The Rough Rider

    I arrived in town yesterday. Met a waitress named Rita at the diner this morning, and now I’m at Rita’s doorstep tonight. The dozen red roses in my hand suggest that I have at least some class. My past conquests know better, of course. I am one rough rider in the boudoir. My old man would be proud.

    Rita answers the door, a coy smile on her face as she lets me inside (inside her home, that is, but rest assured I’ll be graciously hosted inside her before long). She thanks me for the roses, and as she turns, I get a good look at her. She was definitely 36-24-36. Aww, yeah.

    She leaves me in the living room, her wavy red hair not enough to distract me from the junk in her trunk. I feel the Big Chief setting up camp in my pants.
“Calm yourself, my good friend,” I say out loud with a grin. “You’ll excavate her mysterious depths soon enough.”

    I look around her living room. It’s simply decorated with a homey feel. Some plants, a coffee table, medium size TV, flowery air freshener. The most interesting aspect was the couch. Not quite big enough for two lying down, but it would work. My old man always made it a point to plow the fields on every piece of furniture in the house, and I’ve always followed his glorious example.

    Rita comes back in with the roses in a vase, and I shamelessly ogle her bouncing bazongas. She smirks and places the vase on the coffee table. She says something about something, but shuts up when I pull out a box of condoms. With a glint in my eye, I throw the box behind me. I like to live dangerously, just like my old man.

    Rita’s on me in an instant. She bites, she claws, she drools- it’s quite a rush. The woman’s on fire, and it appears there’s no man alive that can extinguish her. Except, of course, for yours truly.

    I pull the ferocious minx to the floor with me, our lips locked and our tongues engaged in a life-and-death struggle. Both our shirts torn, I’m ready to release her funbags from their lacy confines. With the strength of a horse (like Big Chief), I roll her over. Imagine my surprise when she instinctively throws me back to the floor. We bang into the coffee table, and the vase topples over. Rita laughs brightly as the roses fall on us (I try to hide my pain as thorns stab me all over the back of my head).

    We settle down and sit up, and Rita smiles as she puts the roses back in the vase. I notice a framed photo that’s fallen over, and set it upright.

    The photo features a man and a woman hugging each other. Naturally, I look over the woman first. There was no doubt that she was Rita’s mother. Same hair, same smile, same bod. I wouldn’t mind taking her for a run. I’ll have to ask Rita if she’d be down for that.

    I then look at the man in the photo. My face pales. My breath catches. My heart pounds. Big Chief falls. 

    It was my old man.

    Rita asks me what’s wrong. When I don’t respond, she touches my face in concern.

    I vomit. 

    Now I’m headed back out to my motorcycle, a dozen red roses in my hand (all missing petals from being beaten over my head). The night’s cold, my jacket reeks, and I’m fairly certain there’s a high-heeled footprint in my butt.

    My old man would be ashamed.