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Rant #386
(published June 12, 2008)
Sondra's Night of Golden Memories
(The Poor Mojo's Monstrously Bad Sex Rant Contest Runner-Up)
by J. Troy Seate
Call me Jack, American Tour Guide, at your service. Confessions are hard to make, but I'm spilling the beans about my first tour with all of its warts and foibles. Hence, an unpleasant snippet from my New England's Celebration of Fall tours which could also have been titled, The Canterbury Tales, 2007.

Every tour seems to include a delicate blend of unescorted women (single, widowed, or those traveling in packs). A tour guide's sacred duty is to treat every customer equally. The first shot at breeching these walls came by way of a California dreamer. Try, if you can, to recall the scene in Disney's Fantasia where the hippos dance around in little pink tutus. I think of them whenever I recall Sondra.

She was a mid-forties gal with big boobs and a libido to match. I wouldn't call her fat. Better to say she had a tendency toward globularity. She didn't stand out in a crowd because, at barely five feet, she was too short to find.

Classifying her as a femme fatale would be a stretch, but clearly she possessed the tenacity required for that role. A seasoned tour-guide groupie, Sondra brandished idealism and a throwback hippie wardrobe better suited for a Berkeley head shop.

Remember, this was my first attempt to keep forty-plus people happy, so it took me a while to recognize Sondra's unrelenting assault for what it was. She must have hatched her strategies each night and battle-tested them the next day. When unsuccessful, she simply modified her plan and charged the front lines again. Sondra was a woman on a mission.

I'm a pretty normal guy and I do enjoy the attention of women. I'm blessed with a gift for gab and I can schmooze with the best of them when the mood strikes me. As for women, I like to believe I have some input on picking the time and place. For Sondra, this vacation was the time and wherever we were was the place.

She spent the first couple of days sizing up the situation—me! Apparently, she decided the mission was a go. Among her favorite ploys was the infamous "titty-poke." She was endowed with bosoms as ripe as Rocky Ford cantaloupes. Even when moving below the radar amidst her fellow travelers, I always knew when she'd found me. A large breast would sweep across my back or poke into my elbow, usually when I was talking with another passenger. Out of nowhere, Sondra would arrive with a question then swipe me a good one. The Subtlety was not her strong suit. I'm over six feet and her obligatory titty-poke always nailed me.

Undaunted by her squatty height disadvantage, she'd assembled an arsenal of tactics to get herself noticed. Failing in her quest for my undivided attention, Sondra kicked it up a notch during the tour's final days. She tried everything from a questionable back injury that begged for a back-rub to a midnight call about a leaky showerhead, which demanded "the twist of a strong hand."

I responded to the latter request, only to discover that my strong hand was also expected to uncork a bottle of California Mondovi. No telling what else might need uncorking before evening drew nigh. Dodging like a squirrel on the Interstate, I managed to preserve my virtue on that occasion.

The final night was to be someone's Waterloo. It also might have been scripted as Sondra's Night of Golden Memories, if my good manners and common sense had not prevailed.

My evening record-keeping usually didn't allow time to venture beyond my room, but on the fateful last night of the tour, I really needed to relax. I was only hours away from celebrating the accomplishment of molding my tourists into a respectable traveling unit.

After the traditional farewell dinner, I sneaked down to the Jacuzzi, taking the back way and hoping for a few blessed moments of solitude. At 10 PM all good little tourists should have been in their rooms preparing for their return home. I thankfully slipped into the steamy tub feeling the tension melt away. Then suddenly, there was a tap on my sweaty shoulder. I knew without looking that Sondra had staked out the back way.

"Want some company?" she chirped, sliding into the gurgling cauldron without pausing for my response. As the twinkle-toed Sondra descended, I realized her hot-tub attire was only a sheer nightgown. The deeper she went, the further her garment strayed from her body. Once she was fully submerged, it billowed to the surface.

"Didn't bring a swimsuit," she announced. "Don't need them where I live. I like complete freedom."

I fought the urge to laugh. My uninvited hot tub partner favored a large vegetable bulb with hair, surrounded by a parachute.

"You should come to California and see me sometime," she continued, regaling me with stories of her non-restrictive lifestyle. Yada yada yada. . .

I listened as her gown, now totally transparent, floated playfully above her liberated breasts, the same ones that had assaulted my back, elbows and tummy for a week.

I knew it was time to fish or cut bait so I launched into a truthful diatribe about how careful I had to be, starting a new profession and all. Certainly, she was an attractive woman and I, of course, was honored by her advances, but. . .

"You know, Jack, that never seemed to bother any of the other guides I've toured with?"

Thanks, guys. I'm not sure if it was my lame attempt to discourage Sondra, but she must have sensed her mission had failed. She was cutting me loose. There was a God.

I walked Sondra to her room. She had discarded the nightie tub-side and was fighting to keep a pink towel around her expansive girth. I lied that I'd love to do her under different circumstances. She seemed satisfied with a goodnight peck, one last heaving-bosom thrust, and a quick jostle of the jewels inside my bathing suit. She was giving me one last chance to see the light, so to speak.

If the adventure had ended here, there would be no rant about bad sex. Oh no, my friends. Sondra was not finished by a long shot.

The tour was officially over. Those on extended tours were checked in at the hotel where my second tour commenced the following day. At 6 PM, I was officially off-duty and wanted nothing more than to finish my paperwork, eat a bite and get some shuteye. I went to bed feeling good. I had survived my first tour group and Sondra without major damage.

Then came the knock on the door. My alarm read midnight. I covered my head with a pillow but the banging continued, getting louder, beating into my skull. It was no use. The offender was not going to desist or withdraw.

Sondra stood at the threshold with one of her wine bottles, already uncorked. "Yes, it's late, but not too late for one nightcap before I disappear," she practically pleaded.

"But you needed to be at the airport at—"

"I changed my flight."

No use in arguing. I stood aside and let her in. She went to the bureau and poured wine into a glass, not plastic mind you, we were uptown. She handed it to me.

"The excitement of last night's hot tub overwhelmed me," she continued.

What's exciting to one isn't necessarily gang busters to another, I wanted to say.

Sondra wasted no time. She had me in my room, trapped like a rat. Her fingers crawled over my bare chest while I downed the red stuff, figuring I would need it. In spite of my previous resolve, my penis reacted immediately to the tips of her fingernails tracing circles around my nipples. Old Pete started to squirm and grow inside my underwear, taking on a life of his own.

She was wearing a bright red and yellow muumuu—sort of a human sunset. Quicker than lightening, she had it above her stout frame and over her head, revealing her glory once again. Against the better angels of my nature, my manhood strained within my boxers and actually peeked out to see what the hell was happening.

Sondra's expression was pure glee, bolstered with certainty that though I might try to worm out of the situation, my dick had other plans. She grabbed my curious cock and stroked it to full arousal. The rest of me stood by helplessly as she pulled down my drawers and touched the smooth spot below my testicles. Her trained hand then ran over the scrotum and up my shaft.

"I want to give you what you gave me," Sondra cooed.

I resisted the urge to ask, "What the hell was that?"

She didn't need for me to talk anyway. "A wonderful adventure," she clarified. "I feel more open. . . more uninhibited than I've felt in a long time."

"Since your last tour?" I couldn't help saying.

"Longer than that. Most of the men I meet are gay. They won't let me please them. Let me please you in case we feel different later on."

Even though I knew I'd feel no different "later on," I acquiesced and allowed Sondra's choppers to take advantage of me. She joyously went to the task at hand. I closed my eyes and tried to imagine that someone I was attracted to was applying the practiced strokes that kept me at full attention.

Finally, she pulled away and ordered me onto the bed. She was in control. Her Night of Golden Memories had arrived—with me, anyway. Like it or not, I obeyed her every command. She straddled me. My penis quickly vanished somewhere between her thighs. It was like throwing a hotdog down a hallway. I thought I was inside her but she was so incredibly lathered, I couldn't tell for sure.

Sondra hissed my name as she humped me fast and faster, up and down, over and over while my pecker swam in her ocean without a spit of land in sight. She bounced and jerked until we both clenched our teeth to keep from screaming—she from apparent pleasure, me from lack of it. I kept remembering those dancing hippos in their pink tutus as I looked into Sondra's liquid brown eyes. I sought some pleasure by squeezing those big, unbridled breasts unmercifully, hoping a serious pinch might break the frenetic spell she seemed to be in.

No luck. She rode me with abandon, grunting out phrases like, "Oh, baby." She threw her ripe melons into my face, damn near breaking my wrists. I managed to find a nipple and suckled it with anything but tenderness, trying to bite the button in hopes she would quite smothering me.

Suddenly, she rose up and howled like a banshee, boobs flailing. She pivoted on my stem and plopped her fanny in my face. For any lover worth his salt, it is his solemn duty to return an oral favor, regardless the circumstance. I closed my eyes and dove into the tangled triangle of wet, tousled hair and I lost myself in the moist darkness of her.

Her tummy paunch ticked my chest while her '57 Cadillac bumpers massaged my belly. I hoped to satisfy her longing ASAP. My hands explored her exterior peaks and valleys, of which there were plenty, while my face spelunked in her cavernous cave of wonders. As I tunneled and tongued my way inside Sondra as far as I dared go without a miner's helmet, suffocation becoming a concern as she declared that her craving was reaching uncharted heights.

I would have said, "Let me know when," but I was too far inside her love jaws to say anything. I was relieved that she was beyond the precipice and nearing climax. But the gush of liquid that slammed into my mouth, lips and nose surprised me, taking away what little breath I had left.

Sondra hissed like the air was being let out of her. My lips and her vaginal walls had created an air-tight seal. I was held fast in a vacuum. Now drowning was a concern along with suffocation. I wrenched my neck trying to escape. Since she gave no inclination to pull away, I placed my hands firmly on her buttocks and pushed.

There was a swooooot from the suction followed by a loud pop that sounded eerily like a cork popping on one of Sondra's wine bottles. I raised my head. It dripped from her issue.

"I forgot to tell you that my fluid squirts pretty heavily when I climax," she waxed poetic.

"Cool," I answered, looking at her butt crack and drippy slit and for something to wipe my face with. It wouldn't have been cool to gag, so I battled the strong urge.

"You're as good as I thought you would be," Sondra giggled. "Maybe the best tour guide I've ever had."

"That's what tour guides live to hear," I managed to say, choking just a little while I pondered the thought of going to the top of Sondra's guide list. I lifted her short, but thunderous thigh to the side and excused myself to the john for a piss and a bath towel.

My cock, though covered in Sondra's various liquids, seemed happy to have escaped intact. And the head on my shoulders was certainly relieved to have extracted itself from Sondra's sloshy cavern of lust. Then a scary thought occurred to me. "Later on," she had said. What if Sondra finds out where my tours will take me in the months to come?

When I returned, Sondra still lay spread-eagled and ask me for one final coupling. "I know it's late, but one more time will make it the best tour I've ever taken."

Not ever seeing Sondra again was my fervent intent, so I merely said, "I bet you say that to all the tour guides." There was no purpose in dodging her wishes now. "A quickie and then you take yourself back to your room so I can get some sleep, capeesh?"

"Aye aye, captain," she cooed.

Sondra's snatch was slicker'n snot as I sought her not so sweet spot once more. She thrashed, bucked and moaned nearly throwing me once or twice, but I had those gargantuan melons to hang on to. The ride lasted ten minutes before I felt the next Tsunami flow over my member, down my balls, and all over the bed sheets.

Sondra was all smiles when she departed my room around four—mission accomplished. A final hug, a kiss, and she was, at long last, out the door. Two hours left before the next tour's role call commenced in the hotel's lobby. One hour to lie down and try to avoid Sondra's wet spots. She was gone but not forgotten.

At 6 AM, I was dead on my feet when the meet and greet began for tour #2. I floated in coffee while trying to label luggage, be cheerful, and somehow manage to get through the ordeal.

Sondra had gotten up to tell me goodbye. She seemed sad that her tour had finally ended, but I knew this California barracuda wouldn't have the doldrums for long. After all, she had a nice long plane ride to plan her next travel experience.

We parted with a handshake and one final titty-poke as she sashayed past me. I chalked my ravaging at the hands of Sondra up to experience and swore to avoid giving an inch, or more, to any other unwanted company.

So there you have it—my confession and my monstrously bad sex rant. And if I was a fool for consummating my virgin tour with a distasteful bang, all I can say is, you had to be there. . . or, you could use your imagination while you watch Fantasia.

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