally showing a similar level of enthusiasm as her sister. “Suck Lauren’s nipple, Vince.”

“What?” I say, laughing. Afterward, I curiously look toward Lauren.

Lauren doesn’t appear disagreeable to the idea. So I change my mind. “Fine. I’m up for it.”

I walk toward Lauren’s thin frame in the water. She fixes her hair, so the wet strands cling to the back of her shoulders, preliminarily kept away from her face. I wait, as she lowers her top, giggling and then looking in different directions with a closed-lipped, immodest smile, noticeably excited the game has elevated in this manner. Once her full breast is exposed, she motions for me to approach with a welcoming arm gesture. I get closer, lower down to her chest, and — as dared — wrap my lips around the protruding bump. Her nipple looks like a pink bull’s-eye. It’s the size of a pushpin and closely resembles the game piece from “Sorry” that advances across the collapsible playing board. The supple breast tastes like chlorinated water, as I lap my tongue around the nipple, ever so lightly holding the tit as I do.

“Enough,” I say, raising my head . . . sort of like an overstuffed baby . . . from the exposed breast. “Who’s going to go next? Tonya . . . truth or dare? We all doing dares? Yes, no — what?”

“Dare!” Lauren shouts for her sister.

She rearranges her lime-green top over her breasts, covering up slowly and afterward straightening the upper portion of her two-piece. Desire to sustain the level of excitement is equally felt by everyone, especially Tonya, enduring the high pitch of Lauren’s continual screaming within elbow’s length of her: “Dare! Dare!”

“Nothing raunchy. Shhh! I hear you —” Tonya reaches her open hand toward Lauren’s mouth, as if to tamp her lips, but never actually touches her. “Shhh! I hear you. Dare.”

“Nothing too gross, Vince.” As she spoke, her quarter-inch — similar in extension to Lauren’s — fingernails threaten to slice me to ribbons. She’s like Uma Thurman from “Kill Bill,” swinging her claws and making guttural noises like a tiger.

The twins clearly think alike. They most likely yield a similar taste, as well. Either way, more unknown information of their exquisite taste and feel will — undoubtedly — be stored securely in my head by game’s end. I’m sure to remember this night for a great while.

“I got a dare,” I say, smiling nefariously. “I dare you two . . . Tonya and Lauren . . . to both drop your tops and French-kiss each other.” I extend my smile, wryly adding: “And the makeout session must continue for at least half a minute. Otherwise, it doesn’t count.”

“We’re sisters —” Tonya argues, laughs toward starry, dark sky. “Would that turn you on, Vince? You Perv.”

“Yes. Yes it would,” I say, unabashedly. “I’d be very turned on by that.”

Lauren is already frontally nude — by this point— and her light-green top drifts away from her at the surface of leftward-moving, choppy water.

“Don’t be a chicken-shit, Sis,” Lauren hops toward Tonya.

Tonya winces, reaching behind her back. Her black floral-patterned top falls toward water, carried leftward toward a skimmer drain.

Soon their soft bodies melt into each other. Everything appears to interlock: tongues, B-sized breasts, shoulder-length hair, grasping each other’s arms with small identical hands, as they French uninhibitedly, unapologetically, unfettered by taboos or common reservations of any kind. As they disconnect bodies, they momentarily peer into each other’s eyes. They give confident stares, signaling what they’d just finished doing wasn’t a very big deal to them. They have done the same thing many times before! They finally look our way, Lauren bowing, then Tonya, both of them smiling and appearing euphoric.

“Excellent,” Tim says, clapping.

“Yes —” I add, clapping a few times. “Excellent. You two are hot as fire. The conflagration is quickly spreading to my heart. It’s en fuego, really. Lauren, Tonya, thank you. I can say, now, I have greatly matured from sharing this experience. Bravo. Who’s going to go, now?”

“I’ll go again,” Tim offers, still overjoyed at what he just saw.

He swims closer toward the three of us. He waves at the topless twins and noticeably elevates his eyebrows just a little, grinning, as he turns my way and shares a strong look of approval. He lifts them up further, still, as he glances between the naked girls again.

“Who wants to do me?”

He softly chortles to himself shaking his head, which was a pretty corny couple of things to do after his repetitious joke, even making his nervousness more conspicuous by batting a hand . . . somewhat effeminately, in truth . . . toward them. Due to a heightened sense of self-awareness, he grows very solemn again. “Nevermind. Who wants to ask me to do what— Tonya, Lauren?”

“I got an idea,” Lauren says, snappily. “Whip out your dick and jump in the pool.”

“What?” Tim says, feigning confusion.

“She said,” Tonya says, laughing. “Whip out your dick and jump in the pool.”

“Fuck it,” Tim says, apparently letting go of any misgivings.

His surf style board shorts — showing crabs and seaweed as a design — make a brisk ripping sound from the Velcro strap. From his small-bellied waist, the shorts slowly and consistently descend further into the somewhat transparent, slow-moving water. His bare ass is a toast-brown sort of color, flashing above the pool for a disgusting length of time, as he relies on his moderately strong forearms and triceps, while pushing up onto the ledge. He proceeds — naked as a child at birth — and as, though denying such would do him no favors, he suffers from a similar condition as neonatal boys having an exposed, shrunken penis.

He fiddles with his miniature shaft, until it is enlarged enough to be firmly gripped and swung about like a rope. Then, squeezing the dangling junk with his right hand, he proceeds to flail his penis in a cowboy-with-a-lasso kind of way — the tip wavering like a fish head — jumping back into the warm, splashy water.

“Woo!” Lauren screams.

Even Tonya, clapping herself, screams “Woo!”, but then she heads toward the other end of the pool. The departure is probably due to wanting to fix her looks. In truth, she’s a perfect ten without a single flaw. Always will be.

Tim resurfaces and immediately thrusts his head backward. The strident thwack of his six-inch long hair is a bold declaration of his triumph over inhibition and self-consciousness, the water sort of being like fireworks popping around his relatively handsome, bluish face. He’s a conqueror of all mankind’s greatest fear: a cold, wet penis.

“Vince,” he says, like he’d been baptized. “I got a dare for you, man.”

“What’s that,” I say, with a cool smile. “What is it?”

“I dare you to go down on Lauren.”

“What?” I say. “That’s crazy.”

“C’mon,” Tim says, confidently smiling. He elevates his open hand while it faces toward Lauren. “Sushi style. Do it. You’ve got to do that . . . for Lauren, Tonya, you, and myself . . . and do it for epic games of Truth or Dare occurring everywhere.”

I’ve been hoping from years of escalating flirtation with Tonya to hookup with her, but Lauren isn’t a poor choice as a girlfriend either. She’s quite a knockout in appearance and personality herself, at least when judging from what I’ve learned tonight. Occasionally, Lauren would appear at Pay Less, when Tonya and I were both working together, yet she was always so taciturn and inaccessible, perhaps, wrongfully, I had her pegged as the unapproachable type. I figured she was mostly concerned with reading lengthy books and praying at church. I assumed she would only accept an earnest marriage proposal after “hanging out” with a guy for years, rather than agree to “date” a person.

Tonya has wandered over to the farther away end of the pool. She searches for something; meanwhile her bare thigh gently taps against the fourth step leading to ground. She finally finds her handbag, toward the left and resting only inches from the pool’s edge. She fumbles with something inside of the purse, most likely a bottle of perfume or some kind of compact.

“I’m naked below,” Lauren says, as if to steal attention.

“I heard that —” I say, immersing myself in a moment of impetuousness. “Let’s do this.”

“Awesome!” Tim shouts in a deep cry. He cups his mouth. Booms: “I can’t believe this is happening!” so the words echo across the canyon. The canyon shouts his words back.

I close my eyes before submerging in the warm pool. Realizing I’d have to do so sooner or later, I open them up again and swim froggy-style toward the pale pillars sweeping and kicking a few yards away. They drop and lift, recurrently, but they never fall below a foot above the elusive sight of the pool’s floor.

I arrive at Lauren’s — no more than — 130-pound treading body. I lightly hold her legs, encircling both of my thumbs and index fingers around the smooth, doughy flesh above her knees. Afterward, I reel out my tongue and connect lips to her exposed vaginal area. A lump, the clitoris, juts from the top of the dark purplish-red hole, a fact I’d known prior to the old South Park joke. I lick the salty portion of skin around the clitoris, under a thick bush of frazzled hair. It isn’t till — and only after — an ocular and indisputable check, that I realize my tongue is abrading six or seven or eight, even, tiny, button-like protuberances, collectively lining the purple walls of her vagina, as well