“Come on, Captain. You been trying to get in my pants for as long as I remember, and nobody pays fifty an hour to paint a boat. If that pay comes along with me being your nookie, then forget it.”
Kupjack threw his old bearded fat face back and cackled like a witch. “Aw, girl, you’re a riot, you are! ’Tis true, I was randy in my day, and gals followed my dick down the street like it was the Pied fuckin’ Piper, and with good reason. But them days is gone. I’m old as Moses and fat as Buddha, and I’m so filled with liquor they won’t even need ta embalm me when I die. Shee-it, if ya wanna know the truth, I can beat my dick like a red-headed step-son and I still can’t get it hard enough to spit.”
June sighed. “Actually, Captain, I didn’t need to know the truth with that amount of detail.”
“Believe you me, ain’t nothin’ I’d like more’n to bury my hardwood in gal’s tail and hump till she come so hard her eyeballs switch sockets, but, no, I’se afraid it’d be easier fer me to shoot pool with a piece’a over-cooked spaghetti. And the diabetes just make it worse.” The old saltly dog lifted one leg, pulled up a pant cuff, and displayed a discolored ankle close to 6 inches thick. “Damn shit make my ankles get all swole up big around as a Russard Liverwurst, and that keeps the dick down too. Say, speakin’ of liverwurst, is it true what I heard? That you got up’n fired from the deli for jack-hammerin’ a liverwurst in and out’a your joy-trail?”
“No!” June exploded. “It’s NOT!”
Kupjack shrugged lackadaisically. “Nothin’ ta be ’shamed of, hon. Woman got every right to stick anything she want in her sauce-box, whether it be a liverwurst, a french bread, a bowling pin, one’a them big rolls’a cookie dough, a rotisserie pork roast—”
“I get the picture!” June yelled, her face turning ever more pink.