Funny thing you mention this anniversary, as I was just recollectin’ Ol’ Ricky’s fling with a broad us Raiders knew as Scarlett. Two-fold reason for that handle: Scarlett was a true blue Daughter of the Confederacy, which to a film buff like the Fiesta Fox evoked cinema’s golden age. Mostly though, ‘twas on account of the deep crimson scar on her low back about the size of a silver dollar sourdough flapjack – the only remaining evidence of the bird’s vestigial tail, which the good doctors kindly removed shortly after her fourth birthday.
Anywho, Foxy met Scarlett one day when she stopped by the Barn while going door-to-door, looking to raise money for a statue of General Something-or-Other to be erected up at City Hall. Lord knows she didn’t find any coin on our doorstep that day, but what she did find was a tall, dark ruffian with a magician’s intellect, a vaudevillian’s wit, and a pecker as long as a tribesman’s spear.
Scarlett and Rick hit it off immediately. Foxy explained that he too dabbled in the political process, sharing with her the story of his recent run for Wake Forest Student Body President, as well as “Ricky’s Law” – the groundbreaking Pennsylvania legislation mandating child safety belts be included in newly manufactured automobiles. Ricky’s Law came about, of course, from that prominent incident in 1962 when Mr. K, soaring high on a potent brew of mescaline tea and furniture polish, wrecked his Buick into the front entrance of a Woolworth’s, sending a 10-year-old Ricky headfirst through the windshield, then the store’s plate glass interior doors, and finally into a small fountain where he remained submerged face down for 13 minutes until the paramedics pulled him out. As usual though, Little Ricky was no worse for the wear thanks to his boasting, as Mr. K joked, a skull like a bighorn sheep.
As was the normal course, Scarlett and Ricky’s relationship quickly turned sexual and before you knew it, her intense cries of pleasure derived from Foxy’s oral delights saturated the Barn. I’d like to say they were the genteel exclamations of a true southern belle, but in reality when Ricky got down to business feasting at her lady fig, the sounds from this broad more resembled the frantic wailing of a Bantam Hen dropped into a cauldron of molten steel. It was really something else.
This went on for a couple of weeks and, pretty soon, the rest of us Raiders just couldn’t handle the constant din of Scarlett’s satisfied bleatings. Got so bad, even Petey started sleeping with his paws over his ears. Finally, one day, after some deliberation, Schilling and I decided to talk with Ricky. He’d just finished up a particularly earsplitting session with Scarlett. While she dozed, comatose in the afterglow of her orgasm at Foxy’s capable lips, Rick broke down his camera and began packing away the film, soon to be developed and added to his collection. Schilling and I knocked and entered, and, as tactfully as such a topic can be broached, inquired whether something may be done to alleviate the situation.
Foxy chuckled and explained that this was a new one for him as well. Seems that while the docs were able to remove Scarlett’s vestigial tail many years ago, they were forced to leave a small nerve bundle located just beneath the red scar tissue. So while this philly would pop a squat over Ricky’s mug, the Fiesta Fox would place one hand under her left thigh for support, and with the other hand he would gingerly stroke the nerve bundle with two fingers, first in a slow counterclockwise motion, then, once she got heated up, in a fast back-and-forth frenzy that would quickly push her over the edge. That, he explained, was the genesis of her thunderous squeals.
Foxy apologized for the racket and suggested that next time he’d put a gag in her mouth. Said from his experience, that often heightened the magic moment for many a broad. Sadly though, the Fiesta Fox never got a chance to try out this new method. Scarlett never woke up that night. Nor the next day. Nor the day after. After the third day and a quick call over to Doctor Jones, who convinced Ricky that most likely she was not just faking it, we called the campus medics who came and immediately pronounced her deceased. The autopsy revealed an embolism burst in Scarlett’s head, most likely at the moment of her pleasure pinnacle. Ricky literally killed her with his skillful tongue work.
Foxy spent a couple of quiet days grieving Scarlett’s death, but like any pro he was soon back on the horse, going orifice to orifice with a new bird from the electric company. No nerve bundles to speak of on this one. That was Ricky though – always giving back with the talent Yahweh had gifted. Would be criminal to live otherwise.
