Blood, Guns and Whores

~An
All American Tale of a Boy and His Dog

Written and Illustrated by W.Ross Ayers

An SFWC Co-Publishing Studio Production © 2011 by LND, inc. All rights reserved

“Blood, Guns and Whores – An All American Tale of a Boy and His Dog“, is a coffee table novel made of
micro chapters and illustrations about a boy growing up in the small farming community of Blissfield, Michigan and on to adulthood in San Francisco. It is filled with edgy stories and equally gripping illustrations, art and layouts. This is not your typical novel. This is an object of art.

W. Ross Ayers
Goto http://www.BloodGunsAndWhores.com to read all the posted chapters and check out how this is cool and different. Or just buy the book to get the full rich experience of the illustrations, artwork, and story in the way it was meant to be experienced.

36. Où Sont Mes Chausettes? I had been an exchange student in France for seven months. Berndt and Peter came to visit me from Germany. They brought a case of beer from their hometown. It was the same beer that we had drunk the summer I spent with their family. It was the same beer they had forced me to drink every day at lunch. “You are in Germany. You must drink beer.” I would lift the glass, take a drink and grimace. I never drank beer in high school. None of my friends did either. Two weeks before going back to the States I finally drank a whole beer. It was a half liter can of Tuborg beer. The can was dark green. On the back was a picture of a fat sweaty man leaning against a fence. For years I kept the can as a souvenir. They had driven four hours across Germany and into France to visit me for a day. We spent the day in the tiny kitchen of my host mom’s apartment drinking beer and talking about our memories together in Germany and Blissfield. When it was time for them to go home we hugged and said goodbye. They left the leftover beers for me. I never saw them again. A week later the brown beer bottles clanged against each other as I carried the square plastic case down a cobblestone street in the village of Raon- l’Étape. The sun was bright and the spring air was cool. To my right the top of the dark green mountains were covered in gray fog. I was going to drink beer with Amelie. It was Saturday afternoon.

I had met Amelie on the bus going to my first day of school in France six months before. Standing at the bus stop that day, I looked at the other students talking to each other. I didn’t understand a word they said. We were waiting for the public bus to take us to Saint-Dié. The Lyceé Jules Ferry was in Saint-Dié. It was ten kilometers down the highway that curved through the green pine-covered Vosges mountains. My heart beat inside my chest standing there at the bus stop in the cool morning. I had gone to France with the sole purpose of learning French. Every night I wrote in my journal, writing mostly in English putting in the few French words I knew when I could. I always carried a small pocket dictionary and a small notebook to write down words I wanted to learn. I also had a huge French-English dictionary that I used to look up more words and phrases once I got home. Each night I put the words and phrases in my journal then studied them over and over. I had a book of French verbs and a second-semester college French book that taught grammar. I went page by page, lesson by lesson through the books, doing all the exercises each night on my own. That first day waiting for the bus I didn’t know shit yet. I was completely lost and I knew it. The square dark blue bus stopped in front of us. I stood in line waiting to get on. I stepped up the three steps and looked around. It was already crowded. I walked down the aisle scanning for an open seat. A boyish looking thin girl with short black hair sat by herself looking out the window. “C’est gratuit cette siege?” The boyish-looking thin girl turned her head and stared at me with a strange unfriendly look on her face. “Oh... désolé...sorry.” I looked around for another place to sit and started to walk further to the back of the bus. “Non, non. Tu peux t’asseoir ici.” Fuck. What did she just say? I turned towards her with a puzzled look on my face. “Quoi?” I asked. She pointed at me then at the seat next to her with a smile on her face. She laughed, friendly and warm shaking her head. For the rest of the year going to school and back every day we sat next to each other.

She told me about her boyfriend in Lyon working as a carpenter apprentice. I told her about my girlfriend back in Blissfield. I told her about high school in the U.S. and working in factories to save money for my year in France. She told me about the cool places to go for lunch in Saint-Dié during our two-hour lunch break every day. She told me about her views on the U.S. and how we were evil. I told her about my motorcycle and driving since I was fifteen. We talked about everything. She laughed at my French and taught me all the good slang any self-respecting French teenage boy should know. We always told anyone the bus seat was taken if they tried to sit down before the other had gotten there. I really liked her. She was cool. She really liked me. The case of beer was heavy and smacking against my legs. I could feel bruises starting to form on my thighs. But I didn’t care. I was almost there. We were going to study together. That’s what I told my host mom anyway. I just wanted to drink the beer with Amelie. Her dad wouldn’t be home until early evening. I turned the corner off of la rue du Général Leclerc and walked down the street to the apartment where she lived with her dad. It was spring, almost the end of the school year. Amelie needed to study for the BAC, the final exam for all French students in Lyceé after their thirteenth year. If you failed the BAC you had to take the whole year again. I knocked on the door. The door opened as soon as I knocked. She had been waiting for me. She stood framed in the doorway. Short dark hair and boyish body. She was wearing a loose thin white cotton shirt and tight blue jeans. I noticed that she was not wearing a bra over her tiny perky tits. But then again, I knew that she rarely wore a bra. Her dark nipples poked out from beneath her thin white cotton shirt. Her bare feet stood solid beneath her, white and thin, strong and feminine. I stepped into her apartment. “Salut.” “Salut.” We kissed each other on the cheeks. I took off my shoes, leaving them by the door.

I sat the case of beer on the table in the middle of the small dark living room. She turned and walked into the kitchen and brought back a bottle opener. She opened a beer and handed it to me. It felt cold and good in my hand. She opened another for herself. “Prost,” she said smiling. “Prost.” We tapped our dark brown bottles of German beer together. We each took a big swig. “C’est bonne, la bière allemande .” “Oui.” I smiled at her. We sat down at the small table, drank our beers and talked about music, school and our plans for the next year. She told me about her plans of going to school in Lyon and living with her boyfriend. I told her about going to school at the University of Florida when I got back to the States. “Has your girlfriend written back to you yet?” she asked. “No. It’s been three months. Nothing yet.” “Je suis desolé.” “Bof...c’est pas grand chose.” We finished our beers and set them down on the small table. “Let’s go to my room. It has a balcony. We can sit in the sun.” I nodded, my head was already buzzing from the strong beer. I picked up the square plastic case still half filled with full brown bottles of beer. She stood up and walked towards the stairs. She looked over her shoulder back at me. “Viens, on y va.” “Oui, je viens.” Her small hips in the tight blue jeans pulled me quickly behind her up the dark narrow stairs.

At the top of the stairs she opened the door to her room. Bright sunlight hit my buzzed eyes. I squinted waiting for my eyes to adjust. A small mattress lay on the floor in the corner of the tiny room. A lamp sat next to it on top of a pile of books. The opposite wall was a sliding glass door. A concrete balcony filled with sunlight stood on the other side. She slowly walked onto the balcony and sat down on the concrete. She leaned back on her thin arms in the sun closing her dark eyes. She leaned her head and bare neck towards the sun, bathing in the warmth. I stared at her white neck and chest. “Viens, tu peux t’asseoir ici,” she said patting the concrete with her hand. I sat down on the warm concrete next to her setting the case of beer at our feet. The hot sun heated my body. “Il fait chaud.” It’s hot out. “Oui, c’est bien.” Yeah, it’s nice, she purred with her eyes closed. I took off my socks and pulled up the cuffs of my jeans. My white legs and body soaked in the hot rays next to her. She leaned forward and took two beers out of the case. She opened one then the other, handing me one. We sat in the hot sun drinking our beers and sweating in silence. When we finished our beers she stood up. “The sun makes the beer go right to my head.” “Oui, moi aussi,” I agreed. She walked inside and lay down on the small mattress. “Tu fumes, toi?” “Non.” She reached under the mattress and pulled out a small tin box. Then she reached under again and pulled out a thin magazine with a glossy cover. “Tiens,” she said sitting up handing me the magazine. I sat down next to her on the mattress. She opened the tin and pulled out a small plastic bag. Out of the bag she pulled a thin brown stick the size of a short pencil. “Tu fumes du hashish?”

“Qu’est que c’est ça?” “Tu verras.” Out of the tin she pulled a tiny thin blue box of cigarette papers, a small bag of tobacco and a lighter. She placed a cigarette paper flat on a book next to the bed and sprinkled some tobacco along the middle of it. She then heated the end of the long brown stick with the lighter, pinching off small bits and putting them in a line on top of the tobacco. She rolled it all up like a cigarette and lit the end, took a drag, exhaled slowly and handed it to me. This must be like weed. I took a drag and exhaled. I handed the cigarette back to Amelie. She lay back down on her stomach. “Donnes le moi,” she said reaching towards the magazine that was still in my hand. I handed it to her and laid down on my stomach next to her. She flipped the cover open. Tall skinny Euro chicks were standing in a busy city street in the middle of the day. They had no shirts on, just short skirts and high heels. Their small tits poked out and were perfectly round. The women hung and leaned on each staring straight at us out of the page. “Ces filles m’excitent.” These chicks make me horny, Amelie said staring at the photo. Her short black hair hung down and covered the side of her face. I scooted closer to her. My leg touched hers and she didn’t move away. “Let me see.” She turned the page showing more poses of the topless, tiny-titted chicks. The magazine was mostly photos, no articles, just a few lines about the photos. She turned the next page. A black man squatted in the jungle. He wore a loose tan cotton shirt unbuttoned and dark green cotton shorts that had large square pockets. His head leaned forward. It was bald and gouges were ripped across his scalp showing raw red flesh and the white bone of his skull underneath. “C’est chouette,” Amelie squealed exhaling smoke and handing the cigarette to me.

The text below the photo explained that the day before he was attacked by a tiger and had barely escaped with his life. We flipped through the magazine. Tits. Gore. Pussy. Gore. When we reached the end of the magazine she tossed it onto the floor. “Have you ever been with a boy?” “No, I’m not into that.” “How do you know if you’ve never tried?” She took one last drag on the cigarette and smashed the butt into the lid of the tin box. She reached over me with the tin in her hand. I felt the weight her body and the warmth of her stomach against my back as she pressed into me setting the tin box on the floor next to the bed. I felt her small tits rub across my skin as she pulled herself back onto the mattress. She lay next to me. I put my hand in her short black hair and pressed my mouth against hers. Her tongue went into my mouth. She put her hands up my shirt and pulled it off. She unbuttoned her pants and quickly took them off. She had thin black cotton panties with a small fringe of black cotton lace. I took my jeans off and pulled her thin white cotton shirt up over her head and threw it onto the floor. I lay on top of her pressing my hard cock against her black panties. We started kissing again. I went down between her legs and pulled her panties off. Her pussy hair was short curly black and laid flat against her hot skin. I put my mouth on her pussy lips. They were hot, wet and slippery. I rubbed my tongue hard against her clit flipping my tongue up and down, faster and faster. My heart pounded. My head spun. My body floated above everything, hot, ready to explode. “Doucement, doucement.” Gentle, slow down, Amelie said.

She grabbed my head pulling my face up to hers, licking my lips with her tongue. I reached down and took my underwear off. She pulled her knees up and reaching down guiding my cock into her pussy. The steaming heat of her crotch snapped my drug and alcohol filled brain. My brain stopped thinking. I pumped her hard three times. Fire wrapped around my cock and burst it open. Come sprayed into her pussy with gasping surges. Oh fuck. I just came in her... My face pressed hard into the place where her thin neck and shoulder met. “Tu prends la pilule?” Are you on the pill, I asked. “Oui, bien sur.” Yes, of course. “J’ai éjaculé. Je suis desolé.” “C’est pas grave,” It’s no big deal, she said as she ran her fingers through my hair with my cheek resting on her bare chest. “It’s been eight months since I’ve had sex. I..I.. got too excited.” I pulled my half-hard cock out of her and rolled off of her. She smiled at me, stood up, walked to the balcony, bent over and grabbed two beers out of the square plastic case. I was encompassed by her beautiful free nakedness. She walked back to the mattress, sat down next me, opened one bottle then the other, handing me one. We stayed on her bed for half an hour drinking our beers in silence, her rubbing my hair, me lying curled around her hip. “My Dad will be home soon, we should get dressed and clean up all the bottles and stuff.” “Okay.” I stood up grabbing my clothes and putting them on piece by piece.

Amelie got dressed and walked down the hall to the bathroom. I found my pants, shirt, underwear. “Où sont mes chausettes?” I yelled asking Amelie. My voice echoed through their small apartment. “Amelie, viens ici,” a low male voice bellowed from downstairs. Oh shit. Her dad’s home. I looked out on the balcony and one sock laid in the hot sun. I didn’t see the other one. One’s better than none. As I put the one sock on I heard Amelie jogging down the stairs. “Papa. Salut. Comment ça va?” I heard him saying things like, you have to study, you need to be serious to pass the BAC, this is important. I took a deep breath. The dark brown beer bottles clanged against each other as I carried the square plastic case downstairs. Amelie and her dad stood face to face in the middle of the small dark living room. Her father turned and looked at me. I smiled at him hoping he would not notice I was wearing just one sock. “Papa, c’est Walt. Walt, c’est mon papa.” “Salut.” “Salut.” I shook his hand, walked straight to the door and put my shoes on. “À plus tard,” I said as I walked out the door. The case of beer smacked against my legs on the way home walking down the cobblestone street. At least it was lighter this time.

“Blood, Guns and Whores – An All American Tale of a Boy and His Dog“, is a coffee table novel made of
micro chapters and illustrations about a boy growing up in the small farming community of Blissfield, Michigan and on to adulthood in San Francisco. It is filled with edgy stories and equally gripping illustrations, art and layouts. This is not your typical novel. This is an object of art.

W. Ross Ayers
Goto http://www.BloodGunsAndWhores.com to read all the posted chapters and check out how this is cool and different. Or just buy the book to get the full rich experience of the illustrations, artwork, and story in the way it was meant to be experienced.

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