Ian Anderson 5 p.m., May 22
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- The Justice Files
Betty loves to be choked, in fact, it is the only way to fire her up. Once she’s fired up, there is no telling where she will take you. Betty’s obedience is on the same level as a drugged demon on bath salts.
Betty and I met online a couple of weeks ago, and after falling in love with her “about me” section and salivating over her photograph, I knew I had to meet her at once before another potential prospect came along and stole her away. I swiftly got her information and arranged a meeting for the following day. I figured, I’m just a single guy looking for some fun, and she looks like she would give me a hell of a good time.
The next day I got off of work, went home, changed, squirted a splash of cologne on my man-chest, and burned the I-5 North to Solana Beach to meet her. The anticipation of this encounter was highly nerve-wracking, and I started to sweat profusely in my carriage (mostly because the A/C is broken), but that’s neither here nor there.
When I finally arrived in the suburban neighborhood where she was staying, I started having second thoughts. That was until I rolled up into her driveway, and saw her proudly standing there waiting for me. Betty was even more beautiful in person than in her photo. I wanted to jump on her right away, but I refrained, and waited patiently like a gentleman does. Wisely, I decided that I should take it slow with this one. I knew the lethal risks that came with falling in love with Betty. She could leave me battered and bloody--possibly even dead if things didn’t work out. However, these were all latent thoughts that I could not fear if I wanted her to be mine.
An older blonde gentleman with aviator shades hanging on the tip of his nose, suddenly came out from inside of the house, and gave me the ol’ stink eye.
“Hello, I’m Jake, I’m here to see--“
“I know why you’re here,” he said, looking at Betty.
The man then started rambling on about some stories about his time down on ‘The Sand Pebbles’ and racing motorcycles and cars for money back in his glorified heydays. “What does this guy think, he’s the ‘King of Cool’ or something,” I thought.
Betty then interrupted our dumpy conversation with her own roaring dialogue. She spoke softly at first, but then started screaming wildly in my direction. I was not startled or frightened, but rather, stimulated as she screamed louder and louder. I craved to jump on her, but resisted yet again. You see, Betty was born in 1975--ten years my elder, and my lack of experience with her kind was enough to keep me from straddling her.
Betty was absolutely perfect for me. She was so classy; even her fragrance was enough to make a man sizzle. She was a little gassy, but I dug it--I dug it a lot. Classy and gassy--just my type.
After the meeting, I expressed my deep interest to the man wearing the sunglasses in taking Betty out. I assured him that I would take great care for her, and she would be in good hands. He accepted my loyal offer, but had to indulge in the pain of losing Betty forever to a younger lad. I, on the other hand was thrilled with excitement as a proud new owner of a 1975 Honda Café Racer motorcycle. What did you think it was, a hooker?
Fun Fact: I named the motorcycle after a small town café in Wisconsin where I grew up--Betty’s Café.
Post Script: I replaced the real person of whom I bought the motorcycle from with Steve McQueen in the story. I thought it was more fitting, and Steve McQueen was obviously much more cool than anybody else in the world--past and present, including A.C. Slater.