The Great Charity Recital

The Great Chairity Recital

Featuring

The Renown Frankfart Quartet

The hot July sun was finally beginning to rest behind the western horizon and the delicious scent of grilling steaks wafted across the patio, arousing my salivary glands with the titillating aroma. Stan turned and smiled at me as he flipped the steaks to complete their fiery cooking to a nice medium rare; juicy, pink, not unlike Stan's most precious place. Dressed only in tight, board shorts and sandals, his nicely shaped cut-cock outlined along his right leg and sweet, tight ass was confined, hidden from my view, but not from my imagination or memory. Just an hour before, when we were alone (not such as now, with company), spanning lengthwise on his back, I split those round globes like a buttered bun, sinking my stiff peduncle into that sweet, juicy spot to my short curlies, relishing in the warmth, tightness, and massaging waves encircling my throbbing pedicel. Those smooth globes secured themselves nicely in my crotch just as snuggly and sensuously now as they did five years before when we first met.

I don't think you'd moved back to town then, so I doubt you even know what terrible tragedy befell our small community! It's often said when disaster strikes, small communities pull together, but it wasn't pulling together we did, no sir! Stan and I probably would've never met, been as strangers adrift on an open sea in the dead of night, unaware of each other's presence, had it not been for our District Library support group, "Friends of the Printed Word" or F.O.P.W. Their decision to attempt to add intellectual and finite appreciation of the arts, as well as some cash for their organization, lay at the crux of the tragedy and Stan's and my union.

F.O.P.W. was concerned our little community was too isolated from the cultural world, believing our only source of enlightenment was the movie theater in Tucker City, some miles away if you recall, causing us to become culturally incestuous, preying on each other for our enjoyment. Therefore, the group planned a series of events designed to broaden our horizons and heighten our desire for more.

The first event, scheduled and performed five years ago, was billed as the "Frankfart Quartet's Great Charity Recital," featuring the world renowned Frankfart Quartet performing their rendition of the "1812 Overture" with their Assifoniums. Our entire community and many folks in the surrounding area were so excited concerning the impending performance. Imagine, a world-wide renowned group of artists, straight from their European Tour, according to their handbill, performing here, in our small town!

The Great Hall, on the grounds of the old Revival Assembly Grounds, would be the location of this titillating and non-tonsorial recital. A large crowd was anticipated and the County made the Hall available for use. You remember where the Assembly Grounds are located, don't you? To refresh your memory, it's just down the road from the former location of the Bunny Barn.

The Bunny Barn was that old three-story Victorian house near the end of Cleavage Street where it intersected with Zipper Avenue. Poppa used to deliver fresh fish every Thursday to the Bunny Barn for their entertainment supper on Friday night. I don't think you ever accompanied us on one of those deliveries. I was only allowed in the front parlor and Poppa always went in to Big Momma's office for payment. I never really knew her real name since that is what Poppa and everyone in town called her. I didn't mind waiting since there was a young lad, about fourteen or so, who was always kind and gentle with me.

I loved going there with Poppa. The place smelled of fine perfume and powders and exotic, sensual young ladies and the fourteen-year-old boy. He'd hold me on his lap, rub my tummy, slip his hands down the front of my shorts, fondle my marble-sized nuggets, and slick up and down my little stiff prod with his thumb and forefinger while we listened to the piano player serenade us with some tunes. Many is the time he'd slip my shorts down over my little butt and spike me to his lap, holding me secure with his young ramrod as we bounced up and down in time with the music.

At the end of the serenade, I'd clap my little hands in joy and the boy, to whom I was attached internally, would push forward, and flood me with his pleasure. It was so exciting for an eight-year-old boy to be able to listen to such fine music. Big Momma always seemed so happy to see Poppa and me. When we came in the door, she'd give me a kiss and the biggest hugs, enveloping me in her warm arms and pressing me close to her breasts. Her breasts were of such volume that my head would slip between them and I'd have great difficulty breathing. Often, I'd have to pop my head up for a quick breath before I burrowed back to suffer some more.

Poppa would give me a wink and a quarter to spend once he came from her office and had completed his delivery. He never told Mother about the music I enjoyed with the fourteen-year-old and I never told her about him going to Big Momma's office. There are some things in life better off left unsaid according to Poppa. Besides, I wanted to keep on receiving quarters and sit on my friend's lap. Never could it be said that I was one brick short of a load!

The Assembly Grounds became too much of a financial burden for the Northern Church Convention to handle so it was put up for sale and a religious group from California purchased it. The group was led by the Reverend Bishop Beecham (Poppa called him "Fleeceum"). The Reverend founded a church there. I'm afraid I don't recall the name, but Poppa called it "The Church of the Personal Convenience," Mother named it "The Church of the Perpetual Personal Adoration," and the boy at the Bunny Barn said it was really "The Church of the Perpetual Erection." It only operated a year or so and closed when one of our County Selectman called on the Good Reverend for some advice and found him trying to stuff one of the choir boys full of his interpretation of religious zeal while grunting his rendition of "Stand----Up----for----JESUS!" not too softly in his ear.

The preacher took off and the County acquired the Grounds for its use, namely the Youth Fair and other events.

The Bunny Barn closed a year later, I think. I was about nine years old when Mrs. Pinchbottom (I really think her name was "Higgenbottom," but Poppa and many others called her "Pinchbottom"). Poppa claimed she pinched her ass cheeks so tight when she farted the noise was so highly pitched only a dog could hear it. I don't know if that was true, but every now and then when she'd walk by our house, our dog would howl. She formed a group with the initials N.W.I.T (No Whores in Town) causing Poppa and others to refer to them as "Nitwits" because they didn't realize what an important function the Bunny Barn performed. Nitwit's goal was to rid our town of the Bunny Barn and, by God, they did! Poppa was inconsolable and Mother was ecstatic.

Thus, no Bunny Barn, but we now have the County Exposition Grounds with the Great Hall and the Grounds available for use by others. Knowing this, the F.O.P.W., in a letter to Pinchbottom (now our self-appointed cultural attaché and preserver of moral dignity – until that fateful evening five years ago), inviting her to solicit local sponsors for an evening recital involving performances by three groups on three different occasions. Each recital, the chairperson of F.O.P.W. promised, would broaden our horizons and be an eye-opening experience. Rachael Lillenthorp, currently chairperson of F.O.P.W., lived in one of the far counties which was a member of the District Library, praised Pinchbottom and expressed confidence the F.O.P.W's were certain she'd be suitably rewarded for her efforts.

Of course, Pinchbottom was dizzily enthusiastic and rounded up many sponsors and ticket sellers. The first performance was a sellout! She even went so far, at Lillenthorp's suggestion, to arrange a welcoming dinner for the Frankfart Quartet. Ms. Lillenthorp lauded our most infamous annual fish fry hosted by our local fire department and hoped Pinchbottom could persuade the department to have one, "just special," for this occasion. Well, pinch my pecker and call me skinny – that was all it took for Pinchbottom! She fairly tooted the good news, dogs howling all the way, to the department and they were all too eager to help. It'd give the fire department the opportunity to raise some funds through their highly illegal, but winked at by the law, gambling operation during the fish fry.

The free fish fry would be open to the public, with the proviso, pull tabs and wheels of fortune would be available for those who wished to partake in a bit of a game of chance, and serve (as it always did) beer-battered deep-fried catfish, baked beans with slabs of greasy bacon swimming in them, coleslaw, potato salad, and "red dog" with crackers, green and black olives, and other such condiments. "Red Dog," if you remember, is ground raw round steak with onions, hot peppers, and other spices in it. I do know it's best if aged for several days before serving; kind of acts as a "ripening agent," so to speak. It can have a rather nasty effect on one's plumbing, as you can attest, if eaten in too great a quantity. I don't think you were ever very fond of "red dog" after the time you made a glutton of yourself. Didn't it take you several weeks to heal? I know that for quite some time we could hear you crying every time you went to the bathroom. I remember how we chuckled when Poppa suggested using Bag Balm and you snarled, "It's not my tits that are sore."

The fish fry was a great success and our guests were greatly appreciative of our efforts. After all the fish, beans, red dog, beer, and other food was consumed, we trooped over to the Great Hall and found our seats. Mrs. Pinchbottom and her entourage were seated in prime seats, right in front of the stage where the Quartet was to perform. She was so giddy with excitement, I'm certain she wet herself several times over!

The lights slowly dimmed, the curtains began to part, and a solitary spotlight shone, center stage, on four, empty, wooden, straight-backed library chairs. As a hush came over the waiting audience, our dinner guests, the famous Frankfart Quartet and dressed formally for the recital, entered from the right side of the stage. Four very portly and quite full, mustached and bearded gentlemen dressed in black tuxedo jackets, but no pants or underwear, white bow ties, black knee length stockings and black shoes, gallumped across the stage, cocks and balls wiggling and jiggling under the massive overhang of fleshy, corpulent, extended, adipose tissue and enlarged body muscle so recently stuffed to overcapacity with the evenings repast, bowed to the audience, and took their places on the wooden library chairs.

You and I know, from past experience with library chairs, the timbre, resonance, and sound effect those chairs can add to any intestinal noises. The chairs squeaked and groaned as the Quartets' bare-butts wriggled into place. The audience gasped in astonishment at the amazing sight of the Quartet. After all, we're unaccustomed to seeing men parade around on the stage or anywhere in town, for that matter, dressed in tuxedo jackets.

Once the initial shock was over and the Quartet began the recital, the audience settled back in pleasant repose to be entertained as never before. If you recall, the Assifonium is the highly specialized use of internally produced body gas forced through the tightly controlled and trained sphincter muscle referred to by many people as the "asshole," but to more sophisticated people as the "rectum." Although the recital wasn't intended as an audience participation performance, many audience members were evidently familiar with the "Overture" since one could hear various "A," "B-flat," or low octave "F" notes being added to the musical interlude being aired on the stage. The Quartet seemed not to mind and would cast smiling glances in the direction of the audience contributors.

Disaster struck toward the end of the final movement when the Bass Assifonium player prepared to sound the cannonade in response to the chiming of the bells. You can't imagine the control the Tenor Assifonium player exhibited as he replicated those ringing bells, as he pinched his ass cheeks with such precision. The Bass player raised his right leg, elevated his butt-cheek to sufficient height to produce the necessary volume and tone, when it happened! God save us all!

Instead of the deep, roaring sounds of a cannonade, there erupted from the Assifonium a very sour, juicy, flubbering note of absolute discord. The residue from that sour note ricocheted off of the wooden seat of the library chair and spread its musical poison across the first three rows of the audience, where, if you remember correctly, Pinchbottom and her Nitwits sat. The greasy fried fish, baked beans, red dog, and free beer added a messy stanza to the "Overture."

Fully two-thirds of the audience, having so patiently and diligently refrained from adding any notes to the recital, loosed, in sympathetic response, their own rendition of the cannonade. Oh, what trauma befell our special evening! Fortunately, I was near an exit and was able to refrain from singing until I reached a wastebasket in the hall and dropped my drawers to yodel my relief. It was at that moment, a stranger, dropped his pants, plunked his bare butt on my lap, and added to my chorus. Once done, I viewed that wonderfully, now clean, pucker and decided there was one way to stop anything else from coming out, so I plugged it with the first thing that popped up. When my lap-sitter twisted his head around and smiled in ecstasy, I introduced myself. Nothing like a fine evening of the arts to cement a relationship, as it did Stan and I, as he wiggled around on my lap, seeking to deepen it.

The next morning, at the local "Arf and Barf," where many of us gathered for coffee and to commiserate on the unfortunate end of the recital, one of the County Selectmen bemoaned the clean-up job needed at the Great Hall. According to him, it'd take a minimum of twenty-five men with scoop shovels, several bundles of shop rags, and numerous cases of disinfectant to do the trick. It was his hope to clean it up sufficiently that the odor remaining wouldn't be offensive to the annual convention of rendering works operators to be held later in the month at the Great Hall. He also announced the County was canceling the permits for future concerts, much to our dismay and chagrin, sponsored by F.O.P.W. When asked, he informed us that it definitely included the Au Naturale Chorale scheduled to perform, "Yank My Doodle, It's a Dandy."

In the midst of the wailing and gnashing of teeth, a rather elderly gentlemen who, up until this point in time hadn't contributed to our discussion or even attended the recital, laughed out loud. The gentleman appeared to be about my father's age, if he had lived (my father, not the elderly gentleman), and a resident of our small community for all of his life. When asked what he thought was so funny, he merely chuckled again, and replied, "Pinchbottom should've never gotten the Bunny Barn closed. If the men of this community would've taken a stand, last night never would've happened. Now, we paid the piper for our lack of support."

There was no disagreement the Bunny Barn made some definite inroads into the various contributions the men of the community made and returned appreciation in the form of recreational and cultural opportunity, but we failed to see any connection to its closure and the tragedy that occurred the night before.

"You young pups are so damned naïve and stupid," he said, continuing to laugh at us. "What goes around comes around."

He stopped a moment in his obviously gleeful little speech and pointed a bony, withered finger at me as he admonished, "You, of all people, should remember after having spent so much time secured to the lap of Abraham, so to speak. Rachael Lillenthorp, Chairperson F.O.P.W., is really `Big Momma' and she sure did make it come around last night."

OMG!

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or locales is entirely coincidental or used in a fictional content.

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