Long time no talk, friends. Damnedest thing, yours truly took a little Harv-time to ramble the desert, let the big sky clear out the cobwebs, which get stickier with the accumulating years, when out of nowhere popped up an entire village of like-minded folk. Fires burning high as the bloodshot eye can see. Costumes rivaling the excesses of the finest bayou masquerade. Titties.
Not sure what kind of event Uncle Harv had discovered, but it was glorious. Once it was over, didn’t have nothin’ better to do and caught a ride up north with a broad and two fellas, both of whom she called her husbands. A real salt of the earth trio. Wound up staying with them in this little community they’d staged outside Tacoma for a few weeks, learned how to spark a reefer doobie using a belt buckle and the frond of a dry fern. Good for the soul. Feels like I’m seeing the world through a fresh set of peepers.
Anywho, to your question, rarely a fortnight passed in the Barn without one of us Raiders catching Ol’ Ricky in the midst of some sort of spectacle. If I’d a nickel for every time I moseyed in his room to find the Fiesta Fox squatting over a mirror, cheeks spread, gazing down in rapt wonderment at his own burgundy tulip….well, I can tell ya I know a certain somebody would be sporting quite a motorcoach at next annum’s desert festival.
That said, the most memorable recurring sight us Raiders would frequently encounter was when Foxy would conduct his “exercises.” Now, aside from rigorous screwin’, Ricky never had much utility for physical fitness. Said he had a better use for his lungs and didn’t want to get ‘em all tight so they couldn’t properly expand when it came time to hi the hay. However, I reckon no man took the health of his Kegels more seriously than the Fiesta Fox.
Every evening after supper, before the Raiders would get down to business in preparation for nightfall’s chaos, with the discipline of an Olympic champion, Foxy’d strip off his clothes and adopt an athletic stance in the center of his bedroom – knees bent, arms by his side, feet shoulder width apart. He’d then slowly start rhythmically contracting his Kegel muscles, in sync with whatever tune he happened to choose that day, but most often Neil Diamond’s “Cracklin’ Rosie,” which always got Rick really primed for workin’ out.
At first there was little to see, just some slight twitching around the root of his crank. But, boy, by the end of the song’s last stanza, once he’d loosened up, it was a sight indeed. Foxy’d stand there, brow and chest covered in sweat, intense look on his face, soft pecker violently flopping up and down on its own, seemingly independently, like the slender trunk of an agitated baby elephant. I swear, his drumstick would swing with such swiftness and strike his belly with such ferocity, I was always amazed it didn’t leave bruises on his taut, hairless abdomen.
I’d approximate I meandered in to Foxy’s room to discover the man in the midst of his exercises no less than a dozen times, and I wager the other Raiders would each to a man tell a similar tale, but it was a display that never ceased to dazzle. The Fiesta Fox. That ol’ coon dog.
