Random Acts Of Crazy Read Free

bottom of the car?
    The light made her hair glow. Glow, I tell you. Or was that the ’shrooms? Not sure. Either way, after I impressed her with my erudite, “Huh?” I followed it up with, “Wanna fuck?”
    She grinned. “Well, ain’t you suave? I don’t fuck anything that wears a collar. That really helps to maintain standards ’round here. It’s a shame other folks in my family don’t have the same rule, because Uncle Jack’s permanently disabled from that goat he…” She winced. “Oh, nevermind. You don’t know me well enough to hear that story.”
    “I’d like to know you,” I said, the words oozing out like slime. Sexy slime. Like sensual slime designed to cover her and draw her into my world of primordial arousal ooze. The exact idea wasn’t really clear. My hands reached up and unclasped the collar. She was right. I was actually wearing a collar, which I pitched into the field by the side of the road, because if that was an obstacle to getting sex right now, off it went. Ta ta! Buh-bye.
    Then I noticed the cotton balls in my mouth, and how her hair was actually – literally – on fire at the edges. With tiny snakes flicking flint to make the fire.
    Laughter. “OK, there, Trevor.” She knew my name? “But first, how ’bout we get your ass off the ground. You’re no more than three inches away from road rash.”
    I wasn’t imagining it; as she reached out to help me up, my buttock peeled off the floor and I saw it – a rusted-out spot about five inches around. Little grey rocks and tar mocked me.
    “You have the strangest accent. Am I in western Mass, in some pocket of the Berkshires where people talk like this?” Or, worse – stuck in Hampshire College at some linguistics experiential conference?
    What the fuck? her face said, but her words were a bit more measured. “Trevor, you’re in Ohio right now.”
    “Ohio?”
    “Right.”
    “Corn fields?”
    “Yep.”
    “First state with the caucuses that piss off New Hampshire every election cycle?”
    “No, that’s Iowa. Ohio is the state that pissed off the Democrats in 2004 and Karl Rove in 2012. We’re fair and balanced that way.”
    “ Ohhh. That one,” I answered. Got it. “How far from Mass am I?”
    “You’re Catholic?”
    Either I had just found the stupidest, hot and voluptuous woman with burning hair in the state of Ohio, or I was stuck in an endless loop of Groundhog Day, as written by Douglas Adams.
    “Mass, as in Massachusetts.”
    Peals of laughter from her, a sweet set of notes that made my already hard erection reach out just a bit more, stretching tall, as if seeking her. “You’re about as far from Massachusetts as I am from financial solvency.”
    “That close, huh?” Rubbing my head, I realized it hurt on two levels. A bump from the car’s sudden stop, and a deeper ache. The pain of being massively hungover. Another quick memory of the last time I could remember: ’shrooms. Peyote. Red Bull and espresso with local raw cream (ah, Mom and her insistence on organic purity) and Chilean pisco. It all coursed through my veins, pounding through my eye sockets.
    And my cock.
    “How did I get here?” Staring down at my body, I realized I really was completely, and utterly nude, my body floating through air without any encumbrances. Not even a condom. I was never nude like this unless I was in the middle of having sex with someone. Even then, the girls at BU were a quick-n-dirty bunch, so the actual span from being in a state of complete undress to wearing a dick sock was measured in nanoseconds.
    To be fair to them, sometimes so was the intercourse.
    But I made up for it with the next round. And the next.
    On good nights, a fourth. My voice might be well-known, but my refractory period was legendary.
    Not that I’m bragging.
    But I am.
    “I have no idea how you got here, Trevor,” she said, trying very obviously not to stare at my package. I liked her for that. Then I was offended, because what’s wrong with