Understanding Women Has Never Been My Long Suit

It was the sound of women’s voices that I heard. Two women, but neither one was speaking English. In fact, it didn’t really sound like they were speaking the same language to each other. This was the moment when I realized I must be in some seriously fucked up shit.

Well, at least I wasn’t dead — I was pretty sure of that. I suppose I’m basing my assumption on everything feeling the same, and by that I mean I’m feeling things, sensing things the same way I felt or sensed them before.

Yeah, the whole before whatever ‘this’ is. But there are hints; one, I’m still kind of buzzed from all the booze I’d consumed yesterday, or last night, then again perhaps it was earlier this morning after last night. Two, I’m still all shivery and a little freaked out by my near-drowning. It was a simple stumble, a big splash, and then a combination of heavy clothing and a swift current. I thought I was drowning. I was sure I was drowning. Okay, maybe I did drown. I hit my head on something solid, and even though I was dazed, I have a very clear memory of going under, the fear, pain, and panicked desperation of wanting a breath, and then there was this weird, warm, peaceful calm. And a lot of brilliant sparkly light.

But I don’t feel dead, just cold and rattled, with a seriously heaping helping of WHATTHEFUCK is going on here?

Which raises the question, why am I lying on my back, on some less than soft flat surface - is it a table, or maybe a bench? I’m obviously naked, except for a light blanket or sheet covering me from my toes all the way up to my neck. Being naked begged the question, what happened to my clothes, and who undressed me? I’m guessing one of the woman talking had something to do with all this. Then again...

I could sense that there was a fire nearby, I could feel it’s warmth and I had a kind of perception of flickering light. But why didn’t or why couldn’t I open my eyes? Oh, because something was on my eyes, or at least my eyelids. I slowly moved my hand toward my face, encountering my beard, lips, nose, and WHATHEFUCK? The something on my eyelids was cold, round, and metallic. I took them in my fingers, blinked my eyes open and found myself looking at two small copper coins. Pennies? Fucking pennies on my eyelids. I turned my head toward the woman speaking nearby.

The shock of pennies on my eyes gave way to absolute ocular enthrallment. The cause was the twin moons of this woman’s naked rump right in front of me, less than an arm’s length reach away. It was immediately obvious that the woman possessing this perfect heart shaped derrière was a natural redhead. Oh yeah, there was no denying that fact. Glancing ever so slightly higher a riot of red hair hung down her back, confirming a clear cut case of carpets and curtains. And the hair that would have obscured her face was pulled back and tied at her neck. A downward glance revealed perfect breasts that trembled ever so slightly as she continued her conversation. Which was really weird since she appeared to be talking to a bowl of water. Adding to the surreal strangeness of this tableau, the bowl was answering back, or if not actually answering, it was at the very least involved in the conversation.

A wafting of her womanly aroma drifted over me and in the space of three beats of my heart, my slumbering libido began to stir as it had not done in years. The sheet moved slightly and I think that’s when the shock hit me and the pennies fell to the floor with a tinkling, with one producing the sound of a coin rolling across a wooden floor.

At the sound of the coins she turned to face me and grimaced. Even with her grim expression, she was incomparably beautiful. She turned back to the bowl of water, touched her fingertips to the surface then flicked five drops at me - three times she did this. She register an ever so barely discernible smile at me, then turning back to the bowl, she resumed speaking. Only now I could understand her and the bowl!

And it was at that very moment that my body came back to life and I experienced a resurrection that was far more primal then spiritual. My dick hardened like it hadn’t hardened in decades. My straining cock lifted the linen covering me. Lifting it higher than it had any right to.

“Shite, he’s awake.” Her gaze swept the length of my body, pausing at the tent my hard cock had pitched. “And he’s been gawking at my personals. Shite, shite, shite. You have to help me here Frida. There’s no one else I can ask.”

“Oh Bree, what am I supposed to do with a drunken, mostly drowned Irishman. Truss him up, carry him off to wherever, and call it a day. Why are you making this into some kind of crisis?”

“Free, please - oh god, it’s bobbing up and down. You know what seeing a real-life hard cock going on like that does to me. Help me out here Frida.”

“Fine, fine. I’ll tell you what, I’ve some things to finish here, then I’ll pop in and take a look - satisfied Bree?”

“I’ll have to be - what choice do I have - look, call me as soon as you can!” The woman straightened up, and turned to face me. She looked me in the eyes, then her gaze trailed down my body, pausing at the prodigious tent I was pitching. She reached out and grabbed a handful of linen as well as the upper part of my cock shaft. I marveled as much at the pleasurable sensation as at the observable reality that my cock appeared to be twice thick and half again as long as I’d ever seen it.

With a flourish, she pulled the sheet away. I couldn’t stop myself from looking at my cock - it really was bigger! The woman threw her leg over the table, lifted the other until her feet were on each side of me. She gasped my cock again and squatted slowly downward. In a manner that was excruciatingly slow, and immeasurably pleasurable I was ensheathed within her freakishly hot cunt.

How I didn’t cum immediately I’ll never know. The pleasure with every stroke, whether up or down was mind-bogglingly ecstatic. It felt as if every time she bottomed out on my pelvis, our pubic hairs mingling, her fiery red and my cool gray, that I trembled and spasmed on the ‘there’s no stopping it now’ inevitability of ejaculation. Only I didn’t, the moment she began to rise up again, the pressure to cum slackened just enough to back me away from the edge. The relentless repeating of the experience turned my civilized mind to mush and a deeply suppressed primal self came out to play.

I’ve no idea what possessed me, perhaps I was spelled, or hypnotized. I took the woman with focused intent, first from behind, mounting her like a stallion. Then, standing at the edge of the bench I’d been lying upon, I hooked her ankles to my shoulders and pounded her pussy as my thumb massaged her clitoris and the heel of my other hand pressed down on her g-spot from above. I finished by squatting down between her thighs and feasting on her cunt and clit until her cries of pleasure hurt my ears.

Then she turned the tables on me and sucked my cock down her throat until her nose pressed hard against me. She did things with her fingers I had never allowed anyone to do until I came with a roar of victory. Reveling in filling her mouth and throat again and again and again. She let my spent cock slip from her mouth. I staggered backwards until a wall kept me from going further. My exhaustion caught up to me and I slowly slid down the wall until I was sitting on the floor. I fell into a deep sleep, as memories of how my day began flickered through my fading consciousness.

Dust In The Wind, But Not In My Face

I should have begun this tale by giving Ireland and the Irish a serious shoutout; it’s a damn wonderful country filled with warm people, incredible vistas, and great whiskies. The beer is pretty damn good too, though my California taste buds prefer it colder. I’d spent the latter part of this particular day ambling along the Cliffs of Moher. The beginning part of the day kicked off with an incredible sunrise, the mid morning found me gathering materials for a very private ceremony; at days end I was planning on saying a final, good-bye to a very dear friend.

Joseph Satriani Barkley, universally known as ‘Barks’ was my neighbor and best friend of the last 17 years of his life. He died at the age of 67 from pancreatic cancer, from diagnosis to death was but 42 days. Yeah, that fucking fast. From a simple, persistent lower back pain, to his doctor, then off to a specialist, then a few brief weeks to settle his affairs.

In the end, or near the end, he opted for in home hospice care. But not before he scheduled and hosted an “I’m Not Dead Yet - So Let’s Wake The Living And May The Dead Rest In Peace; Fare-Thee-Well” party. A party which lasted a full weekend. Barks himself lasted a few more weeks, then disappeared into a drug-induced, palliative coma. He held on for six more days, then died. Per his instructions he was cremated. There was no formal funeral, Barks figured the party covered all of that.

A short time after his passing I was asked to the offices of the firm handling his estate. Where I was informed of a request, with an accompanying bequest, that Barks had penned for me.

Barks mom was Italian, hence the middle name Satriani. His father was Irish-American (and in that order, thank you very much.) His request was that I take a portion of his ashes to Ireland and ‘scatter them to the winds on or around the next Spring equinox. Then, I was further requested to travel around Europe and ‘have a really good time’ for which a list of what and where I might find certain ‘good times’ was provided. Barks schedule eventually brought me to Italy, where I was to toss his remaining ashes into the nearest available active volcano, on or about the Summer Solstice. His preference was Etna in Sicily, but Stromboli or Vesuvius were acceptable. Most surprisingly of all I was presented with a Chase Sapphire Reserve credit card, in my name, tied into an existing bank account that contained a ridiculously large balance. Evidently, Barks had figured my expenses for the estimated 100 days between mid-March and June for living and traveling in Europe at €500 per day!

Barks lawyer gave me a sealed box, containing equal portions of Barks remains. A thick packet of possible itineraries, with maps, brochures, train schedules, etc. was also provided. Leave it to Barks, the man was an organizational whiz.

As the day ended, so did my amble along the Cliffs of Moher. In the time it took to enjoy the Sun sinking spectacularly into the Atlantic, I assembled Barks’ funereal craft. Yeah, he’d provided plans and a general materials list for that too. I was constructing a small hot air balloon, that was intended to be fueled by tea candles. That I was sober enough to finish it before last light was noted and appreciated. I lit the tea candles that were attached beneath the envelope, as well as 12 supplemental candles for initial lift off. I waited until the balloon envelope retrained enough heat to begin to rise up off the rock where I’d set it up before pouring his ashes in the flat bottom, paper coffee filter. It took another fifteen minutes of candle heating for the mini hot air balloon to float slowly upwards and drift out over the ocean. During the setup I’d fixed one candle (per Barks instruction) to burn thru a support string, which would release the base structure allowing my best friends ashes to scatter to the winds.

I pushed play on my phone and Samual Barber’s, Adagio for Strings, as sung by Voces8, again, all at Bark’s request, accompanied the lift off. I tipped my flask of whiskey in salutation watching the craft drift away. In time, the ‘scattering’ candle did it’s part, and I finished my vigil with a salute. “Goodbye Barks, Bon Voyage and Godspeed my friend.”

My duty done, my destination for the evening was a pub not far from the hotel where I was staying. Supposedly, it was over two hundred years old. But when I got there, it looked more recently renovated, everything just a little too neat, a bit too clean. Fortunately the whiskey was good, the food was fresh from the sea and excellently prepared. The entertainment was enjoyable and kept the vibe rolling along right up to the point that the singer signed off with, “Thank you, you’ve been great. Enjoy the open mic. Good night!”

Open Mic Night and Otherworldly Whiskey

Who knew there were ‘open mic’ nights in the middle of the Irish countryside? I was just drunk enough to consider a spoken word performance, in honor of Barks. So per the instructions given by the MC, I wrote my name, hometown, and what I was performing on the provided index card and dropped it in the hat circling about the pub. Between the collecting of names and the drawing, my glass was refreshed with the imminently decent local spirit.

The MC was shifting through the cards, mostly shaking his head, a nod here and there, then a smile. First up was a middle age woman who delivered a passable Taylor Swift cover. Then some old guy did an Irish song, at least I think he was singing in Gaelic. Both earned polite applause.

“And now, oh ... this should be very interesting ... alright, alright, quiet now. So tonight we have with us a man who has come all the way from the far side of the far side o’ the pond. No doubt having flown here at great expense, done all of the expected touristy this’s and that’s. Eating our fine food and drinking or beers and spirits - all without the benefit of the locals discount - reaching repeatedly into his own overflowing wallet stuffed with euros, to which we say, thank you very much. Well he must have drunk his share and more to have signed up for this. So, if he’s still sober, we will be graced by a spoken word performance in honor of a recently departed friend from Mr. William Craven McCarthy, of “Mon ... Monti ... oh hell, from the great golden state of ‘Cal-if-orn-aye-a.” Mister McCarthy if you would step forward - please.”

I stood, miraculously, and wove my way between the tables, until I reached the small stage, smiling as I noticed the not yet empty tumbler still in my hand. I tossed the last sip back and placed the glass on the nearest horizontal surface. I stepped up, turned around and offered a small wave to the room. There were a few shouts of, “come on” and “get on with it.”

“I am, in fact, William Caven McCarthy, of a small town called Montecito, or “Little Mountain, in Spanish (I nodded at the MC, who smiled in return) in the great state of California. I came to this fine establishment this very evening after my walk along the Moher Cliffs, honoring the request of a recently deceased friend of mine, Joseph Satriani Barkley, known to one and all as “Barks.”

“During my travels, I have been fortunate to learn a wee bit about this great land [a faint cheer went up] and it’s fine people [it became a louder cheer] but mostly I’ve learned that before I arrived in these Emerald Isles, I didn’t know shite about good whiskey [a roar filled the room.]”

“So this is a free verse, rap, spoken word kind of thing in his honor, to my friend Barks.

“I came here to these Emerald Isles to take the healing waters. From Brigid’s Well the truth to tell near these Cliffs of Moher. These Waters of Life release all strife, You can start your life anew. So raise a glass,”

I paused noticing my empty hand, looked around for my glass, which had been miraculously refilled, and lifted it high.

“So join me as I raise my glass in praise of Brigid’s healings. And sip with me this living cure of all that might have ailed you.

And gods be praised if on this day for what I hope and dearly pray that some fine and bonny lithesome maid consents to get me truly laid.”

Amidst a roar of approval and appreciation glasses were raised and tipped to lips. Too many times those lips were mine, and I drifted out of consciousness momentarily until an unknown passage of time saw me return.

I was flat on my back, shirt open to my waist, with a wee slyph of a girl perched upon me. She had a Sharpie pen in her hand, and bent forward to draw something on my chest. As curious as I was about what she was drawing, I held my tongue, as with each bending her blouse fell open and her perfect bra-less breast were on unobstructed display.

“Done and done.” The wee thing declared. A phone, actually a fair number of phones were pointed in my direction and a series of flashes followed. Upon being asked to see what she’d drawn I was shown the image of the triskelion; a triple spiral drawn upon my chest. “Now you’re a proper Irishman!”

Another cheer went up, additional glasses of whiskey were pushed into my hand. Fucking A, or as my new Irish brethren might say, “Fooken Aye.” Somehow amidst all this, I found my second wind.

It was at this point that I realized the comely lass was still sitting astride my hardened cock, and at my age a spontaneously achieved erection is to be treasured. She wasn’t sitting still either, and judging by the smirk on her face she had no intention of stopping. I lay mute.

“Is there a room available here? I’ve got a live one beneath me and I’ve just the spot for him.” The girl, who looked younger than my own daughters ground down on me and I felt myself as hard as I’d been in years.

The girl’s declaration of intent caused a reaction in the pub. Two large men came out of the crowd, grabbed her, and lifted her off, “Alright young Siobhan, that’ll be quite enough of that. Time to get you home to yer ma.”

Likewise, I was pulled to my feet, and patted forcefully on my back as a small delegation of well-wishers helped me across the room. I thought I was being returned to my chair until I realized I was being directed out the front door. Nothing like the reality of standing outside a pub with the door being closed behind you. One of the men who escorted me out had stuffed something in my coat pocket with a final ‘good luck.’

I turned and looked at the door, then pulled the thrice folded piece of paper from my pocket, at the time he whispered in my ear, “If you want the real goods, the Leering Leprechaun is the place. Less than an hours walk, if ya follows this here map. And then quick as a fairy you’ll be sipping a whiskey many an angel would freely sin fer. Good luck.”

I thought upon it and decided that my hotel bed was the better option. I refolded the paper and pocketed it. I’d hardly gone a block when the memory of my good friend Barks elbowed it’s way to the forefront, “You’re going to bed? On this day of all days, you’re going to bed. A local tells you about a great pub, possibly the best in all Ireland, even gives you a map with directions and you decide your best choice is looking for a warm bed? And you didn’t even get that fine young girls mobile number - oh, the shame of it all.”

I unfolded the paper again and read the list of directions that accompanied a rough map. Fine, this is on you Barks. And thus began my unsteady but determined stroll down the lane, weaving slightly, though mostly keeping to the instructions on the map. The directions were just vague enough, or I may have been just drunk enough, that a one hour stroll took me slightly more than two. I knew I was nearly there when I came upon the stone bridge marked on the map that informed me this was the place to cross over the river. The bridge looked older than the dirt it was built upon, but seemed well constructed and I crossed slowly and carefully over the cobbles which had a well-worn slipperiness due - no doubt - to their many centuries of use.

The directions took me past a copse of trees, and at the next crossroads I turned right. In the darkness I almost walked past the sign, but the creak of wood on metal, above the murmur of the river, caught my attention. The starlight revealed the suggestion of a hanging sign and gate, so I fished my phone out. Bingo!

I stood before the sign, but it was only when the flashlight function on my iPhone illuminated it that I saw the words and the wildly inappropriate image of the LEERING LEPRECHAUN. At first glance it appeared that the leprechaun on the sign was pushing aside some curtains as he looked down at a pot of gold. When in fact, on closer examination the leprechaun was spreading apart a pair of legs encased in stocking and garters (or suspenders for those on the near side of the pond.) The leprechaun was leering down at her golden crotch. Charmingly arousing imagery, to say the least.

I opened the door, bent to enter, then stood once past the threshold. This place was just plain ancient. It was everything I’d been looking for. Awesome.

The wall opposite the entrance hosted a huge fireplace where a large pile of glowing embers, remnants from what must have been a roaring fire many hours ago, radiated heat throughout the room. Along one side were windows that likely looked out over the River. Mismatched tables and chairs were scattered about the room, half of them occupied.

Speaking of mismatched, it looked like the survivors of a wild costume party filled half the seats. From them I noticed many a glance in my direction, and an less-than-welcoming glare or three. Fortunately, there was a contingent of drinkers who looked up, smiled, and while they did not wave me to join them, they didn’t turn their backs to me either.

The bar, appeared to be a split level creation whose sole purpose was to support a large oaken cask tipped on its side. The cask sat in a cradle-like contraption and had been rotated so the tap was just above the lowest point. Burned into the cask was a carved relief replication of the drawing from the sign outside the entrance. The detail was such that the snaps on the garters were clearly discernible. Knocked into the bunghole was the tap, an ancient brass valve of unique design. And the point of the “V” - the twin spread legs - ended right at the tap. Gotta hand it to the Irish.

The presentation of the whiskey was in a manner I’d never seen before. Sparkling crystal decanters were filled directly from the cask. If you were drinking, you were presented with a freshly filled decanter and as many glasses as you or your group requested at which point you paid for the full decanter - period. If you left the establishment before empting the decanter, the remainder was poured into an appropriately-sized bottle, that was corked, sealed with wax, and stamped.

Most surprising of all was the small scale with lead weights, beneath the cask, next to a placard, with an extensive listing of this very days exchange rates. The placard stated that The Leering Leprechaun preferred gold as payment, although cash was accepted. The exchange rate for a gram of gold was listed in euros, dollars, pounds, yen, and rupees. So a decanter of Leering Leprechaun whiskey, a full pour being 750 ml, went for 8 grams of gold or $464 US dollars!

I thought of Barks as I paid for a decanter and one glass. I walked toward the almost welcoming group and asked if I might join them and top off their glasses if that was agreeable to them.

It was. That first decanter was soon empty, so I decided on a second. Thank you Barks. During the pour and the payment, I struck up a conversation with the proprietor about whiskey.

“When I arrived in Ireland, I went and paid homage to Old Bushmill’s, reportedly the worlds oldest licensed (in 1608) distillery. My departed friend Barks has me traveling on his idea of a Irish Whiskey Trail tour; with a listing of distillers, brewers, and pubs to enjoy, accompanied by the ever-Barksian encouragement of ‘trust random, random can be a very good time.’

“So while in Galway and the general County Clare area I visited Micil Distillery, toured the ruins of the distillery on Nun’s Island, and enjoyed the samplings of many a fine pub. Though I must confess that I have never tasted anything so divinely sublime as the offerings of the LEERING LEPRECHAUN.”

The proprietor smiled and nodded, “Aye, you were right to visit Dublin, however, in truth, we are actually older than Old Bushmill’s and our license is more of a nod and a wink than an official piece of paper.

“Our whiskey is from a single pot still, with some of the copper older than me. Once it’s been properly distilled, it is aged 9 years in casks made from the charred oak planks of ships that sailed with the Spanish Armada. My ancestors lured those ships onto the rocks. There were so many ships it took months, in some cases years, to recover the wreckage.