Southern Peach

Administrator — Sun, 05 Aug 2007 16:07:39 +0000

The day was hot and humid like any others in the South, where
the air was so infested with odors and sweat you actually had to
swim through it. And clothes, heck, it was minimal while it clung
to you like a wet towel. It was 101 degrees with a humidity of 100
per cent, or at least, that was what it felt like. I was being
boiled right on my seat in this supposedly air conditioned
hamburger joint that was called, “Art’s Burgers”–the sign was
vandalized and now said, “Art’s Bugers.”
I had been invited by my friend Chris to visit his folks and
see the South, which he promised would be “a whole boot’n fun.” So
far, all there had been was a soak-fest, a slimy burger that I
thought moved, and supreme boredom.
I asked myself, “Why am I here?”
I answered, “Waiting for Chris.”
“Okay, but why did decided to come to Georgia in the first
place?”
“Because Chris asked.”
“Okay, but why is Chris late?”
“I don’t know, maybe he got hit by a Confederate soldier and
got mowed down. Just shut up and enjoy your burger.”
So I shut up and tried my best to enjoy the greasy burger.
When I say greasy, I mean, oil was dripping out of the burger.
Better yet, the grease looked like 10W/40 after 3000 miles.
Finally disgusted with the foul taste, I spate out the single bite
I took out of the most disgusting food that I had ever attempted to
eat. Instead, I quaffed down the flat Coke. Here I was in a
little itty-bitty town called Sunrise(or something like that) in
the middle of nowhere, past trying to finish Art’s Buger, and horny
as hell. The latter was noted with distinction. I think it was
the heat.
I looked out. Chris was not there yet. For that matter,
there was nobody outside…just a two dogs biting each others’
heads off and making a racket. So I examined the insides of the
modest resort called “Art’s Bugers.” It was red. I mean, CHERRY
RED; it was decked out in the fifties motif, with the jukebox and
the checkered floor. If it got any more sickening cliche, I was
probably living in a cartoon. And judging by the good taste of the
populace, I was the only customer at 1:13PM. Precisely.
There was Art, a frail looking chef with grey stubble and a
unlit cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth. There was
the was sweet looking Mrs. Art Bugers, who had so kindly served me
earlier the black plague, and there was J’Belle, their daughter.
And she was looking mighty fine to me at that moment, hungry as I
was.
She was at most eighteen and her short body was a bountiful
harvest. As a southern adage usually interjected at any
conversation regarding the weaker sex, made up instantly by such a
southern gentleman with that funny drawl, “I’d reckon she’s shapely
lahhhhhk a gip cow on moonshine.” Whatever it meant, I wanted to
say that she was contoured like the Alps from head to toe; her
sunny hair was tied behind in a tail; she wore a sunny smile that
said everything in the world and her blue eyes, or as the accent
goes, “aaahhhs,” were adorable. I wanted to eat her for breakfast,
lunch, dinner, and then some. Finally, I made up my mind.
I beckoned J’Belle over and asked for some more Coke. As she
was reaching for my glass, I pulled her close and said. “Dear, I’m
absolutely in love with you, you gorgeous little thing. How about
a kiss?” I then patted her rump with a teasing pinch. She blushed
bright red, frozen for the moment, standing there not sure of what
to say or do. I was sure every sane guy passing this young minx
passed off a pass like the one I made to this absolutely yummy dim
sum, but I was sure never by a woman. I sat there smiling my most
sincere smile, licking my lips in anticipation.
Now, I’m no dyke. But I do enjoy the company of little girls
and genteel women. As well, I’ve always wanted to say something
like that in front of a total stranger. And like I said, I was
hornier than a toad in spring. (Whatever that means.) The heat
does that to you.
J’Belle closed her eyes and turned her back with my cup and
headed for the counter. She told her mother my order and headed
for the Women’s Bathroom(or the Water Closet as they say in
England). I smiled. All the better! I followed her into the
Women’s.
As I entered the dirty little back-room, complete with the
smell of Lysol and crust on the ceiling, J’Belle was leaning on the
single white sink in the room. She jumped when she saw me enter.
Her eyes widened. But she remained silent. I walked slowly up to
her so as not to scare her off and put my hands around her
enviously slim waist. Drawing her close, I smelled the fries she
was making, but that scarcely discouraged my game. I had to pull
her up slightly, but I did manage to seal our lips with a soft,
tender kiss. Her first resistance melted away and was replaced a
curious anticipation. I was lost in J’Bell’s pair of lush, full
lips. They were so juicy and tasty. I could have kissed her for
hours! I wanted to eat her whole, starting with those strawberry
lips. But I had other plans in mind.
J’Belle was lost in her own dream world as I said to her,
“J’Belle dear, why don’t you take a seat in this nice stall over
here.”
She nodded dumbly and sat. I closed the stall door. Though
it was a tight fit, I could still manoeuvre around. “Now, J’Belle.
I want you to close your eyes and relax. That’s right, dear.”
My hands flew over her body and ruffled through her frilly
uniform, feeling her soft curves. She was no Plainsman, rather,
more a Rockies person. Her cute floral underwear was what I was
after. I stripped it off carefully and was rewarded with a muffled
gasp that she quickly silence with a swallow. In a couple minutes,
I had her hiccupping with pleasure.
I would like to believe that we both left the bathroom wiser
and more content. Actually, more like she became a bit more wiser
and I, a bit more content. But it amounted to the same thing, did
it not?
I went back to my table and lit a cigarette, and puffed away
like a whore after trick. Wait. That is the other way around, but
you get the idea. J’Belle came by and placed the Coke gently in
front of me. She had a Cheshire grin and her bright eyes twinkled
merrily. J’Belle even gave me a shy wink before she went back to
frying her french fries. I snuffed out my cigarette and enjoyed
the euphoria of the significance of life, of meeting new people and
sharing with them what little I possessed. It is a really good
feeling to know that you may have done some good for another
person, and frankly, I had a blast.
I looked back outside as a light blue Chevy truck pulled up.
Chris the Priss was here. He came in with a courteous nod to the
owners of Art’s Bugers and hurried over to me with an apologetic
face. “Sorry, Cel. But I ran into an old friend getting here. I
mean, ran into him. He wasn’t too happy but he’ll live.” he said
smiling weakly.
“No problem, Chris. C’mon. Let’s go see your big plantation
house!” I replied excitedly.
Going out the door, I heard J’Belle call out, “Now y’all come
back soon, Miss.”
I turned and waved to her in the affirmative and returned her
a coy wink.
Art’s Bugers may taste like shit, but Art’s daughter was the
sweetest southern peach I’ve ever tasted. I turned to Chris and
said, “I don’t know about their burgers.”
He chuckled as we got into his truck.
“…but I would definitely come back for a wedge of their
scrumptious Georgian Peach Pie.”

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Southern Peach