Jonathots Daily Blog
(4502)
Activities That Have Drastically Changed During Social Distancing
A. Tag
B. A frisky game of Twister
C. Bicycle built for two
D. Intimate wood splinter removal
E. Sex as we configure it
Sit Down Comedy … October 4th, 2019
Jonathots Daily Blog
(4187)
I don’t know if you knew this or not, but there are grown-ups and there are grown-downs. It’s rather simple:
Some people get older in an upward direction and other pilgrims use the passing of time to turn downwards.
You might ask yourself, how can you tell the difference?
1. You might just be a grown-down if you think you’re always busy.
2. You might be a grown-up if you consider something funny and laugh to yourself, while simultaneously knowing you can’t exactly share it out loud because the grown-downs would think you were immature.
3. You certainly could be a grown-down if you’re constantly finding reasons to avoid doing something that you’re pretty sure would be good but you think it makes you sound more mature if you mull over the choices and decide not to do them.
4. You might be a grown-up if you just keep your mouth shut if somebody actually has a good idea before you step forward and try to shoot bullets in it.
5. On the other hand, you could be a grown-down if you find yourself spending a lot of time sighing, crying, complaining and disapproving.
6. You might be a grown-up if you ignore the difficulty of the opportunities that pop up in front of you and instead, find ways to turn them into adventures in living and giving.
7. You really are a grown-down if you believe that politics has a chance of doing something great.
8. You might be a grown-up if you stop waiting for politics to solve your problems—and you, yourself, go out and do something great, or at least something that could pass for it.
9. You might be a grown-down if you’ve cast your allegiance to a political party.
10. You might be a grown-up if you’ve found a good path for yourself and demand that the political parties begin to follow you.
11. You might be a grown-down if you know all the diseases, conditions and allergies that just might afflict your young children.
12. Or maybe you’re a grown-up if you realize that those kids only remain healthy by being exposed to the life around them and developing immune systems.
13. You might be a grown-down if you take God real seriously and become somber whenever serving Him is brought into the conversation.
14. You might be a grown-up if you seriously take God into every part of your life and enjoy the hell out of Him.
15. You might be a grown-down if you believe that sex and romance are the same thing.
16. Welcome to the grown-up world when you realize that sex is for fun and romance is necessary for the heart.
17. You might be a grown-down if you’re too concerned about your health.
18. You might be a grown-up if you’ve discovered a healthy concern.
19. You might be a grown-down if you’re laughing less, arguing, fussing and objecting more.
20. You might be a grown-up if you learn to laugh over the limitations of your reasoning power.
Walking around in today’s world is similar to a mine field.
(No—that’s too dramatic.)
It’s more like strolling in a cow pasture, trying to avoid the bullshit.
(No—that’s too dark.)
Actually, it’s almost identical to walking into the room where your kids keep their toys, without your shoes on, in the dark. Because you know that somewhere, there’s something that’s not put away, and if you step on it, it’s gonna give you a nasty ouchy.
It’s kind of like what my friend, Vic, said about it:
Sometimes you know you’re a grown-down because you insist you’re a grown-up.
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Sit Down Comedy … June 14th, 2019
Jonathots Daily Blog
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I never planned on being a father
I just wanted to have sex
Sex was simple.
Sex was quick.
Sex was pleasurable.
Fatherhood, on the other hand, is neither simple, quick or necessarily pleasurable.
I was eighteen years old, attending my Junior-Senior Prom with my girlfriend, who had recently become my cohort in the exploration of the human body.
We were returning home from the festivities just before dawn, and arriving at her house, we pulled into her driveway. It was a long one. It ran alongside a pasture where her family boarded a horse.
Pulling inside the driveway and far enough from the road to not be seen but also far away enough from the house to be undetected, we got out of the car. I laid my rented tuxedo jacket on the grass. My girlfriend lay down on her back, disengaged herself from her gown and I from my pants, and we indulged in two-and-a-half minutes of sexual mischief, while the horse nearby observed.
After it was over, we restored our clothing, never realizing that the seed of our first son was planted while we were on that grass.
We had become travelers on a rocky journey.
From that night to the present, four sons have come into my life—one deceased. The three remaining boys that I fathered had to put up with a guy who really was more suited to be a vagabond gypsy musician than “Daddy reading books by the fireplace.”
I honestly don’t know whether I did a good job or not.
I know it could have been done better.
I know at times I was torn between my own desires and the needs of my family.
I know sometimes I over-disciplined and other times I slacked off and ignored situations because I was sleepy and wanted to go to bed.
When a friend of mine came out of a horrible marriage and divorce with three children of her own and was looking for a mission in her life, we joined efforts, including her three other children. Likewise, I don’t know if I was suited to be their godparent or not. It certainly seemed like I was better than their biological father, who was abusive.
But I cannot tell you, on this Father’s Day weekend, that I was well-suited for the job of nurturing children or being the guiding light to their galaxy of possibilities.
What I can tell you is that I did not run away.
I did not blame anyone else.
And I learned how to be wrong and apologize to them for messing up.
I know our Creator probably thought He was being very focused and concise by tying sexual intercourse to child conceiving.
Yet He was also intelligent enough to know that getting worked up over a woman’s sexuality has little to do with deciding to join her in a quest, as Mom and Dad, to rear young’uns.
I guess fatherhood demands three things:
1. Stay, don’t run.
2. Think, don’t assume.
3. And be willing to be wrong without being angry that you are.
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Catchy (Epilogue) Stuck Moving… September 30th, 2018
Jonathots Daily Blog
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Sitting on the edge of the king-size bed in the master bedroom of her comfortable condominium in Alexandria, Virginia, Jo-Jay was adorned only in a matching tie-dye bra and panty set. It was her tribute to a foregone era.
Perched right next to her was Matthew, in what appeared to be an over-exerted pair of white boxer briefs, which was his tribute to a fear of buying new underwear.
If a stranger walked in on the scene, it would be assumed that torrid love-making was either completing, or soon to commence. But instead, Jo-Jay and Matthew, (once again, barely clothed), were sitting and discussing their relationship.
“Here’s what I’d like to know,” said Jo-Jay. “Do you even get an erection when you see me sitting here like this? I mean, I’m curious.”
Matthew lifted his leg so as to turn and look at her and replied with a bit of disgust, “Of course I do. Do you want to see it?’
She held up her hand to cease the reveal and replied, “Good. Because I’m a little wet.”
The conversation stopped at that point. They both nodded their heads, a bit relieved that each was sufficiently aroused.
“Are you still in love with Leonora?” asked Jo-Jay flatly.
Matthew lay back on the bed. “Oh, Jo-Jay… I was never in love with Leonora. Leonora was an idea. She was like thinking about going out to get blueberry pancakes at three o’clock in the morning. She was the unreachable star and I was the Man of La Mancha.”
Jo-Jay lay down next to him. “So would that make me buttered toast? Or am I being too generous to myself–adding butter?”
He leaned over and kissed her, and she kissed him back. It was very satisfying.
They had times when they had explosive make-out sessions–often on the plane, as they flew around the world, trying to bring the Gospel in the forms of water, food, medicine and opportunity. It had been seventy-seven days since they had departed together from the Haven on the Mount on the jet . There had been no contact whatsoever with that Shangri-la, but instead had cast their lot with Jubal, Jasper, Sister Rolinda and Soos, attempting to coordinate the efforts, which had spread so quickly that it was impossible to keep control of the movement–even with a GPS.
Jubal put it this way. “I think people always wanted to do something better, but all the television commercials told them they were too much in need to be generous.”
Matthew and Jo-Jay could not have been any happier as a couple, but still had not found the proper ignition for coupling. Both were tired of talking about it. Both of them knew there was a great fear that they would be so clumsy in bed that they would have to walk away from the possibility of mating for life.
It was comical, pathetic, nerve-wracking and adorable, all at the same time.
Jo-Jay turned her head toward Matthew and asked, “What is it that works for you?”
Matthew likewise turned his face to her, the two of them nearly nose-to-nose. “What do you mean?”
“Oh, come on,” said Jo-Jay. “Don’t make me say stuff. You know what I mean. What should I do to get your fire started, so we’re burned up in sexual pleasure before we ever realize we’re in danger?”
Matthew frowned. “Uh…I don’t know…”
“Work with me,” said Jo-Jay. “I’ll tell you mine. I like to be licked. Not immediately, though. I like it when a man teases me, like he might do it…he might not…it’s kind of a moody thing. It drives me crazy.”
“So,” posed Matthew, “you want me to lick you?”
“Not now, you idiot! I have to be surprised. Titillated.” Jo-Jay sighed.
“So you want to know mine?” he asked.
“Only if you’re comfortable releasing such a deep, hidden secret,” she responded sarcastically.
“Well, it’s gonna sound weird, so don’t laugh,” said Matthew. “It’s not that I’m a girl, or gay or anything. But I like it when a woman…”
He stopped in mid-sentence.
Jo-Jay leaned up on her elbow and came closer. “Whan a woman what?”
“Do you promise not to laugh?” asked Matthew.
“No,” said Jo-Jay. “I can’t promise that. We laugh at each other all the time.”
“Good point,” acknowledged Matthew. “Just promise not to laugh more than…say…five seconds.”
Jo-Jay nodded. “I think I can do that.”
Matthew cleared his throat, closed his eyes tightly, opened them again and said very quickly, “I like to have a woman suck my nipples.”
Jo-Jay burst out laughing. She couldn’t stop.
“It’s been more than five seconds,”said Matthew.
“I’m sorry,” Jo-Jay said. “You didn’t tell me that you were a nipple boy.”
Matthew sat up, stood to his feet, turned and pointed at her. “And you wonder why we haven’t had sex.”
She glanced at his dissipating underwear. “My goodness gracious,” she commented. “You do have an erection.”
Matthew looked down and pointed, “See? I told you.”
Jo-Jay grabbed him by the front of his boxer briefs and pulled him toward her. “Now, now…just relax. Bring those little nipples to Mommy.”
“Gross,” he said. Yet carefully, intentionally and purposefully, he followed her instructions.
*****
In the deserts of North Africa a young boy, only nine years old, awoke shortly before dawn, and in the darkness, found a chunk of unleavened bread, opened up a jar of peanut butter and made himself a snack.
His name was Ramish.
It was morning, and it was his job to walk the two miles through the desert sands to the recently constructed air strip, where people he knew only as “Jesonian” flew in supplies every day to feed the villages.
Ramish knew he could wait until the trucks came by to bring the food, but his family had become accustomed to awakening to fresh water, food, medicine and even, every once in a while, some candy.
So every morning he made the trek, jubilant to do so–because even though he was only a young lad, most of his days had been spent fending off the pangs of hunger and wondering if drinking the water in the ditch would make him sick.
As he walked, his eyes filled with tears because he was so grateful for the boxes and bags he brought back on a make-shift sled he drug behind him. All of the boxes and bags had pictures of a young man with long hair and a beard, smiling.
The people at the landing strip told him that the young man was named Jesus, and that he loved Ramish and his family. Ramish felt no need to argue about it–it was obvious that this young man had taken great steps to ensure that Ramish and his family would be cared for.
The workers examined Ramish often, to make sure he was healthy and free of disease. And they closed every session by laying hands on his chest and saying, “In the name of Jesus.”
Ramish didn’t know much about Jesus, but everything he had experienced was so positive that he wanted to know more.
Arriving at the landing strip, he was overjoyed to discover that they had jelly. He had never eaten it until two weeks earlier, when one of the nurses offered it to him as she was treating a cut on his arm. It was so good–and now he could take a whole pouch of the stuff back to his family.
He felt like a king. He felt like a great king–because he was taking care of those of his own house.
Ramish had learned several words in English–words he needed to use, wanted to use and frequently applied.
“Thank you.”
“It is so good.”
“God bless you.”
He repeated the three phrases over and over again as the workers put together his supplies and he prepared to trek the two miles back to his anxiously awaiting family.
As he drug his make-shift sled across the sand, laden with supplies, he stopped and looked up at the sun that was rising before him.
“Thank you, Jesonian,” he said. It was a real feeling.
He felt the need to be grateful to the One who was providing his daily bread.
THE END
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Jesonian … September 18th, 2018
Jonathots Daily Blog
(3799)
Because God can see us, don’t touch your penis. If you’re in a lurch, come to Mother Church. We will make you a priest to rule among the least. It may sound corny, but if you’re horny, diddle the little one. It’s your rightful fun.
No need for a wife or children in your life–loving a woman is dirty, and it certainly can come across flirty. So give the altar boy a try, even if it makes him cry. You can dry all his tears, even though you are the demon of his fears.
All Romans know sex is truly nasty and will keep you from the “Everlasty.” Fast, pray, deny–then abuse, destroy and lie.
For the Cardinal defends the Bishop and the Bishop guards the priest, while the priest, in total frustration, acts like a beast.
No birth control, no protection for those given birth. The Pope in Rome has no home, nor any spirited insight of the sensual praise and romantic blaze radiated by holy lovers in delight.
*****
If you like the mind of Jesus without religion, buy the book!
$7.99 plus S&H
*******
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Catchy (Sitting 38) Tulips (Two Lips)… March 4th, 2018
Jonathots Daily Blog
(3601)
Matthew awoke with a pounding headache, sore throat, a mushy brain and a hangover that seemed to have hung on for weeks. He was lying in a fancy circular bed covered with satin sheets, in a bedroom which looked like a tribute to the color red.
He tried to focus on where he was. After about thirty seconds of trimming away frustration, he uncovered the fact that he was in Amsterdam.
Suddenly it all came back to him. He had spent the night before sharing a bong with a young female Chinese capitalist–an oil speculator from the United Arab Emirates, and a Lutheran minister from Southern California. He vaguely remembered their discussion as one punctuated with verbosity, absent much profundity.
Then, leaving the gathering of the “three wise ones,” he headed into the street and found himself at the De Wallen–often referred to as the “Windows” street of Amsterdam, because in window after window, prostitutes posed, availble for purchase–a Christmas display of female flesh.
As he remembered more, he recalled coming upon a window with a tall blond girl with spiked hair and deep-set, dark eyes. For some reason, he had decided he had to have her. So he stepped into her room. She pulled the curtains for privacy and he made arrangements with her–with one stipulation. He wanted her to be with him all night.
It was an expensive necessity, for the last thing in the world Matthew wanted was to be kicked out of his bed of pleasure because his time was up.
And it was pleasurable. Perhaps a little predictable and unemotional, but the woman he chose was certainly adept at the craft of love, if not the feeling.
Still lying in his bed, he turned his head and saw her sleeping next to him. What was her name? He knew she told him, because he commented on it. All at once, he remembered his own joke.
“Did you say girdle?”
She didn’t find it funny, but since she was a hired employee, she choked out a giggle. Her real name was Gerta.
As he gazed at her, he wanted to wake her up. He wanted to talk to her. Actually, he wanted her to give a damn about him. He felt a bit feminine–like a young girl who gives away her cherry, hoping that her lover would want to hang around for the rest of the “Sunday.”
All at once she stirred. “Are you awake?” she asked in the most crackly, sexy voice he had ever heard.
“I am,” he whispered, trying to be equally as appealing. Unfortunately, his voice sounded more like he had bronchitis.
“Did you sleep well?” she asked with her thick German accent.
“I did,” Matthew replied. He realized the conversation would go nowhere unless he inserted greater input. “Gerta, can I ask you a question?”
“Sure,” she said, turning over and exposing her perfect breasts and beautifully bronzed skin.
Matthew gasped. Gerta laughed. She pulled the sheet up so as to take away the temptation to stall conversation.
Matthew took a deep breath and inquired, “Am I a good lover? And please–tell me the truth.”
Gerta burst into laughter. “This is always what the men want to know. Usually they want me to score them in comparison–sometimes even by nationalities.”
Matthew was quite offended. “Well, I don’t want anything like that. I’m just horribly insecure at this point in my life, and I would like to know, deep in my heart, that my penis is doing well.”
Gerta sat up with her arms dangling in front of her and asked, “Do you want the truth or do you want me to make you feel extra, extra, extra good?”
“Wow,” said Matthew. “That’s scary shit.”
Gerta frowned. “I’m not familiar with ‘scary shit.’ Would that be an unexpected bowel movement, or a discoloration?”
She was dead serious. Matthew had his own fit of laughter. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize it was so American. Scary shit just means it’s really, really, really scary.”
“I see,” said Gerta, as if cataloguing the phrase into her brain trust. “So, which is it, big boy? Do you want the truth, or do you want me to make it more padded and less, as you say, scary shit?”
She said it so cutely that he wanted to kiss her.
“I guess I want the truth,” said Matthew.
“The truth is, you’re average. Average looks. Average penis size. Average length of time it takes you to reach the top of your mountain. And average minutes for you to fall asleep afterwards.”
Matthew pretended to wipe sweat from his brown. “Phew… And here I thought I was a loser.”
There was a pause while both of them stared at a small shaft of light that had figured out how to wiggle through the dark curtains.
At length, Matthew said, “Thank you for staying all night.”
“Thank you for the money,” said Gerta.
“Why are you a prostitute?” he suddenly asked.
“Why do you ask foolish questions?” she countered, slinging her legs over the side of the bed, standing to her feet and scurrying into the bathroom for a quick pee.
“I’m sorry,” said Matthew, speaking through the wall. “I think being a prostitute is…unusual.”
She emerged, having donned panties, and slipping on his ragged t-shirt. She still looked beautiful.
“Listen, sir,” she said, sitting on the side of the bed. “Being a whore is unusual. Being a prostitute is a job. But that’s neither here nor there. I’m in my last two months.”
Matthew sat up, shocked. “Your last two months of what?”
She reached over, grabbed a cup of water and took a sip. “I am a contracted prostitute. You see, here in the Netherlands, everything is done by law, to keep things proper. So my contract is up in two months, and even though I’ve renewed three or four times, this is my last.”
“What will you do?” asked Matthew. “I’m not trying to be nosy, but since we’ve exchanged bodily fluids, I thought a little questioning might be permitted.”
She didn’t smile. It was obvious she did not find her work to be a matter of silliness. Her eyes suddenly lit up. It was like they began to dance across her face in jubilation.
“A month ago I went to Paris and participated in the Carlos Movement.”
Matthew nearly fainted. Never in his mind’s eye could he have envisioned laying in the bed of a prostitute in Amsterdam, trying to recover from a night of excessive marijuana, and hearing the name “Jubal Carlos.”
She proceeded on. “I went there on a lark. I was sure that since it was a religious movement, that once they found out I was a prostitute from Amsterdam, from the De Wallen, they would be condemning of me. So I walked up to one of the workers who appeared she might be the most prickly one, and I said, what do you think your Jesus feels about me? I’m a prostitute from Amsterdam.”
“This worker took my hands and said, ‘Well, I know what he thinks. You’re the one he’s been waiting for.'”
Matthew closed his eyes. Had to be Sister Rolinda. No doubt about it. When he reopened his eyes, he saw that Gerta was crying.
“I don’t know why it struck me so,” she said, “and why it still moves my heart this morning, but the idea of Jesus waiting for me just overcame all my barriers. I danced, I ate, I embraced, I drank some wine and I listened to the message of Father Carlos. At the end I came back to the woman who said those words to me, and I told her, ‘I’m glad Jesus was waiting for me, because I have been waiting for him for a long time.’ She hugged me until I nearly broke and led me into a deeper understanding of a new beginning. So I came back here, gave my…notice? Is that what they say in America? Anyway, now I’m waiting.”
Matthew frowned. “You still didn’t answer my question. What will you do?”
“Oh,” she said. “I’m sorry. They asked me to join the team. They want me to fly around and share my story. I can’t think of anything more exciting.”
Matthew tried to lighten the moment. “So… Now you’ve been with Jesus. How would you rate him?”
Gerta stared at Matthew as if looking through his backbone all the way to his soul. It made him uncomfortable, so he tumbled out of the bed, searching unsuccessfully for his underwear. He slid on his pants and shoes, requested his shirt, plopped it on, and headed to the door.
He paused and turned back to Gerta, who was cradling her breasts. “What if telling your story is not as exciting as being a prostitute?”
Once again, she gave him that deep, all-knowing glance. “What if it’s not as painful?” she responded.
Matthew nodded his head, opened the door and entered the streets of Amsterdam, immediately hailing a cab. While waiting for his transportation to come to the curb, he was thinking.
How did this simple idea get all the way to De Wallen Street in Amsterdam?
The taxi rolled up, Matthew climbed in, and the young man sporting a big smile, who spoke in broken English, said, “Good morning, my brother.”
Matthew replied, “Take me to the airport.”
Seated in the back, Matthew looked up on the dashboard, where there would normally be a picture of the driver along with his license. In its place was a handbill with a photo of Jubal Carlos, and, in what appeared to be German, the words: “Live from Berlin.”
He glanced into the rearview mirror and saw the eyes of the cabbie.They were those eyes–bright, hopeful and mysteriously enlightened.
Matthew shook his head and whispered to himself, “Jesus Christ. He is everywhere.”
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Catchy (Sitting 23) Dorbe and Candy … November 19th, 2017
Jonathots Daily Blog
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Matthew was elated.
Not only did the great hamburger give-away get coverage from all the major networks, but McDonald’s chose to throw in 5,000 free hot apple pies in appreciation for the large order. Every newspaper carried the same picture–a little four-year-old boy sitting on a curb eating a hot apple pie, Coke next to him, with a huge smile on his face.
It was epic–the fresh burst of optimism which had been absent in the media for years. There had been attempts to create positive stories, but rarely did one seem to fall from the heavens, right into the laps of weary journalists.
Matthew wanted to do something special for Jubal, so while Carlos finished up at the rally, Matthew raced back to the complimentary suite that had been provided and made a few phone calls. The last contact was to the GG Escort Service.
So when Jubal Carlos arrived at the suite a couple of hours later, Matthew greeted him at the door, giggling from the effects of two slurped-down martinis.
“I’ve got a surprise for you, my friend,” said Matthew.
Jubal smiled. “I don’t know whether I can take any more surprises.”
Matthew chuckled. “I think you can take this one,” he said, with a slight slur in his speech. “You see, what I did was I called the GG Escort Service. Do you know what GG stands for?”
Jubal was surprised, but played along. “No. What does it stand for?”
Matthew patted Jubal on the back. “It stands for ‘Good Girls.’ You see, they promise that all their ladies are good girls. And I thought a good fella like you and a good fella like me deserved a couple of good girls.”
Jubal crossed the room and sat down on the plush couch. “I don’t understand. Why did you do that?”
Matthew, still standing at the door, responded, “I thought you might like to relax. Sit back. Have some fun.”
“Didn’t we have fun today?” asked Jubal.
“I meant you have fun,” said Matthew.
“I did,” replied Jubal.
“Are you gay?” asked Matthew.
Jubal stood to his feet, angry. “No, I’m not gay. I just don’t know why we’d want to end this day with women that you’ve purchased.”
“Sorry,” said Matthew. “I’ve already paid for them. They’re in the other room, waiting for us.”
“They’re here?” inquired Jubal, panic in his voice.
“Yes,” Matthew answered. “And calm down. You’ve had sex before, haven’t you?”
Jubal stepped across the room. “Yes, I’ve had sex before. I’m a Las Vegas musician. Are you an idiot?”
Matthew tried to lighten up the moment. “Yes, matter of fact, I am an idiot. I thought you might like to have some female companionship.”
Jubal stepped closer to Matthew. “You don’t get it, do you? This is just a game to you. It’s like you’re playing with Mommy and Daddy’s money. Or worse, it’s Monopoly money, so what difference does it make? So you think you can go out and buy whatever you need.”
Matthew was pissed. “Hey, back off, fella. You don’t know anything about me.”
“I know you think you can buy love,” spit Jubal.
“I’m not buying love, and we’re not little boys in grammar school,” said Matthew. “It’s just sex–and a chance to have it without having to apologize, explain or woo.”
Jubal returned to the couch, sat down and turned away from Matthew. “This is not my life. This is not what I would do. I thought we would come here, order some steaks, celebrate our independence and maybe even be grateful for what happened. Do you get it? People came together today. It wasn’t a mass shooting. It wasn’t a hateful demonstration. It was people eating hamburgers, listening to music, believing.”
Matthew shook his head. “You worry me, buddy. I thought you were a professional. You know–someone who had been around the block a few times. But you’re acting like you buy into this.”
“I’m not acting,” said Jubal.
As he finished his thought, the door of the bedroom opened and in walked two lovely women in their early twenties.
“What’s the holdup?” said one of the girls.
Matthew spoke up. “I’m sorry. My friend is just a little tired.”
The second girl walked over to Jubal, rubbed his shoulders and said, “That’s okay. I’ll do all the work.”
Jubal slowly turned around and looked her in the eyes, and asked, “What’s your name?”
Matthew interrupted. “I named this one ‘Yes’ and this other one ‘O-h-h-h, yes.'”
Matthew laughed uncontrollably, apparently having consumed more than two martinis. Jubal ignored him and took the young lady by the hands, and asked again, “No, what’s your name?”
She squinted, and then cautiously replied, “My name is Dorothy Beth, but my friends call me Dorbe.”
“Where are you from, Dorbe?” asked Jubal.
“Yankton County, South Dakota.”
Jubal motioned for her to sit down and she eased her way onto the cushion. “I’ve never been to South Dakota,” said Jubal. “What’s it like?”
Dorbe thought for a second. “Well, it’s like North Dakota. Just a little further south.”
Jubal laughed. “You are very funny, Dorbe.”
He stood up, walked over to the other young lady, took her hands, and said, “What’s your name?”
She glanced at Matthew, who just shook his head, so she replied flatly, “My name is Candy Cane.”
Matthew rolled his eyes. “No, your real name.”
She placed her hand on her hip and blurted, “It is my real name. My mother loved Christmas.”
Jubal thought that was funny, too. “My friend, Matthew, tells me you’re good girls.”
“No, that’s our escort service,” said Dorbe. Candy Cane threw her a darting glance.
Dorbe stared back, and said, “He’s a nice guy. I thought I could say ‘escort service.’ I don’t think he’s a cop.”
Jubal motioned for Candy Cane to sit down, too. She complied.
“No, I’m not a cop,” said Jubal. “But I do try to be a good guy. And so does my buddy, here. He’s just like all of us–he gets some things mixed up. You see, he’s the guy that’s thinking about starting a campaign to make Jesus popular again.”
“I read about that in the newspaper,” said Dorbe.
“When did Jesus get unpopular?” inserted Candy Cane.
Jubal stepped toward Matthew. “You see, my man? These ladies don’t think Jesus is unpopular. You know why?”
Matthew shook his head, like he was caught in a bad dream. “No, but I’m sure you’ll tell me.”
“It’s because they’re working people,” replied Jubal. “They’re the kind of people who not only know Jesus, but they want to be friends with him.”
“You do know what we do for a living?” interrupted Dorbe.
“Hush, bitch,” said Candy Cane in the nicest way possible.
“Yes,” answered Jubal. “I know what occupies your time. But not tonight. You see, my friend and I were about to order some steaks. Or was it lobster? How about both? And we were wondering if you lovely ladies would join us?”
“You know we’re already paid for, right?” asked Dorbe.
“I suppose,” said Jubal. “But I want to give you a choice. You can keep your money and leave, or you can stay here and eat a delicious dinner with us and join in conversation.”
“Just conversation?” Candy Cane asked, suspicious.
“Just conversation?” Matthew repeated.
“Yes,” said Jubal. “There is so much to talk about, so much to celebrate, so much to be thankful for that we don’t have to go weird to have our fun.”
Dorbe shook her head. “You are an odd man. Are you a preacher? Don’t get me wrong–I’ve been with a lot of preachers.”
“No, Dorbe, actually I’m a drummer. Congas.”
Candy Cane stood to her feet and clapped her hands. “Oh, I love congas! They’re just so … drummy.”
“I couldn’t have said that better myself,” said Jubal.
“Yes, you could,” said Matthew.
“So what do you say, Matthew? Shall we order in some dinner for our ‘Good Girls?'” asked Jubal.
Matthew stood quietly in the doorway, where he had been stuck the entire time. He was still waiting for an exciting evening of pleasure, and was being offered dinner and talk.
He didn’t understand Jubal. He was aware of people who were self-righteous, or just hated sex–but Mr. Carlos didn’t seem to fit into either of those categories. There was something mysterious about the story of this man that he knew he would have to uncover so as to protect himself–and the money.
But not tonight. Tonight belonged to Carlos. Tonight was a time to submit to the common good.
Tonight was a celebration with two good guys and two good girls.
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