Hello, friends. You’re looking well. Say, is that a new hat? It’s sharp. Most people can’t pull off a top hat in July, but you do it well. I’m not sure the monocle is necessary.
Friends, those of you who know me know that I’m nothing if not an entrepreneur, always looking for a new and quick way to make a buck. And friends, there’s no easier money these days than the erotica novel franchise. Come up with some sexy writing and the audiences will flock. Since we’ve had some downtime in the past few weeks I’ve had a little time on my hands to start a new project that I’m sure will make a gazillion dollars. And I’m not sharing it with Random House today, I’m sharing it with you. My friends. Today I’d like to introduce the first excerpt from my seductive, racy new novel. I hope you like it. I don’t want to brag, but it’s probably the sexiest thing you’ll ever read. Take it to the beach this weekend! Use it to rekindle the passion in your marriage! And, as always, I’ll see you next week.
Hamilton shuts the heavy oaken door behind him as he steps inside the room. I tremble, sitting on the edge of the large leather couch. His aroma fills the spaces around him, between us, a bold, masculine fragrance — like the unforgiving progeny of a DeSha’s hot brown and the floor of the old U-Club at closing time on a Friday night in 1992. It is both delightful and threatening and I drink it in like it were water in a desert.
He walks to the couch, standing square before me, his body inches from my face. His suspenders, highlighted by a descending line of WLEX True Blue buttons, clink and clank a cacophony of metallic, tinny beats. I look up into his eyes.
“What is this place?” I ask. My lady parts are all sweaty and gross in a good way.
“I have some things to show you, Delilah,” Hamilton says. The floor of the room is polished basketball-court hardwood bearing the faint, faded insignia of the 1976 NIT Tournament. A rack of hard-to-decipher items hangs neatly against the wall, where Hamilton walks. He runs his hand over the rack and my woman zone tingles. Slowly, he pulls down a long, white object and walks back to the sofa. He presses it into my hand. “Here.”
“What is this, Hamilton? What is…oh no, no.” I shudder when I realized what I’m holding. It is a size thirteen Nike hightop, worn but still very clean. “This…this is Keith Bogan’s shoe from the Wisconsin game. But why would you-“
Hamilton cuts me off. “Look at it, Delilah. Look at this ankle support. It’s terrible. It’s really only a thin layer of padding. Look at it!”
“I can’t!” I gasp, dropping it to the ground. “Don’t do this to me. You won’t. I won’t let you.”
Hamilton reaches into his back pocket and produced a velcro wallet emblazoned with a University of Kentucky logo. The Velcro rips and tears as he opens it up and pulls out a strip of paper. He holds it in front of my face, as if daring me to read it.
I look into his blue eyes, then back to the paper, and begin to read aloud. It’s some sort of ticket stub. “September 10, 1994…Kentucky Wildcats versus Florida Gators…” I start shaking with fear. “Stop! Stop it, Hamilton. Please…we went one and ten that year. We lost this game seven to seventy-three!” My body riles at the horrific thought of Bill Curry in a way that, strangely, makes my senses feel alive. I want him to stop, but not in the way I wanted Bill Curry to stop, because I really actually wanted Bill Curry to stop. Also, I am getting really hot. You know, like sexy hot. In my female tubes and my flabby babbies.
“Ssshh, ssshh,” Hamilton says, cradling my head against the soiled Rashaad Carruth jersey into which he has inexplicably changed when I wasn’t looking. “Here, take this.” He produces a glistening gold chain and delicately reaches around my shoulders to clasp it against my neck.
“Oh, Hamilton,” I coo, “I can’t..I mean..this is…it’s so beautiful.”
“Yes, it’s the gold chain Shawn Kemp stole from Sean Sutton.”
Suddenly my body erupts, like four wretched years hanging around my head, viscerally burning. “Get it off! Oh, Hamilton get it off!” My doodads are really excited right now. It’s such pain. Such glorious pain.
He mercifully removes it and places it back in its case. “Look around this room, Delilah. It’s all for you.”
My eyes, through the tears, begin to focus on the walls. A Gardner-Webb pennant. A signed photograph of Claude Bassett grinning, mocking me. A mascot head of Scratch. No, not Scratch! Scratch is the worst! The worst! Why do we even need him?
“Wh-what’s that?” I ask, frightenedly pointing to a wooden board hanging on the wall.
“Oh,” says Hamilton. “That’s something that I got at Court Days in Mount Sterling. I just thought it was cool. It’s some old antique or something, like from a farm.”
I sigh in relief.
“But now I want you to see this,” he says, picking up the remote control and turning on a monitor on which replays the Laettner shot over and over, on a hellish loop. He holds my head and makes me watch it. I squirm and writhe, unable to watch, unable to look away. Hamilton and I are probably going to end up doing it in the sack or something, because I’m really super duper horned-up for his jimmer jammer.
I cry tears of pain, tears of love, tears of happiness that he has chosen me to bestow this upon. I nestle into his chest and he strokes my hair.
“That’s it,” he says, “That’s it. We’ll have the best recruiting class in the nation again next year, Delilah.” It’s all different now. The pain has become the pleasure, and my bing bongs are like hello!
I know he’s right. And I trust him. I trust him with my life. I think he’s going to touch my monster mams, and he does. I’m totally okay with that. Because I’ve earned his hot loving. His hairy toot-toot action is mine and I suddenly realize that, now, I am forever his.