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Gazebos and Vermouth - Part 5

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Three months had passed
Three months had passed since Evelyn had fixed my cock up, down if you counted the direction it pointed. I was feeling chic with the latest in men's apparel. That being my Prince Albert with a ring that weighed close to a blacksmith's anvil.

I was still seeing Evelyn every ten days for the works, less another ring. I'm pale compared to some guys. I'm no run-of -the meal mister bumpy with muscles but I do look good nude of hair. Evelyn gets me that way but I knew she wanted to fix my nut-sack with more ornaments.

Three months had passed since the last Cali sighting at the Beachside Motel and her note, "girls, they want to have fun also".

Max must be burning her cunt up, I thought.

"Why do black guys get all the sexy ones?" My sleeping cock nudged my inner thigh.

I started thinking back. Back to some years ago. Back to another time. Of Sammy. We called him the Candyman. Sammy was my best friend in California. A clone of Sammy Davis Jr. Small in stature but large in heart. "Who can take a sunrise, sprinkle it with dew. Cover it with chocolate and a miracle or two. The Candyman can, the Candyman can."

Sammy had a sweet dick. Yes I'm a selected cock sucker. His was small which put some stories to rest. He had a popular dick and shared it with my better half. Then her half and several half's more. We had some super orgies.

Three months had passed since the last days of summer. The weather had turned cold, typical New Brunswick cold. Snow, sleet and fog lined the shores almost daily of St Andrews-by-the-Sea. I sang, "By the sea, by the sea, by the beautiful sea. You and I, you and I, oh! how happy we'll be."

"Yeah, right."

Three months had passed since the pizza delivery guy had delivered the pizza and Whistler's Mother had been formally introduced to the now defunct old-smokey dildo. I had just recently upgraded and updated to a 'made in America' model with the length and girth of a Volkswagen Beetle.

I stopped off at the Finkle's Funky Coffee Shop for a bagel and latte to go. To go was only three stores up from mine. Sitting at a small table was Cali. There was the mister bronze guy again, along with a petite woman.

As I approached the counter to place my order, I saw her write something on a napkin. She got up to reach for an ash tray from off another table. She brushed up against me and put the wadded up napkin in my hand. She went back to her table and looked back over her shoulder at me and smiled. I left with the mystery note in my hand. I could feel my cock getting rambunctious.

At the book shop getting ready to open, I looked out the window and across the street. For several weeks the building directly opposite had a For Lease sign in the window. This morning it was gone.

I read the note. "If you have the stones, meet me at the arena, 6:30".

"No one has ever accuse me of no balls."

Just for the hell of it I went to the storage room. I wanted to measure my damn balls. I had to admit that in the amazing world of gonads, my nuts took a backseat.
***
I parked my car at the arena. The sign on the building said, 'The Heather Curling Club'. Needless to say, I wasn't overly impressed.

Curling is about as exciting as another popular Canadian sport, Celebrity Bingo and Goldfish racing. This broad was running me all over St Andrews. She either wanted in my pants or just trying to make Max jealous.

The sign did read, Cocktail Lounge, also. So I entered the building lugging my damn stones. Imagine a garden gate coming unhinged and having a total melt down. Thats how I felt when it dawned on me that the gosh-awful sport called the curling contraption a frigging stone.

There she was screaming, "harder harder". Some damn old fool was actually sweeping ice.

"I'll be with you in a moment" , she said.

I answered, "I can hardly wait".

"Why don't you go upstairs to the lounge, order me a martini and don't lose the olive".

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