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Screw me on a Buick, it’s funny!

***UPDATE: All 170 glorious pages of Fifty Shades of Puddin’ is available on Smashwords and Amazon (5 star rating) for $1.99.

 

Well, apparently people are having just as much fun reading Fifty Shades of Puddin’ as I am writing it. The blog has been going crazy and it’s awesome!! People all over the US, Canada, the United Kingdom, India, South America, New Zealand, Australia, and several other countries are giving it a read. (I have to wonder if a reader in the Netherlands even knows what a Slim Jim is?)

I’m tempted to list all of the real reviews I’ve gotten here because they do make me happier than a gopher in soft dirt, y’all. But, I’ll be nice and just get to what you came here for. If this is your first time to stop by you may want to go here to read the first chapter. And I would truly love for you to  “like” the Fifty Shades of Puddin’ fan page on facebook over on the left hand side. I’ll be posting most FSoP stuff there from now on so that my fb friends who don’t care about reading it won’t keep getting blasted with notices. My grand hope is to knock this thing out and have it ready for Amazon in the very near future. Until then, show your inner goddess what funny really is…

**This is rated R like all good redneck erotica.**Once again, WordPress eats indentations like hot cornbread.

FSOP Chapter 2
I’m walkin’ even faster than I did when I tried to make it out of Walmart with my suitcase of necessities. My guts are twistin’ up and I’m breathin’ real hard like my mamma when her oxygen tank runs dry. The rain is splattering on my face and making blue mascara streaks run down my cheeks. I feel off-balance as I cut across people’s yards. Suddenly my foot catches a truck tire flower bed.
“Goose-shit-bastard!” I hop around on one foot until I see there’s an old man sittin’ on his porch shellin’ peas and watching me like I’m humpin’ his yard gnome. I turn and start joggin’.
Curtis Brown has done something to me that’s left me not quite right. Was it his hot-as-jalapenos looks? Those moss-green eyes? His massive fortune? His massive thumb? I’m not real sure. Is it because I secretly have a thing for assholes with home-perms? And his words! His words were like one of those crossword puzzles in the Highlights magazines; I can’t figure them out. Did he hire me or not? But why would he with the way I sprayed profanities like diarrhea?
I look down and realize I haven’t been watching where I’m stepping. The cheetah flats look more like Rottweiler now as they’re covered in black mud. Serves her right. Why didn’t she prepare me for how high-and-mighty he was?
When I walk up to our trailer, Kandy’s Oldsmobile is parked out front. In the name of Nashville and all things holy, why does she have to be home? She’ll want to know all about the interview. I trudge up the stairs ready to be grilled like a fat slice of SPAM.
“Tell me all about it!” she squeals before I even get through the door. She’s already in her lucky celebration clothes; a Poison concert shirt and her NASCAR jammie bottoms. Her smile is so big she looks like a mule chewin’ briars.
“I guess you got the job,” I snip, slipping her shoes off real quick and sliding them under the laundry pile near the door.
“I did! I did! I did!” She pounces on me, hugging me tight and jumping up and down so hard that I feel like she’s gonna knock a fart loose. “I got the job and start Monday. Now tell me about your interview. Did you get the job?” She lets me go and sits back down at the table, patting the metal folding chair beside her.
I sit down so I can get it over with. “I don’t know. It was kinda strange. He said I didn’t really have the experience but then he said he’d see me later.” I shrug.
Kandy looks at me like Dwight Yoakam just crawled out of my ass crack and started playin’ a song. “You mean he did the actual interview. Curtis Brown? The Curtis Brown sat down and asked you questions?”
“Well, yeah. What’d you expect?” I say still confused by how she’s acting so surprised. “I mean it’s not like Dale Earnhardt rose from the dead and interviewed me.”
Kandy’s face turns red. “That’s sacrilegious,” she growls.
I sigh and roll my eyes up to the ceiling. “Forgive me baby Jesus.”
“Amen,” she whispers and jumps right back into her giddy teenager crap. “I figured you’d meet him, but I thought he’d have somebody else ask the questions. You know, on the account he’s so busy and all.”
I remember why I’m mad at her. “Is that why you didn’t tell me he was so intimidating?”
“Well, I’ve never met him in person. Is he as hot as they say?”
“He’s bossy… and rich…and smelled a little like smoked brisket and motor oil.”
“Damn. He does sound hot,” she says all dream like.
“Yeah, I guess,” I answer, realizing I’m chewing on a piece of my hair like I do when I’m nervous. Did I do that during the interview?
“Oh, don’t act that way. I know you’re into him. There isn’t a woman alive who would kick him out of bed for eatin’ crackers.”
I ignore her and go to the fridge for a Dr. Thunder. I take a drink and hope it will mix ok with the RC I’d already had at the interview.
“Well at least tell me how the interview went. Did you answer all the questions right? Did you sit up straight; shoulders back, tits out?” She demonstrates by sitting up stiff like she has a fence post up her ass and then pushes her gazongas up with her hands.
She’s still staring at her own rack when I finally admit to what I think’s been buggin’ me the most. “I hit my elbow real hard when I walked in the room.”
Her head snaps up and her eyes are as big as funnel cakes. “Oh, no! You didn’t?”
I nod. “I did.”
“How bad was it? Do you remember what you said?”
“Not really.”
“Please tell me you didn’t scream anything about yankee-ass-fuckers or turtle twats again?” She sounds almost like she’s more embarrassed than I am.
“I don’t think so,” I say shaking my head and getting mad at her. Just because she doesn’t have the same affliction I do doesn’t make her all special. I mean, it’s not like when she gets up to the pearly gates that that Peter Gabriel guy isn’t gonna have some stuff about her to read out of his big book before he blows his horn. In fact, she’s done some horn blowin’ of her own, and she wasn’t in band if you get my drift.
“You know what?” she says getting up from her chair. “It’s gonna be just fine. He said he’d be seeing you and in my books that means he either wants to hire you or hump you.” She gives me a hug.
Yeah, right. I’m sure he’d just love to hump the cussin’, plain-Jane, convict.
“So let’s just sit down and you tell me how hot he was. Could you tell if he had a big package?”
Oh, screw me with a sideways turnip. I don’t want to talk about Curtis Brown. I don’t want to talk about his eyes, or his bulging jeans, or his rock-hard thumb. I don’t want to talk about him because I don’t want to admit I had some strange tinglings goin’ on below my bible belt. I have to get her mind on something else.
“You know what? I think I got a zit on my back. Could you get it for me?” I ask taking off my blazer. She jumps up with a twinkle in her eye.
“I’ll get the cotton balls and alcohol.” She skips off down the hall.
Works every time.

I manage to avoid talking about Curtis Brown the rest of the night. While Kandy is coordinating her outfits for the entire next week of work, I put on my Cannonball Run t-shirt, make myself a bowl of jailhouse goulash, and head to my room for my relaxing time. I slip Smokey and the Bandit II into the VCR and cuddle up under my confederate flag blanket my Meemaw crocheted for me. Curtis Brown may have made some sparklers go off in my nether regions but he’ll never be no Burt Reynolds. Maybe that’s why I’ve never found a man; nobody could ever compare to Burt. After an hour of watching car chases I forget all about my day with Curtis Brown. That is until I go to sleep. Then my dreams fill with visions of hundreds of muscular thumbs chasing me across green linoleum floors.

The next morning I hear Kandy in the living room doing her fancy yoda exercise video, so I stay in my room trying to waste some time in case she wants to start questioning me again. I’m listening to a CD I scored free off a band who was playing at a bar I was at. Their name was Scared Strait and that’s because they all dressed like Ozzy Osborne and Kiss but only covered George Strait songs. It’s bad ass and helping me forget my troubles when the phone rings.
“Can you get that?” Kandy yells from the living room. I’m sure she’s in some downward-hound position with her leg wrapped around her head and her ear wedged in her hoo-hoo, so I reach over and grab my phone cursing the fact that we don’t have caller I.D.
“Hello.”
“Ambrosia Heaven Wood.”
Somebody else might mistake this voice for Randy ‘Macho Man’ Savage, but I know that voice anywhere. “Hi, mama.” I am not happy that my morning has to start with talking to her.
“Why haven’t you been to see me?” she says before breaking into a three-minute coughing spell.
“I can’t Mama. My monitor only lets me go so far.” Thank God and Dick Cheney. There’s a moment of silence but I can still hear her lighting her cigarette.
“Oh, that’s right,” she exhales. “My daughter the ex-con. The daughter who let Satan fill her heart ‘cause her mama certainly didn’t raise no thief.” She starts her lecture and I just listen because I know it’s no use to say anything. “Your brother didn’t turn out no thief. He’s good as gold and that’s because he keeps Jesus in his heart.”
“Uh…Mama, Levon isn’t even potty trained and he thinks Jesus is the Mexican man that lives next door.”
“Don’t you say nothin’ about my special baby boy! You hear me?”
“Mama, he’s 26 years-old.”
“There’s just no talkin’ to you…you…you–convict!” she yells and hangs up on me.

Two days go by and I haven’t heard from Curtis Brown about the position, but I can’t sit around waiting for his thick, hairy fingers to dial my number. I have my community service and a meeting with my probation officer. I get dressed in my leggings, old purple Reebok high-tops, and a Jimmy Buffett tank top. Kandy agrees to drop me off for my community service.
I stand in the parking lot of Fish and Chirps pet store and wave at Kandy as she drives off with the top down on her ’89 Cutlass Supreme. She’s going shopping at Walmart but I’ve earned a lifetime ban from there, so I can only stare at it across the parking lot. I turn and walk into the pet store with my apron in hand.
I don’t actually work at the store. I’m doing my community service for Farrah’s Ferret Farm. It’s a rescue for ferrets and other rodent pets and they’re having an adoption event today. My experience at the animal shelter helped me land the gig and cleaning up rat piss is a hell of a lot better than pickin’ up trash on the roadside. I’ve had friends tell me they’ve found actual bodies of hookers and shit doin’ that.
“Mornin’, Ambrosia,” greets Farrah from behind the row of cages set up in the middle of the store. She’s a stick-skinny woman with long grey hair hanging in a braid down to her butt. She’s wearing a tie-dye t-shirt, worn out jeans and some of those hippie sandals. I heard from people that at one time she was the prettiest gal in Hog Hollow but then life got hard. I think that’s why she doesn’t seem to judge me for my past.
“How are things goin’?” I ask, tying my apron on.
“I’m busier than a one-legged man in a butt-kickin’ contest.” She smiles big, never caring about the two grey teeth she has. “I have to make a second run to the house to pick up some more stuff. Can you hold down the fort for a bit?”
“Yes, m’am.” I smile and she grabs her suede fringe purse and hurries off.
I make myself real busy with cleaning cages and showing ferrets to the curious people who stop by. A couple seem a little too curious, like they might throw them on the grill and serve them up with some black-eyed peas and a cold Coors Light. I finally get a break and sit down to cuddle with Fluffernutter, my favorite ferret, when I hear a noise and look up to find Curtis Brown on the other side of the cages watching me.
Indigestion.
“Miss Wood. Fancy meetin’ you here.”
Screw a nun on Sunday. What is he doin’ at the Fish and Chirps? And why does he have to look so good and outdoor-like in his Bass Pro Shop shirt and waders. I feel like I’m lookin’ at a model straight out of Field and Stream.
“Uh…Mr. Brown,” I stutter.
He’s smiling again like he thinks I’m an episode of King of the Hill. “I was in this neck of the woods and needed to get some supplies, Ambrosia.” When he says my name it sounds all warm and smooth like a bowl full of chili and Cheez Whiz. In fact it sounds so good I almost feel like he poured some of that delicious chili right on my crotch, making it hot and tingly.
“Um…Ambrosia…” he nods at my lap as his nose wrinkles up.
I look down. “Son-of-a-bitch-monkey-tits!” I yell, jumpin’ up real quick. Fluffernutter had pissed in my lap. So much for chili-Cheez Whiz words.
I can feel Curtis Brown watching me and smiling as I put the ferret back in his cage and take off my apron. Once again I’ve embarrassed myself so bad I want to crawl into a dumpster and die. I wipe my pants off the best I can but it still looks like I peed on myself.
He picks up the donation jar sitting on the table and reads about the ferrets. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out 3 one dollar bills. He stuffs them in the jar. Rich and giving. Damn, he’s all class.
“So, can you help me find what I need?” he asks.
“I don’t work for the pet store. I’m just doin’ my community service for the Ferret Farm,” I answer. He looks so hot it’s hard to say no but I don’t want to get in trouble and mess up my probation. Why does he have to look like you could melt butter on his ass?
“Oh, it won’t take long. Nobody will notice you’re gone.”
Screw John Edwards with a crystal ball. Was he psychic?
“And I don’t want anybody else to help me,” he says with that wicked school boy grin of his before pulling out a toothpick and puttin’ it in his luscious mouth.
Somewhere deep in the pit of my brain, my unconscious wakes up in my mebula gadda di vida and whispers, Girl, he wants to watch your ass while you walk. The smart part of my brain kicks my unconscious square in the balls. No he doesn’t! There’s no way a man this smart and rich and classy is interested in my ass.
“Ok, but I have to hurry. What do you need?” I ask all nervous. My insides feel like I got the worms again.
“Some aquarium tubing,” he answers.
I nod and start walking to the fish tanks but my knees feel wobbly like they’re made of puddin’. “So, do you have an aquarium?” I ask.
“Nope.”
That doesn’t make sense but I manage to keep my big trap shut about it. I find the tubing and he looks at it a minute before pulling a bag off the hook and looking at me again. “I need a flea collar,” he says, still chewin’ on his toothpick in a sexy, sexy way.
I nod and take him to the collars. He looks at them a minute and then turns his green eyes back to me, staring at my boobs while he talks. “What’s the biggest size you got in these?”
I look through the boxes until I find the XXL ones for dogs over 100 pounds. “Wow. You must have a really big dog,” I spew. To match your thumb. I kick my unconscious in the balls again to get it to shut up.
“Nope. No dog.” He’s smiling again.
Uh…ok. Maybe he has goats. “Anything else?”
“A hamster.”
He didn’t strike me as the cuddly pet type. “We don’t have any to adopt right now, but the store has some you can buy.” I lead him towards their rodent section. “Do you have the cage and everything?”
“Don’t need one.”
I stop and look at him. He’s weird but his yummy, UFC good looks makes that not seem important. “Well, they need exercise and something to gnaw on.”
“Were you in 4H?” he asks, rubbin’ the flea collar box with his hulking thumb.
“No. Cows and stuff weren’t my thing.” Don’t look at his thumb. Don’t. Look. At. It.
“Well, what is your thing, Ambrosia?”
Damn! I looked at it. “Burt Reynold movies!” I blurt out.  Just had to say somethin’ retarded, scolds my unconscious as it lights a cigarette and watches me.
“Which ones?” he asks rollin’ the toothpick in his mouth.
“All of them,” I mumble. “I have to go back.” I turn and practically run back to the ferrets. What the hell is going on with me? My crotch is still warm and I don’t think it’s just ferret pee anymore.

I’m only back at the table for a minute when I feel two hands grab my hips from behind and a crotch grind against my butt. “That is the finest white girl ass ever to come out of the county jail,” says a voice I know instantly. I squeal and spin around.
“JuJu Love! When did you get out?”
JuJu is my best friend from my time in the clink. We had one solid month together before the guards finally figured out they’d made a mistake and that JuJu was a he, not a she. I thought it was proof that the jail guards are a bunch of crack babies because JuJu has the body of a linebacker. He is 6 foot 4 inches of bulging, chocolate muscles. The night he was thrown in jail he was wearing a blonde wig and a pink mini-skirt, but if those dumb-ass guards had looked a little closer they would have realized that most girls don’t have a big ol’ tally whacker hangin’ out of their skirt.
“Sweet, sweet Ambrosia,” sings JuJu as he hugs me. He’s not wearing a dress today or a wig. His natural hair is a bunch of dreads pulled back to show off his Denzel Washington face and he has on jeans and a t-shirt with a rainbow unicorn on it. “Girl, it is so good to see you.”
“I missed you too.”
He steps back still holding my hands and looks me up and down. “Damn, little girl you’re lookin’ good and puttin’some junk back in that trunk.” He smacks me on the ass and laughs. “Makes me think about goin’ straight.” He pauses. “Nah, that’s crazy talk. I wouldn’t know what to do with boobies other than wear them.”
We’re both laughin’ real hard when I look up and see Curtis standing in the aisle staring at us. He’s not smiling. His thick, black, caterpillar eyebrows are pulled down over his eyes and his fists are so tight they’re crushing the boxes of tubing and collars. His new hamster is in a little cardboard box hanging from his other hand. He stomps towards us, his waders squeaking on the linoleum.
“Uh, JuJu, I want you to meet Mr. Curtis Brown,” I say when Curtis stops right in front of us looking pissed off.
“Curtis Brown? The Curtis Brown that owns Brown’s Enchanted Meadow trailer park?” JuJu asks lookin’ a little impressed as he runs his eyes up and down Curtis like he’s a T-bone steak comin’ off the grill.
“Yep. The one and only Curtis Brown who also owns Brown’s Towing, The Sudsy Duds laun-dro-mat, and all 3 Frosty Balls snow cone shacks,” he says real hard.
“Well, pleased to meet you, darlin’. I happen to be movin’ in with my sister there in Brown Meadows,” JuJu says, sounding flirty.
“I live there too! We can hang out together.” I smile real big. Now I’d have a friend around who wasn’t so stuck up like Kandy.
Curtis bites his toothpick in two and spits it on the ground between us. “Well, that’s real nice but Ambrosia will be very busy attending to my every need because she works for me now.”
Screw me with a snow cone. “I do?”
“Yep. And you start tomorrow morning. Be there at 8 a.m.” He turns and squeaks off to the registers.

For Chapter 3, go here.

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