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Rejected From Penthouse

April 28, 2013

Now this is probably one of the whackier and more absurd things I’ve written.  It’s obviously intended to be humorous, and should be read in a nasaly New York ‘wise guy,’ voice.  Or really the voice of anyone who’s trying to sound way slicker than they are.  For reasons that will become apparent to the reader, I think it got too absurd for most respectable publications.

Dear Penthouse,

Now, I know a lot of your readers say this all the time, but I seriously never thought something like this could happen to a guy like me. I mean, I’m not saying I’m some nerd who can’t get a date for the prom or nothing, but I’ve never really thought of myself as a Don Juan.

 

Anyway.

 

I was driving on down old route 54, out of Texas. Making my way to Albuquerque to meet a friend about a certain business opportunity. My brand new ’56 Caddy was singing beautifully as I cut my way through the open plains to The Duke City. Of course, as is often the way in these stories, I didn’t notice that she was running a little too hot and my beautiful Caddy broke down with a moan and groan.

So now what am I to do? Steam’s billowing up out of my car like its Old Faithful and I’m miles down good old empty route 54. Just standing there with a busted car and shoes that weren’t made for walking.

 

The sun was starting to going down though, so I figured I at least had that to be thankful for.

 

With no cars coming down the road I knew I had no other choice. So I started hoofing it back toward the last town I had passed. It had been a tiny little collection of houses with a diner and a filling station. The kind of town that seemed a little too slow for a fellow like myself. Still, any grease monkey at a mom and pop could fix my Caddy right up and I could be back on the road to Albuquerque.

 

I’d been walking for a few miles, and the sun was creeping over the edge of the horizon, turning the whole world all sorts of shades of orange and red.

As I’m staring down into that bright orb, I see someone walking the other way. An astoundingly beautiful woman in a short little cocktail dress.


I had no idea what she was doing walking
away from the nearest town but I figured, ‘Hey, here’s a chance to get myself a little roadside companionship.’

 

I stopped walking to get a better look. Also, making sure I didn’t look too terrible from walking down that old dusty stretch of Route 54. It was around this moment though that I noticed she was starting to get bigger. I don’t mean to say this was just a tall woman. I mean, she was starting to look like one of them Amazons. She was easily as big as any linebacker on the New York Giants.


And that’s when I started to feel the ground a-rumbling.

 

This dame wasn’t just big. She was gigantic. At least Fifty or Sixty feet tall.

But damn did she look nice.

It was like someone had taken Marilyn Monroe right off the silver screen and blew her up. Long, soft, white legs that went from here to ya-ya, a little itty bitty waist, and a rack that was shooting off her chest like a pair of torpedoes. Her face was perfect, it looked like it had been cut right from a mountainside, and then painted up by Michelangelo himself. She had lips the color of rubies and eyes like a deep blue sea that were surrounded by eyeliner as black as the night’s sky above.

 

I was suddenly thinking to myself, ‘Who cares if she’s fifty feet tall? This is one good looking broad!’

 

She stopped a dozen yards away from me, which was just one easy step for her, and looked down at me with those ocean-colored eyes. Now, people say that some girls’ have eyes you can get lost in, but let me tell you, when you’re looking up at pupils a little smaller than you’re head, the phrase takes on a whole new meaning. Her lips broke into a smile that could slay a man at any size, and then she spoke, “Why, hello there.”

 

Her voice was like a Goddess’s. I swore Aphrodite had come down from Mount Olympus and was speaking just to me.

 

I played it cool though, ran a comb through my hair and said, “Why you out here all alone, beautiful?”

 

She thought that was funny, and laughed like any other woman would.

 

Now like I said, I’ve never thought of myself as a Don Juan, but I know one important thing about the art of seduction: if you can make ’em laugh, you’re in.

 

My mother also raised me to never ask a woman about her figure, so I deftly avoided the topic of how she got to be so… “healthy looking.” Of course, when you’re patient, and you play the sympathetic ear, skirts will talk about themselves till the cows come home. She told me some story about being hit by a meteorite or cosmic rays. I didn’t really understand it and I’ll be honest, I didn’t really care because she had picked me right up off the ground and I had myself a front row seat to the biggest pair of bazongas any man will ever see.

 

When she placed me up on her shoulder, I knew that I was golden, and I made my move.

I went to brush back one of those big blond locks that was covering over her ear, so I could whisper just the right phrase. However, this kitten was already purring, and she plucked me off her shoulder like I was a grape on the vine.

 

Normally, I take the initiative in the boudoir, but I’m not one to complain about a lady taking what she wants, and let me tell you, she definitely wanted me.

 

Now, I know what you’re all wondering, what was it like?

 

Gents, it was like riding a motorcycle the size of tractor trailer.

 

Everything about her was huge, beautiful, and ready. On top of that, this big kitty kat did all the work. She was pawing me about in so many different places, I didn’t even know where I was half the time. I tell you what though, I knew I was enjoying it because well, she wasn’t the only who had done some growing, if you get my meaning.

 

Boys, let me tell you, after we were done the sun was coming up and I needed a new suit. By the time we finished saying good bye, my Caddy was ready to be singing again. Apparently all it needed was a nice little cool down. The last thing she let me know was that I should watch out for, “them,” but I think that’s a story for a different magazine.

Your faithful reader,
Jimmy S.

P.S. If you’re ever feeling lonely, just drive a car down route 54. Tell her Jimmy sent ya.

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