Writer's note: This excerpt from my steamy upcoming novel, “Your Red Hot Monkey Love,” is being published in a desperate race against the Republican Party's desperate attempt to abolish indecency.
Elmer flung the door open with masculine resolve, the manliest of manly men, oozing sexuality. He resembled Fabio, who according to a scout in “Moneyball,” was a shortstop for the Mariners — the kind of powerful, sexy man that women desire. Some men, too.
She was drying dishes, a voluptuous, sensuous woman with ample ampleness. She oozed ampleness. Blonde curls cascaded down her shoulders and over one eye as if she was trying to coyly hide her sensuous, sexy ampleness. She could cook, too.
She was stacked like Dolly Parton. Even though she couldn't sing a lick. She moved toward him. She leaned forward when she walked as if she was especially determined, but she had to keep moving or she'd fall down. She was smokin' hot but not aerodynamically sound.
They were a hot, sexy couple who oozed a lot.
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Elmer had that look in his eye, a primal, sexy, gnawing hunger, and he pawed her desperately like a famished bear with a picnic basket.
She dropped the spatula.
“Ohhh,” she moaned. The most moany moan in the history of moandom. “Elmer, were you at the drag show again?” she asked in her little girl (but of legal age) voice.
“The library,” he said, clutching her lovely lady lumps. “The JCPenney catalog's in. Two pages of underwire bras.”
She gazed at him quizzically from behind one hot, steamy eye — one-eyed, just like the singer from Dr. Hook & the Medicine Show, only, as mentioned previously, she couldn't carry a tune.
“They still print catalogs?”
“For the purpose of this story, yes.”
He nibbled her neck but got the chain from her crucifix stuck between his teeth. His teeth were like Elton John's but not gay. Not that he hadn't fantasized about certain legislators.
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They wrestled each other down the hall, knocking family pictures off the wall and that one with the old guy praying over a loaf of bread. They took out a shelf of Hummel figurines.
The bedroom erupted with uncontrolled molten lustful lustiness. Moaning. Heavy breathing. Panting. Yips. Thumping. Banging. Lots of banging.
Finally, they got their overalls off.
OshKosh, B'gosh.
Alexa played the Starland Vocal Band and that Guns N' Roses song where Axl Rose schtupps the drummer's girlfriend. Anything for art.
“Do the bad thing, Puddles,” Elmer begged, exposing his vulnerability, which'll get you jailed in North Dakota, even in Anamoose. “Do the bad thing. Like The Donald in Russia ... like that Bismarck School Board chick.”
“Oh, Elmer, you're so, so ... turgid!”
“Sorry. Burritos.”
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Alexa moved on to “Love to Love You, Baby,” in which Donna Summer does that Meg Ryan “When Harry Met Sally” thing. More moaning and hot, sweaty sexiness. Elmer yelped, but it wasn't a product review.
“Shush!” Puddles shushed. “The cows will hear!”
“Geez, Louise," (which was her given Christian name), "would it kill you to wax?”
“That's the cat.”
“I was wondering why it bit me.”
“I'll get you a Band-Aid,” she purred amorously. “Then I'll do the bad thing ...”
To be continued ... Look for “Your Red Hot Monkey Love” in libraries pretty much everywhere except North Dakota.
The Trust Project
