Date: Mon, 2 Jun 2008 07:11:39 -0700 From: "titboiSanDiego @msn.com" Subject: OUT OF A KANSAS CANYON (Part 1: Tuesday) General raunch, ws, scat and other nasty things that hot guys enjoy doing to each other. [Standard disclaimers apply, including that this story is completely fictitious and is intended only for adults over 18. Use condoms every time. (P.S. I haven't forgotten my other story, NOT SUPPOSED TO BE DOING THAT HERE. The two remaining chapters are coming, but I needed to write this story as a change of pace.) Feedback welcome: titboisandiego@msn.com. Thanks.] OUT OF A KANSAS CANYON (Part 1: Tuesday) When you live in a small town, it's hard to find much else besides vanilla. I like vanilla, but if you want to do the deed (yellow or especially brown), you learn early on that sometimes you gotta travel. Maybe that was on my mind when the IM window popped up in the chat room. "i want 2 feed you, boy. interested?" I stared at the message, thinking, Uh, maybe. I typed, "How do you know me?" "been watching u." My skin crawled. What if he lived nearby? You can put any place you want in your profile. Maybe he already knew me and was setting me up for blackmail. (And then again, maybe I was just paranoid.) "Watching me? How?" "yr post abt types of shit 2 eat. u started discussion on what foreskin smell/taste like." That reassured me - a little. "whats yr name, boy?" he continued. "Russell. Yours?" "got a face pic?" I replied by attaching one. "No beard anymore," I typed. "where in ks r u?" "Where are you? What about face photo?" "sf." San Francisco. Well, it's too far to travel, I thought, but we can still chat. His next message brought a link to his profile: "top only. not n2 cyber. looking 4 quality service. u must b serious." No photo, and he was (gulp) 53 years old. (Wasn't that a little old to be doing Blackberry English 2 b kool?) "u eaten b4? dont want newbies," he typed. "eaten from 3 guys and fed 1." "dont care who u fed, only what u 8" "Eaten 3 times and rimmed a lot of other holes. Face photo?" "complete dumps?" he typed. "I take it there's no face photo?" "right. so dont ask again." Normally, this would be my clue to type, "phuc u." (Two can play the Blackberry game.) But it was Tuesday night and the end of my weekend (I work Wednesday through Sunday). I was horny and the idea of chatting with a controlling, older top who I was never going to meet was exactly what I needed to forget how pointless my life was. "No complete dumps yet." I typed back. "r u a real bottom?" "Are there fake bottoms?" The rat-a-tat-tat exchange ended. Stopped cold. Hit a brick wall. After a minute, I typed, "You there?" No reply. I waited. A few minutes later, I realized I was actually worried he might never write back. Finally I could see he was typing. "is that supposed 2 b funny?" "Just trying to inject some levity." "u cn entertain me best by eating my dump. interested?" "Sure, maybe. When will you be out this way?" "cn u travel?" Short order cooks in Kansas make less than WalMart employees everywhere. Don't have none of that "disposable income" they keep talking about on television. "Can't afford to travel." "not what i asked. cn u travel?" And then, "if i pay 4 ticket" Someone wants to pay my way to San Francisco? Whoa! Maybe he lives in one of those high rises with a view of the bridge. We can eat out and - oh, but wait: if he buys my ticket, then I'm accepting money. Kind of... in a way. Wouldn't that make me, well, a whore? So I typed, "Doesn't that kind of make me a whore?" "no 2 ways abt it." Thank you and phuc u, I thought. Here was someone who'd call a guy a whore and then be surprised when the guy was insulted. In his mind, it never occurred to him that he was being crude. In my mind, I was thinking, "I could learn things from this guy." (Besides, I didn't mind being called a whore.) "when cn u travel?" "Need some notice." "this wknd?" Uh, more notice than that, dude. "Today is Tuesday," I typed. "didnt ask u 4 day." "Can't get off from work that soon." His reply came back so quickly I thought he must have the words set up as a macro: "yes u cn." I stared at his message, trying to imagine what it would be like to have so much money you never had to bother about purchasing plane tickets in advance. "ever been 2 sf, russell?" "Russ. No." "u want 2 visit. i'm giving u free ticket. whats problem?" "We need to talk." "we're talking." "On the phone. I don't even know your name." "have 2 trust yrslf. Ask: `do i have good judgment?' people take jobs w/o knowing if new boss will b bastard. people move in with rmmates they met day b4. all based on trust. won't work otherwise." The pause in his typing was like someone gasping for breath. "longest mssg i ever sent." "The last time I had a job interview, I got to talk with the person I was deciding to trust." A long pause. "send yr number. i'll call." "No. You send your number. I'll call." "whos top here?" "You are, Sir. But trust has to go both ways. Won't work otherwise." That last part was a nice touch considering that it used his words. When there was no immediate reply, I went to the bathroom to take a leak and stopped by the refrigerator for a Dr. Pepper. There was still no response when I returned. Okay, I thought, time to shit or get off the rim seat. "Thought u weren't n2 cyber," I typed. I could tell he was typing. The cursor blinked, paused and started up again. This happened several times. I thought to myself, How many guys is he IM'ing? Suddenly, a message came through: "pvt line" followed by his number. Before he could change his mind, I dialed. His phone rang five times and the machine picked up: "Hi, this is J.D. Sorry I'm not in right now. Please leave a message at the sound of the" - followed by a high pitched beep. "Hi. This is, uhm, Russ." I began to stretch my words in case he was running from another room. "You, uh, just gave me your number a minute ago and... And so I'm calling you. to introduce myself... and say hello. Maybe talk with you about... But I guess this isn't going to work after all. So, nice chatting with you and - " Click. "I'm here." "Hello, it's Russ." No response. "I'm calling because - " "This is the first time I've ever given my number to anyone online." "Maybe I'm the first guy who ever deserved it." "You gonna be like this all the time?" he shouted. "Like what?" "Talking back? Challenging me?" "Maybe you need to discipline me." That stopped him in his tracks. Every once in a while (not often enough, but once in a while), I could say the right thing at the right time. "How would you like to be disciplined?" he asked. "You'd find the right way, Sir." After a moment, he spoke. "Normally, I like to expand a pig's limits. What would you like to do that you can't do yet? Think you could take hot wax in your navel? Stringed balls up your hole?" "Not to be allowed to eat your dump. That would be the toughest discipline." "Yeah, that would be a shame, wouldn't it?" he schmoozed. "But do you think I'd fly a pig out here and not have it service me? Would I waste money on a piece of shit that did not please me?" "No, Sir, you wouldn't. But if I didn't earn your dump, then you would have to discipline me." J.D.'s voice was warm and conveyed experience. (Or maybe I was looking for things to like.) It turned me on to talk to a man who knew ways of expanding my limits that I could not even guess at. "How old are you anyway?" he asked. "28." "28?" He sounded surprised. "You sure you've eaten before?" "Yes, sir. It would be an honor to eat yours, too." "Full dumps? You've eaten a grown man's full dump?" I couldn't lie. "No, sir. Not a full dump. A big one, but not the whole thing." "How many logs?" "Two. But from any other guy, they would be - " He cut me off. "How much came out after you couldn't eat any more?" "One log." "Only one?" That seemed to reassure him. "I'll be honest, Sir: that last log was a pretty good size. But one of my personal goals is to eat a grown man's full dump. I would do my best to earn yours." I was getting turned on by such a frank analysis of something most people never want to think about, much less discuss. "Sir, I get hard when you say, `a grown man's dump'." "That's because we both know what it means, boy." He continued. "We're not talking about turds. We're talking about massive logs from the hole of a man who eats steak and pasta and vegetables. Those logs can be the size of a fist some mornings. You got your pebbles up front and then there's the creamy peanut butter that some of you boys seem to like. Have a preference?" "I like the pebbles more." "I'll eat plenty of pasta before you come. We'll have firm logs for your first visit." There was the suggestion that this might not be the only time. That if I serviced him well, he might fly me out again. "Eating your full dump will be the first limit I expand." "You are one smooth operator," he chuckled. "Gotta hand it to you." "I am serious, Sir." "Wouldn't be talking to you if you weren't. And before this weekend is over, a grown man's full dump won't be the only limit you push." This man knew what he wanted, and he knew how to get guys to do it. I would be learning from a pro. "What's your fantasy?" he asked. That made me stop and think. Not about the fantasy –- that I knew by heart, from all the nights I lay in bed, trying to fall asleep. But was I ready to tell it to a complete stranger? "You can tell me, son," he purred "I like to lie under a rim seat and look at a puckered hole closing in on me. When he's sitting on my face, I like to run my hands along his legs and buns, and hug them close - like a pillow. You know what I mean?" "Go on." "I let him set the scene. Some guys like to talk dirty. Other guys want me to moan and talk dirty to them. Then I start rimming. Loosen up any crud in their crack. Sometimes they don't even know there's shit left over from their last dump. I try to eat it without them ever knowing." "Why not tell them?" "They'd be embarrassed to know they didn't wipe well. They sure as hell don't want to know my tongue is doing the wiping for them. Because they don't know they're into scat. Yet. And I would never embarrass my top." "Good. Go on." "I help those guys by telling them, `Push your hole out so I can stick my tongue in farther.' If they say, `Uh, better not,' then I know they have a log up there. They're all like, `Don't worry, dude. I'm not gonna dump in your mouth or nothing.' But I look them in the eye and say, `I want you to. I want you to dump in my mouth.' They either giggle or freak out. "But even the ones who freak out don't throw me out. They might think I'm disgusting, but they still use me as their toilet. That's what I want anyway, so I don't care if they think I'm disgusting." "These aren't fantasies." "Yes, Sir, they are. They happened." "Exactly. They happened. I want to know about the things you haven't been able to do or are afraid to talk about." I rubbed my crotch. Was I excited or afraid? Or was I excited because I was afraid? "Still there?" he asked. "I'm thinking." "Scared?" "A little. Yes, Sir." "Then that's the fantasy you need to tell me." I reminded myself that I was never going to meet this guy, so what difference did it make? "I've always wondered what it would be like to be topped by a master. Someone who would have total control over what I do, what I eat and where I sleep. Whatever he wanted, I would do." "For how long?" "A few hours. Maybe an evening." "You'd do anything this Master told you? Anything?" "Yes, sir. In the fantasy." "What about reality?" "We're not talking about reality." "We are now, pig," he told me. In that moment, my need to serve someone and to be fed directly from his hole was almost more than I could bear. I grabbed my arms tightly and held myself. "Listen, son" he said, "We've moved way beyond messaging. Are you ready to do this? In real life?" "I'm not sure what you want." "We're talking about power roles. S + M. About you being a full toilet. If you please me, I might permit you to be a toilet for my buds. If you don't please me, I might lock you in the basement for the weekend." I wanted to laugh. Not because I doubted him, but because he described exactly what I wanted. What I needed. The idea of serving as his toilet, drinking his piss and eating his logs, and maybe even servicing his friends. This is what I had always been looking for. Longing for. I held myself even tighter. For some reason, my eyes teared up and I was afraid I would cry. "Can you take pain?" "Sir?" "Nobody can become a full service toilet without making mistakes. You think I'm gonna sit by and watch you make mistakes without disciplining you? Especially when I see you struggling. When I know that discipline is exactly what you need?" "No, Sir. I would expect you to discipline me, and I want you to." I breathed in deeply. I was truly excited by the fear. "I'm just not sure what kind of pain you mean." "What are you afraid of?" he snickered. "You didn't get that tattoo under general anesthesia, did you?" "Now who's being difficult?" "That's the kind of remark I'd have to smack you for, pig. Right across the chops. I can't have you talking to me like that. Understand?" A beat. "Say it so I can hear it, son." "I understand, Sir." "`What kind of pain?'" he repeated. "A few slaps. Some spanking. I probably wouldn't flog a pig his first time out. Don't worry: no blood. You won't go home circumcised, if that's what you're worried about." I breathed easier - because that's exactly what I was worried about. "So what do you think, pig?" he continued. "Can you handle all that?" "Yes, sir. I want this to happen." "This weekend?" "Don't know that I can get off that soon." "You just said you want it to happen," he explained reasonably. "How can I discipline you if you don't take the first steps, son?" Now there were two things turning me on: "grown man's dump" and being called "son." I realized how much I craved having a father. Someone in authority who would love me so much that he wouldn't hesitate to beat me if I needed it. "I need to see a face photo." After a pause, he said, "Still don't trust me, do you?" "Your voice is very reassuring, Sir. I would like to serve you. Seeing your face would help me to trust you even more." After a moment, he said, "Okay. I just sent it." I clicked on the attachment with mounting curiosity and a little concern. He had been reluctant to send me his photo earlier. Was there some facial disfiguration? Some other reason he didn't want me to see him? As the file opened, the curiosity and concern turned to surprise and anger. The photo stared back at me like a newspaper headline. What the hell? I thought. Why hadn't he said something about this before? "Still there?" he asked. I cleared my throat. "Yeah, I'm here." "What's the problem? Too old for you?" "No, it's not that." "Good. Ready to talk about this weekend?" "We have to talk about something else first." I chose my words carefully. "Why didn't you - " I cleared my throat again. "You're - uhm. You're - " Finally, I turned it around. "I'm white." "I know." "I'm white," I repeated, not knowing how else to put it. "And I'm not." "Well, yeah!" I sang out. "Why didn't you say something?" "Why didn't YOU?" That caught me off guard, until I remembered. "My profile says I'm white." "Mine says, `Mixed skin'." "Mixed skin does not mean Black." "My mother was Japanese and my father was Black," J.D. said. "Mixed enough for you?" Okay, you win Round One, I thought. But c'mon dude, you know what I mean. Out loud I said, "Is this some kind of game you play? String guys along and then spring this? Is this a way of putting me in my place?" In a tone that indicated he sympathized totally with my predicament, he said, "I see what you mean: `White until proven otherwise,' huh?" I sighed. "Well, when you say it that way... Sorry if that's how it sounded." "Sorry I'm Black or sorry you don't like Blacks?" "I like Blacks." "Lucky break for me," he said. "Do folks in Kansas call us Negro or Colored? Or do you use some other word?" "I never used that other word with anyone, African-American or otherwise." "`African-American?' So you know how to be PC if you have to." After a pause, J.D. said, "No offense, Russ, but this isn't gonna work." Wait a minute, I thought. I'm the one who gets to decide that. YOU hit on me. I'm younger. I'm cuter. I'm... "I might still be interested, Sir," I said. I need time to get used to it. Sorry." "Stop apologizing. You are what you are." "It's not what you think." "What do I think?" "You make it sound like I'm some sort of redneck, racist pig." "No, you're just a pig." And he hung up. The receiver fell back into its cradle. I stared ahead, my face burning by how totally I had been put in my place. My first reaction was to grab two beers from the refrigerator, popped them both and chug one down without pausing - and that's exactly what I did. Through the window over the kitchen sink, I could see the sun starting to set behind the canyon. I went outside and leaned against the house, sipping the second beer and arguing forcefully, but logically, with myself. "It might be partly my fault, okay?" I conceded, the very model of reason and impartiality. "But that means it's also partly his fault too. So before I fly 1,500 miles or whatever, he has to admit that `mixed skin' does not mean Black. Okay?." Then the less intellectual, more analytical side took over. "Uh, hello? Before you fly –- where? You're not holding any cards. This guy folded. He hung up on you. Don't you get it? You ain't flying anywhere anytime soon." My eyes cast about carelessly across the ground. Okay, maybe it was a little more than half my fault, and maybe I blew it. But only maybe. Okay? I went inside and started frying up a steak and onions. Suddenly, in my mind's eye, I was reliving a half-remembered incident from my childhood. It is late on Sunday afternoon, the Fourth of July. We are cleaning up after the church barbecue. My grandfather is telling everyone about "honky tonk Negroes" who walk across streets against the light. "They do it to annoy us," he assures me. Everyone laughs and so do I. He is my grandfather and I love him. My mother catches my father's eye, and a few minutes later, we leave. As we drive home, they waste no time setting me straight. They don't tell me, "Your grandfather has many fine qualities, but..." Or even, "You must respect your elders, but..." Instead, they say, "Your grandparents are wrong. It's bred in them, but we don't talk that way, and we won't have you talking that way." It has been a long day and I am tired. In the backseat, I try to think this through. "What does `bred in them' mean?" "It don't matter," Dad says. "Even if it's bred in us, that don't mean your mother and I can't be better than the way our parents were raised. And it don't mean you can't be better than us." I nod, although I'm not exactly sure what I'm agreeing with them about. I look out of the car and see the sun setting behind the canyon and remember the first time Grandpa took me there. I try to fit my mind around this, but it's a lot to take in. I am eight years old. By the time I finished cooking the steak, the sun had set and the air began to cool. I turned off the air conditioning - maybe I could sleep with the windows open and save a little money. I grabbed another beer and took my dinner into the living room. I ate it, staring at J.D.'s photo. He was handsome and hunky and sure didn't look 53. But isn't that true about Black people? That they don't look their age? (Or is it racist to say that?) Well, he thinks I'm racist anyway so what the hell difference does it make? Earlier, my biggest problem in life had been how to get off from work so I could fly to San Francisco. I'd give anything to have that be my biggest problem again. Instead of... what was my problem now, exactly? That I offended someone? Well, fuck that. "I don't know you from shit. What do I care if your feelings are hurt? Welcome to America." That third beer pretty much guaranteed that I wouldn't have any trouble sleeping tonight. I looked in the mirror while I brushed my teeth. Is this the face of a racist pig? I smiled coyly. No, it's the face of a toilet pig. I laughed at my little joke and twisted my upper body back and forth in the mirror. I loved wearing those narrow-strapped A-shirts that showed off my biceps. On the left one, there was a tattoo up near the shoulder. Loved all that hair pouring out of my pits and running along my crack. (But couldn't I please have some on my chest? Just a little?) I smiled my best shit-eating grin. A guy in high school once said it was my "come hither" smile. I was suspicious about him anyway because he was in the Drama Club. In the dictionary, "come hither" meant "alluring, enticing, seductive." All that when I was only 17? How did he know? Why didn't I do something with him? How long had it been since anyone said I was alluring, enticing, seductive? Or even one of those? I stripped to my boxer shorts and crawled under the sheets. In the darkness, I mulled over an array of random thoughts: (1) Nobody in town is likely to let me eat their dump. (2) If I want to be someone's toilet, I will probably have to travel. (3.) J.D. had been ready to pay for that travel, but I blew it. (4) Maybe even insulted him. I might not be eight years old, but it still wore me out to think through all these details. I must have fallen asleep because I awoke with a start just after midnight: my back teeth were flooded. "You drank three beers and now you have to pee? Well, duh!" Outside, it was dark; there was no moon. I slipped out the back door and looked around. In the darkness, nearby houses were impossible to see. There were no lights anywhere. Satisfied that I could not be seen, I hauled out my friend, skinned it back and began watering the rose bushes. After a moment, I felt something else. "Whoops," I giggled. "Now I gotta take a dump too." I always enjoyed dumping outside, so this made getting up in the middle of the night almost worth the trouble. I spread my legs and pushed a finger up my hole. By J.D.'s criteria, what was waiting to drop was a log, not a turd. A feeling of nasty abandon swept over me. Even if one of the neighbors owned a telescope (about as likely as one of the neighbors owning the collected works of Will and Ariel Durant), no one would be able to see anything in this darkness. I whipped off my boxers and squatted next to the hedge. My grunts were intermixed with gasps for breath as I felt the log churn its way through my bowels. Suddenly it stopped dead; my heart pounded and I began to sweat. My dumps can be pretty big anyway, but this baby was massive. No amount of pushing or grunting would move it out. I reached inside. The tip was so hard that it was easy to break off a few pebbles. I held them up to my nose and breathed in deeply before popping them into my mouth. It felt so good, standing there in the dark, feeling full up. Sometimes I would delay defecating for a day or more, just to enjoy this full-up feeling. (Only one problem: the longer you hold a dump inside, the worse it stinks when it comes out.) After a few minutes, I forced my pucker again but all I could feel was pressure against the inside of my hole. There was no movement and that increased my fears that this might be one of those dumps that takes a half hour or more to work through. Those hurt so good coming out, but the build-up leaves you wondering if this is what childbirth is like. I reached in, broke off a few more pebbles and put them in my mouth. The idea for a FAR SIDE cartoon flashed through my mind: a guy's log is so huge that he can't push it out. Instead, he is forced to eat it, a few pebbles at a time, just to get it small enough so it will pass through his hole. (Was that really so funny? I thought. Or am I just feeling the beers? Granted, it would be a small audience. But for those who got the joke, maybe it was howler.) I enjoyed the feeling of being so massively filled up that I hated to think the shit might come out on its own. But the reality was that I wasn't going to die with this bowel movement still in me. It started churning on its own and as it came out, the log was so massive that it broke in half. The first part fell to the ground with a soft thud. Immediately afterwards, the second part came rushing out and also made a sound as it hit the ground. I'm usually a pretty clean shitter and many times I don't need to wipe at all. If this hadn't broken in two, it would have been one huge log with a knobby tip and a tapered end. I pushed on my pucker as hard as I could. When nothing more came out, I stuck my finger up there to make sure there wasn't a rogue turd hiding just inside my hole. I licked my finger; there was only the smallest amount of fecal matter. Sometimes the smallest turd turns out to be messy, while at other times, a log as big as the TITANIC didn't leave nothing behind at all. I groped around in the dark until I found them. Whoa! No wonder there was a thud when they hit the ground. I felt for the knobby tip of the first one and broke off some more pebbles. Eating it this way would never have the same intimacy as doing it with someone else. But at that moment, I felt empty and alone. There were times when the need to debase myself, to become a pig, to eat just a few pebbles - it all became so unbearable that I gave in and ate my own. What would my parents have thought? Sure, they were opened minded about minorities (rare in Kansas) and later about gay people (even rarer). But eating shit? Somehow, I couldn't imagine my father saying, "Prejudice against guys who eat other people's excrement is bred in all of us, son. But that don't mean we can't move beyond and see the person inside." He might not have said that, but there was someone else who called me "son" who would. Only he wasn't in Kansas. Empty and alone, are you? Enough of beating around the bush: you offended the man, and now you have to make it right. I stopped at the refrigerator for another beer. At the computer, J.D. was still handsome and cute (for 53, anyway). I would have been proud to serve as his toilet. I looked into his eyes and wondered what it would have been like to hear him say, "Chomp on those logs, son, 'cause you're not getting anything else to eat until Sunday." I clicked on our last message: "pvt line (followed by his number)." I looked at the clock: even allowing for the time difference, it was too late to call, especially on a school night. Ahhhr! Fine. I'll write. I pecked out a few words, read them and immediately hit the backspace. As hard as it was to apologize in person, it was even harder to write it. So many ways something could be misinterpreted. As I wrote, I argued with myself over every little word. And then I thought, "Oh, just finish the fucking thing! Write this fucker the note and go to fucking bed! You gotta be up in three hours and 32 fucking minutes." One by one, the "Should I's" and What ifs" fell away. Should I include my phone number? (No.) What if he came to Kansas –- should I invite him over to dinner or take him out? (It's never going to happen, so either is fine; it was the thought that counted.) In the end, here is what I had: "Hello. I've been thinking over what you said, and I want to apologize. Please don't think that all people in Kansas are bigots, because we're not. Unsophisticated perhaps, but not bigots. If you are ever out this way, it would be an honor to have you over for dinner. Sorry again and thanks. Russ." I read it out loud one last time, word by word, trying to ferret any hidden or unintended meanings. Not particularly clever, but it was sincere and straightforward. I took a deep breath and pressed "Send." I finished off the fourth beer and looked at the clock: 2 a.m. Oh, joy. Three whole hours of sleep. ___________ I let myself sleep until 5:30 a.m. While I was shaving, the phone rang. I came out of the bathroom, staring at it as though it were an alien from STAR TREK. Why would a phone be ringing in my apartment at this hour? There were no relatives left die. True, someone's car might need a jump. But aside from that, there was no reason whatever for this phone to be ringing. The machine clicked on. "Hello, Russ. This is J.D. Look, I got your message and I wanted to - " I let him run on for a few more words, but only because I was too surprised to pick up. Finally, I reached for the phone. "Hello?" "Russ, right?" "Yeah, right. I mean, Yes, Sir." "I got your message - " "What time is it there?" (Sounds like you're criticizing him, dude! Let him talk!) "Do you mind me calling?" "No. It's fine. Really." (You are SO articulate –- not!) "Got your message." "I hope you'll let me take you out to dinner sometime. Or have you over. If you ever visit." (Give it a rest!) "Or I could take you out," he offered. "No, I want to take you out. There are some nice places around here." I laughed nervously. "Do you like chicken?" (Shut up! Who doesn't like chicken?) "There are nice places in San Francisco, too," he said. "Sure. I've heard that there are." "Would you like to visit? Sometime?" "Yeah. Sometime." (I wasn't going to make the same mistake again by acting coy.) "How about this weekend?" "Are you sure?" I said, stupidly. "You don't have to." (I was saying a lot of stupid stuff.) "I've made enough of my own mistakes to know when someone's really sorry." "I really am, Sir. Really. I'm sorry." "`Course you are, pig. Wouldn't be talking to you otherwise." I reflected for a moment: there are not many occasions in life when being called a "pig" means that bygones are bygones. J.D. said, "Think you can come up with some excuse clever enough to haul your sorry ass out here on Thursday night?" "I will find a way, Sir." He chuckled lightly. "I like your laugh, Sir." I added. "Give it a rest, boy. We know you are one smooth operator." "I will do what you want, Sir." "And if you don't earn my dump? What will you snack on?" Oh. This hadn't occurred to me. I mean, he's got to feed me something, doesn't he? "You're probably thinking, `He has to feed me something, doesn't he?'" (Boy, HE was real good!) "Yes, Sir. That's what I was thinking." "You're honest. I like that. All right, Russ. Let's give it a shot. I'll fly you out here Thursday night. If you don't earn my dump, you can eat dog food." "Oh, jeez. Not dog food!" I blurted. "You don't like dogs?" "I love dogs. I just don't like what they eat." He laughed again. "Then you'd better earn my dump or you're gonna be one hungry pig come Sunday." He asked for my address because he would have to Fed Ex my ticket. "I don't think E-ticket will work if I charge it to my card for someone else." "E-ticket?" I muttered softly. "Yeah, E-ticket," he said. "You ever been on a plane before?" "I flew to Oklahoma City once," I said defensively. He was fairly chortling. "Oh, this is gonna be so much fun!" I gave him my snail mail address. He told me not to bring any more clothes than would fit in a backpack. "No sense waiting for luggage when I'm just going to keep you naked the entire weekend anyway. "When you get to the airport, go to the welcome point where people meet arrivals. I'll find you." "I don't have the beard any more. To make it easy for you, I'll wear - " "Pig," he said solemnly, "I will recognize you anywhere by the scared- shitless look in your eyes." And he hung up. I swallowed hard. (End of Part 1.)