Pretty Thing by Robert Turner by Robert Turner - Read Online

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Pretty Thing - Robert Turner

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Pinafore

ONE

The Republican party headquarters at the Swanee Hotel in downtown Statesburg was covered with gloom and resignation. They had known for several hours now that their gubernatorial candidate had lost; he, himself, had accepted the fact and departed an hour ago. Still, a couple dozen of the party faithful remained in the place, hoping with pseudo-optimism for a turn in the tide that obviously wasn't going to happen.

The candidate's press secretary now stuffed papers into his attache case, preparing to go up to his room and phrase the proper telegram of congratulations to their opponent. The very idea made him a little ill.

He moved to turn off the television set near his desk but paused to watch the smirking face of a local newscaster as he reported in a condescending tone:

"—so it looks as though the Goodrich 'Goodie' Gander machine has done it again. The law prohibited him from running for a third term but didn't stop Goodie from running by proxy, so to speak, which, of course, is not unprecedented; nevertheless, the nation now has another woman governor, Priscilla Jo 'Pretty Thing' Gander! And..."

The press secretary reached out and snapped off the set. "Of course it isn't unprecedented, you silly bastard. You missed the whole stupid point. We've had women elected to public office before—Jeanette Rankin to the House in 1916, Hattie Caraway, to the Senate in '32 and the first woman governor, Nellie Taylor Ross, wa y back in '25, not to even mention the more recent instance when a woman governor's tenure of office ended in such a tragic and premature manner. But they were all adult, politically astute women, not an addlepated little teeny-bopper, like this one, for Christ's sake!"

He rubbed his tired eyes. I still don't believe it. They must be crazy, the people, to elect this silly little bitch. He looked around helplessly as he snapped his briefcase shut. Twenty one years old and with an I.Q. half that age. I don't understand; I just don't understand!

He slammed the briefcase against his leg and turned to make his exit from the room....

In the Grand Ballroom of the Lee House, several blocks away, on Beauregard Street, bedlam was in effect. Every once in a while a group would begin chanting: WE—WANT—GOODY! WE—WANT-PRETTY THING! They would be quieted down only when someone grabbed a mike on the speaker's dais and announced that the incumbent governor and the governor-elect would be down to greet them all, thank them all, in person, any minute now.

A television reporter, pushing his way through the great throng, stopped to question a silver-haired matron. He ducked his portable microphone back and forth between them. Ma'am,, he said. May I have a moment of your time, please.

Certainly.

What is your personal reaction to this great victory, this unique happening in American politics?

Oh, my! Her fingers toyed with the dewlaps at the sides of her throat. "Well! What can I say? I think it's just wonderful, marvelous. I reckon she'll make just a mighty fine governor. Or is it governess? Oh, no, that's something else. Anyhow, she's such a pretty little thing. She laughed, self-consciously. But of course. That's what her nickname is. But she is just perfectly charmin' and I'm sure she'll just be a little ol' credit to this great state."

Thank you, ma'am, the reporter said and yanking his mike away, began to shuffle through the crowd, looking for his next interview.

Upstairs in the gubernatorial suite, the party heads lounged about, nursing the third and final drink that they were allowed here before leaving the hotel for the Governor's mansion where a private victory party would be held, later. Lieutenant Governor Bruce Big Bear Calhoun, former State University star fullback and All-American candidate two years in a row, was there. A huge man, still only slightly gone to suet, in spite of his forty years, he had sneaked in a few drinks earlier in the evening and was slightly fuddled.

He stared moodily at a campaign poster for Priscilla Jo Pretty Thing Gander. There was a picture of her and the legend, one of many campaign slogans: KEEP EVERYTHING RIGHT-KEEP UP THE GOOD FIGHT! WIN WITH PRETTY THING!

Goddamn! Bear thought to himself. Look at her, will you. Purty thing is right, by God! Just look at those cute little tits on her —not too big and not too small but just right, just the way I like 'em. And probably hard as fall apples, too, I reckon. And that nice big behind on her, shit, man, that's just made for easy ridin'. One of these times, the right place, the right time, in the next four years, I may just get myself some of that, even if that dam' stupid Goosey Gander tries to cut my dick off, he catch me at it.

Bruce Big Bear Calhoun sat up then, shaking his head, grinning to himself as he drained the last of his drink and ruminated that this was probably the first time in American history that the Lieutenant Governor of a great and glorious state was wishing he could throw a great and glorious screw into his immediate superior. Unless of course, at some time or another, some other Lieutenant Governor had been some kind of a goddamned faggot or something.

Across the room, Press secretary Jeremy Smitty Smythe sat at a desk, scribbling on a pad, polishing up the initial brief acceptance speeches. A skinny little man, with a large, domed forehead, in the city rooms of a half a dozen big city newspapers, he had long ago learned to concentrate in the midst of hubbub; the loud talk and laughter in the room didn't bother him.

However, he was almost at the point of exhaustion and kept catching himself jotting down insane little ditties such as:

"You know they call me Pretty Thing

  So now we all must surely sing

Ring-a-ding-ding, ping-pong ping

  If I had balls I'd be the king!"

Smitty shook his head, scrunched up that piece of yellow paper and dropped it into a nearly full waste basket.

Stationed at each side of the entrance to the suite, two stalwart, bored looking, white helmeted members of the State police, in spanking new uniforms and glittering black boots, stood in at ease positions. In the corridor, outside the door, four more State policemen were stationed.

Their eyes brightened as they watched big-bellied B. Ware Boggs, the State Senior Senator, weave through the crowd toward them, carrying two glasses of brown liquid, tinkling with ice. Boggs' vein-laced, ruddy cheeks dimpled in a smile as he held the drinks out to the guards.

Here you are, y'all, Boggs boomed. "Compliments the governor and the governor elect, God bless her sweet little ol' heart! Just a little ol' something to cool your gullets."

One of the State Policemen stiffened to attention and said: Thank you, suh. Awfully sorry, suh. We're not allowed to drink on duty, suh. Colonel Hubbard Ganes' orders, suh.

What? Boggs thundered. "Up ol' Hub, I say! His goddamn orders are herewith dam' well superseded by the Governor's and mine. Drink this goddamn booze, I'say! At eighteen bucks a quart we're not about to pour it down the dam' drain." He thrust the drinks toward him.

The officer relaxed, grinned sheepishly. "Well, in that case, suh...Mighty kind of y'all and much obliged. Thankya, suh!"

They turned slightly to one side and began to sip their drinks as B. Ware Boggs nodded and trundled back toward the bar, where he joined Governor Goodrich Gander and his campaign manager, John Jack B. Nimbel. The Governor was a square-built man, not quite stocky, with a bland, semi-permanent smile that tried to distract from the shrewd hardness of his dark eyes. His graying hair was kept dyed black and parted in the middle, forming a slight widow's peak over his broad, smooth forehead.

It was reported that Goodie Gander (he was referred to as Goosie only by his enemies) was possessed of the largest dong in American politics and that he always had to wear a jock strap when appearing in public to prevent the fact from being obscenely noticeable. Many claimed that this was the cause of Goodie's appeal to women voters, that although it was not public knowledge, the women folks intuitively knew it. Not that it would ever do them any good because Goodie never had sexual relations with a white woman having made an oath to this effect when his wife died some years before.

He took care of his natural masculine needs, as he referred to it, on regular weekly visits to Madame Mattie's brothel, in East Statesburg, where a new and different nigra wench awaited him each time. It was also reported that always, as he took the girl, humped away with great gubernatorial gusto, he waved a rebel flag in her face and kept shouting: "Up with white supremacy! Down with all nigra lovers and Communists!" But not too much credence was given to this because, naturally, the report had to come from the girls themselves, and everybody knows how you can't trust the word of a colored person.

By the same token Goodie knew that he was truly remaining loyal to his dead wife because, as he put it, "You sure-God cain't consider humpin' a nigra wench as makin' love! It ain't no more nor less than squirtin' a mouthful of excess 'baccer juice into a spitoon."

Meanwhile, back at the bar, Jack B. Nimbel and B. Ware Boggs nodded approvingly as Goodrich Gander wiped a tear from the corner of his eye and proclaimed: "I sure-God wish Pretty Thing's momma could be here for this proud moment. Gentlemen, just think how pleased she'd be to see our little gal standing up there beside me as the newly and duly-elected Governor of our great state, by God! Just followin' along in her daddy's little ol' footsteps and her just twenty-one years of age and actually not lookin' a day over sixteen, tiny and sweet and innocent as she is. I tell you, gentlemen, this is not only a great triumph for our party but also for the flower of Southern womanhood in general, than whom no prettier representative was ever born, by God, than my little gal!"

Oh, sure, you crazy old windbag, Jack B. Nimbel thought to himself, "but you didn't have to cure her of sucking her thumb when she was on television or of saying 'excuse me, I've got to go potty' at public gatherings, or telling reporters how good she is at playing jacks... Oh, no, you nasal-voiced old vacuum-brain, you never knew what it was like!"

For a moment Jack had difficulty from breaking out in tears and stamping his feet in sheer rage, which was another bad habit of that stupid little brat which he'd had to break.

Governor, B. Ware Boggs said. You have just echoed my own sentiments, exactly. Phrased of course much more succinctly and with greater professional rhetoric than I could ever achieve.

Oh, for Christ's sake, Boggsy, Jack B. Nimbel said aloud this time. Don't be such a mealy-mouthed sycophant all the time. Next thing you know you'll be licking Goodie's hand.

B. Ware Boggs huffed and puffed himself up to a peak of temper, his eyes bulging as he exclaimed: "And you, suh, had better goddamn well watch your tongue, although I admit that is a dam' difficult thing to do when you're talkin' to a Senior Senator or I might have to challenge you to a bout of fisticuffs."

Now, now, gentlemen, Governor Gander said, placatingly. No dissension in the ranks. United we stand or divided we fall, as some dam' political hack once said. He glanced at his wrist watch. "Anyhow, we've got to be going downstairs soon, to face the public. If that little gal of mine ever gets out of the bathroom. By God, what could the next governor of our fair state be doing in there so long, anyhow?"

TWO

What Priscilla Jo Pretty Thing Gander really was doing so long in the bathroom, was lounging in a bubble bath, masturbating with a toy submarine (from which she had removed the conning tower, of course). It was a game she had long ago learned, one summer when she was eleven years old and was visiting her nine-year-old boy-cousin, Rhett Gander. It happened one time when they were sharing a bath together and young Rhett achieved an erection, poked it up out of the water and giggling said:

Hey, look, Cousin Pretty Thing, I'm a submarine. See! Up periscope!

Pretty Thing looked up, fascinated but also a trifle miffed because she didn't have a peter, darn being a girl, anyway! But then she had a brilliant notion and quickly said: That's a silly ol' game, Cousin Rhett. I know a better one.

You do?

Uh-huh.

What is it?

We can call it, Put Your Submarine In My Harbor.

"That's stupid. You don't even have a harbor."

I do, too. You wanta see? She opened her thighs and then with the fingers of both hands parted the small crevice.

Oh, shoot! Rhett said. "That ain't no harbor. It ain't nothin' but a little ol' slit. It's just your pussy, that's all. My thing wouldn't even go in there."

"Oh, yeah? You want to bet? I'll make it; I'll show you, you dumb thing, you. Come over here."

And make it she did, even though it was quite painful until there was a sort of pop-like feeling down there and then surely enough, the submarine disappeared into the harbor and a few minutes later Pretty Thing found the sensation so acutely pleasant, she made it back up and then go forward again and again and again.

Now that she was grown-up, of course, she couldn't play the game with a human being, even if Cousin Rhett hadn't died, choking on a chicken bone at a church barbecue. It just wouldn't be lady-like. So she just had to make do with the toy submarine.

At the moment her father was wondering about her, Pretty Thing was in the midst of achieving her second and final orgasm. (She always limited herself to two on week days.) When her wrist finally stopped churning the water and released the submarine, sending it sailing through the bubble bath with a playful push, she gave a grateful sigh of relief. She always felt so much better afterwards; being horny always made her so edgy. And she was not bothered with any guilt feelings, of course, because the toy submarine had a small American flag painted on the side of it, so it was naturally one of ours. Back in boarding school, Pretty Thing had a roommate who used a submarine with a Swastika on it and how could anybody be so unpatriotic, she wondered.

Now she lounged for a minute longer, in the tub, telling herself what a good one that last come-come, as she liked to call it, had been; she had dam near suffered a case of the vapors.

Next she ruminated on the great event that had happened this day. She, Pretty Thing, had been elected to the office of Governor, the highest State public office possible, for goodness sake. She could hardly believe it. Now she would be able to sign all sorts of bills and public documents and everybody would be able to see her new backhand signature with a round dot over the i's in Priscilla. And of course, her picture would be in all the papers and later, even in the teenage magazines and probably on the cover of True Romantic Confessions and all the movie-fan magazines, just like Jackie, bless her pretty, brave old heart and then, on the black side of the picture, of course, they'd probably draw horrible caricatures of her in the underground and left-wing newspapers, like they always did of Poppa but who cares about those horrid old yellow journalism sheets, anyhow?

But right now, she had to get ready to meet her public for the very first time as a duly elected official, so there was no point in further dilly-dallying.

She eased up out of the bubble bath, stepped out of the tub, her compact but exquisitely curved little body glowing with good health and dripping sudsy water on the floor. She took a huge nubby towel from the rack and proceeded to dry herself thoroughly, all the while watching the jiggling of her orange-sized breasts, with their little pink collar-button