I’ve been hunting high and low, but I can’t find Queerscribe’s double-header dildo anywhere, eh.

So anyhow, I agreed to come house-sit for Queerscribe while he’s off gallivanting God-only-knows-where for a couple days. I got in late last night. The key was in the mailbox just like QS said.

I WANT MY SPOUSAL-UNIT-SUBSTITUTE AND I WANT IT NOW, DAGNABBIT!

It’s gotta be here somewhere. Surely QS didn’t take it with him, ya think?

I am *such* a slut.

Now where was I? Oh yes, so I was all tuckered out when I got here last night, eh. Went right to sleep in QS’s bed, barely even thinking about all the .:cough:. experiences .:cough:. he’s had there.

I did notice the bedroom floor was a bit sticky though. But let’s just keep that our little secret, ‘kay?

So I’m browsing through my favorite diaries on QS’s computer this morning, cup of tea in hand, and all the while I’m thinking to myself, WHERE WOULD THE HUSSY HIDE THE DAMNED THING?

And there was a knock on the back door. It was the famous J.C., all smiles.

Be still my beating heart.

QS didn’t exaggerate this fellow’s charms one bit. Nuh uh.

Voluptuous is not a word I use lightly, eh.

J.C.’s in a fetching ensemble: white muscle shirt and tight-fitting blue nylon shorts. Can we say, “Bubble butt” boys and girls? Why sure we can!

He’s a bit shy as he explains that QS has left some free gym passes for us. So J.C. is gonna take me for a work out. Yep. Really.

There will be further bulletins as events progress.

I am sooo loving this.

So J.C. and I toodled off to the gym. I would’ve asked him where Queerscribe’s dildo is, but I didn’t want him to look at me that way, eh.

It’s my theory that QS deliberately, maliciously hid the spousal-unit-substitute on me. Fine. What a gyp, huh?

Meanwhile, I’ve not forgotten about those naughty pics he took of J.C. last year. Been rummaging through the hussy’s harddrive here, to no avail. Oh well. The spandex pants J.C. wore at the gym left little to my over-active imagination anyway.

Forget the Inner Bubble Butt malarkey: I want his Caribbean buns and I want them now, dagnabbit! Woo HOO!

But I digress.

So we’re crunching our abs and flexing and doing assorted butt-related exercises. After a few minutes I was right in there. Like Jane-freakin’-Fonda. That was me. No really.

It was raining men at the gym, eh. But they were all zygotes, pretty boys: J.C. aside, it’s the older types who usually float my boat. But still. I could see why QS’s tongue hangs out on the gym floor all the time.

*Insert image of middle-aged woman drooling over bulging crotches and bubble butts here*

So anyhow, after the workout J.C. went to the men’s locker room to change. Of course, I was supposed to go the ladies’. I started to pout. Figuring, here I am plunked into QS’s life for a few days, why shouldn’t I get a look see at this famous sauna he’s always going on about?

Why should I be deprived, eh? It’s…it’s…it’s just so wrong.

In the ladies’ change room, I got out of my leotards, wrapped myself up in my beachtowel. Bided my time.

Then damned if the fire alarm didn’t go off. Some prankster pulled it when no one was looking.

Um, yeah, that would have been me. Ain’t I a brat?

I sweartogawd, I don’t know what came over me. I had a QS moment.

As hoped, all hell broke loose. We’re talking pandemonium, eh. Folks running this way and that, screaming and yelling, the works. With all this commotion, I slipped into the men’s room, unnoticed. And what did I see? Men in towels, men buck-naked, scurrying around like chickens with their heads cut off.

So there I was in the midst of this all-male melee, dangly bits flopping every which way. I was in heaven, eh.

I had a story all worked out, though, had someone asked what I was doing in there: I was looking for my boy, eh. I’m old enough to be most of these bubble-butted neonates’ mother. What with the fire alarm blaring, what responsible mother wouldn’t trangress the gender barrier to make sure their kid was alright, I ask you?

That would have been my story, and I’d have stuck to it.

Turns out, no one gave me any guff. I strode into the sauna and who was sitting in there, cool as a cucumber, but J.C.!

He had a towel around his waist. Darn. Boy, was he surprised to see me though. Shot me a big smile—oh, those pearly whites!—as he sat up straight, made sure he was properly covered. He WAS, dagnabit, and let me tell ya: from the looks of what was happening underneath that towel, there was a LOT to cover up.

If you know what I mean.

“Ah,” I said, said I, “It wouldn’t be a visit to Queerscribe’s neck of the woods without checking out this den of inequity, eh.”

J.C. giggled. That famous belly laugh QS always talks about. It is a darling noise the lad makes, eh.

I said “I just had to see the backdrop for that hussy’s many excellent .:cough:. adventures .:cough:. eh?”

I plunked down beside him and we had a butch talk about working out. Eventually, someone turned the fire alarm off. Things began to settle down out there, I imagine.

All I know for sure is that guys started trundling into the sauna again. Boy, were they surprised to see me, eh. One guy sauntered in, buck naked, took one look at me and hoofed it on back out of there.

But not before I checked him out. We’re talking bits dangling down to here.

*insert image of Marn slapping her knee here*

“QS would have liked him, eh” was my comment to J.C. He laughed.

“But that hussy’s likely had him already,” I went on. “Probably right here on this very bench!”

It got hot in there pretty quick. Or was it just me? Anyhow, I said I’d wait for J.C. outside. Got a few strange looks from the jocks on my way out. Silly little gaffers: they were probably just jealous of my biceps, eh.

Well, boys and girls, you would think that would be enough excitement for one day. But you would be wrong.

J.C. says it’s amateur strip night at the gay bar tonight. BONUS. I’m in there like a dirty shirt. I have led far too sheltered a life, eh.

Well, there’s no easy way to say this, so I’m just going to spit it out.

Queerscribe’s a slob, eh. I thought *I* was bad. He’s got some moldy gravy in the fridge that looks like it might have been leftover from his mom’s Christmas dinner. Ewwwww.

(I was rooting around in the fridge cuz I thought the bugger mighta been hiding the spousal-unit-substitute in there. Nope. I continue to rummage through his stuff, eh. Nada, zip, zilch, rien.)

Anyway, I just got in from the gay bar with the boys. I met a couple other queer D-landers there: Joey and Matt. Yayyyy!

We stood around chatting. All of a sudden I realized who I was conversing with. I looked at J.C., Joey and Matt, smirked, and said “Well, I guess Queerscribe’s up to three, eh.”

The boys looked at me blankly. It took a sec for them to catch on, eh. Joey laughed first. Looking at the throng of gay boys around us, he said “Three? Probably more like ten by now.”

No doubt, no doubt.

So there we were, waiting for the amateur strip contest to begin. Joey told me I should enter, eh. J.C. and Matt seconded his motion. The brats.

Shyeah, right. I deflected attention away from that silliness by pressuring J.C. to strut his stuff. After all, I’ve been reading about the guy’s hot bod forever, eh. Surely, he’d indulge a middle-aged lady’s perverse wishes?

*Marn does her best to look slutty, batting her eyelashes provocatively*

Well, boys and girls, it was a rubber arm twisting sorta thing. J.C. shot me a big grin, then signed up for the contest. Yay me!

It’s a wonderful world. It was about time I explored my Inner Slut, right? Try to control your jealousy, eh.

So yeah. I’d never seen a male stripper before, so I was standing right up at the front. Couldn’t miss a single dangly bit, eh.

Meanwhile, Joey keeps buying me glasses of wine. Matt won’t leave well enough alone: he continues to insist I should strip, compete against J.C. And they’re both dropping hints that there’s some extra-special surprise coming right up. By which I assumed they meant J.C.’s naked butt shaking in my face, eh. But no. There was more.

To be honest, I didn’t pay much attention to the couple other amateur strippers’ performance. I was pretty much saving up my eyes for the feast that was J.C., eh. Sheesh.

So the man himself finally struts out on the stage. And darned if he didn’t dance to “It’s Raining Men”. Man, can the young feller move. J.C. shook that booty like there was no tomorrow.

*insert image of Marn swooning here*

Sigh.

All I was really hoping to ogle was some some butt-crack, eh.

J.C. did not disappoint. In fact, he not only shook some bare booty: there was the added bonus of some frontal bits flapping on that dance floor, let me tell you.

*insert that sausage right here, eh?*

Is it getting warm in here or is it just me?

Now where was I?

Well, after the three contestants had performed, as QS has already told us many times, the winner is decided through audience applause. When it was time to clap for J.C., I don’t think I’ve hooted and hollered like that since….well….since then.

You would think that would have been the .:cough:. climax .:cough:. of my evening. But you would be wrong.

When J.C. accepted the $100 first prize, wearing only his plaid boxers, damned if the bugger didn’t grab the mike out of the drag queen’s hand.

“Hey everybody, Queerscribe’s friend Marn’s here eh? C’mon up on stage, Marn!” he said.

*Insert image of Marn turning beet red here*

I shuffle up on the stage beside the underwear clad beauty. One of the drag queens reaches out and gives my left bicep a squeeze, then compliments me on it.

J.C. keeps yakking into the mike: “I just wanted to say—because QS told me to—that Marn, babe, you’re my BITCH, eh?”

(He said “eh”, eh. QS must have rehearsed him on that part.)

“So any of you boys out there,” J.C. continued, “who’ve ever done the nasty with QS, Marn wants to meet you. And if you want to make her happy, I’ve been told all you need to do is call her your ‘hootchie mama’.”

To say my face was crimson doesn't begin to cover it. There were cat calls. There were wolf whistles. The drag queens did a little dance. Joey and Matt looked like they were going to pee themselves.

And let’s just say that I met a lot of Queerscribe’s, um, friends afterwards. That hussy’s gonna get it; I’ve got enough dirt on him now for a dozen entries, eh.

Well, it’s been quite an evening. I do believe I’ll go have a cold shower before bed.

Late breaking development!

There I was, post-shower, minding my own business in the bathroom when….

GUESS WHAT I FOUND?????

There the twelve-inch rubber monster was, lying demurely on the shelf in Queerscribe’s medicine cabinet.

(One can only conclude that this hunk of rubber love is good for what ails him, eh?)

Frankly, I had given up hope.

I've got a spousal-unit-substitute and you don't.