The Legend of Old Man Mose
G - P
days of the Klondike Gold Rush of 1897 or thereabouts. A sturdy young
prospector - let's call him Grover - had spent many months working a
hardscrabble gold-panning claim in the icy cold waters of some nameless
creek. The site was productive, and he was putting away lots of gold
dust.
The downside, of course, far more than his personal discomfort, was the
total isolation from the rest of humanity. The absence of young,
nubile females was especially burdensome to this warm blooded young
buckaroo. He was starved for ... uh ... affection! At night, the
howling of wolves, all around him, invaded his dreams - those howls
often became siren calls of wild-eyed, sex-crazed, aggressive were-
women! All too often these dreams ended in some riotous, noisy
couplings of hot, wet flesh with hot, wet flesh, and he woke up to
ecstatically spectacular wet dreams! Sure can't live like this for too
long, Grover thought.
There finally came a day when he figured he had enough gold dust saved
up, so that he could treat himself to a few days of rest and
recuperation in the nearest boom town a dozen miles downstream. He
had endured the loneliness, isolation and Spartan life for too long!
Yes! Yes! Lively music! Alcoholic refreshment! Women! Sweet
scruffy loving! With his genitalia nearly perpetually semi-aroused
by amorous daydreams in his head, he loaded up his backpack and set
off, huffing and puffing, to town.
He got to town without incident, but it sure didn't look promising at
first. Ditto for the second and third glances. Originally a fur
trading post, this settlement had suddenly swelled into a typical
brand-new frontier boom town All the best buildings were of rough-cut,
unpainted wood planks. Interspersed with these structures were other
highly ignorable grubby tents and lean-to's one didn't want to inspect
at closer range. Its Main Street obviously would never get the mellow
sepia-toned look you now see in period photographs from those times.
Above all, nowhere could he see lacy curtain windows, red lanterns or
anything else showing a joyfully accommodating woman's touch!
Young Grover's erotic fantasies were momentarily challenged, but he
did see a primitive hotel. Maybe there was some hope yet! He went in
and rang the bell on the desk. A rather surly looking middle-aged
fellow (somewhat drunk) came out a side door and tossed a room key down
in front of Grover as he signed in and paid up. When Grover asked
about availability of Ladies of Pleasure, the sour-puss just clammed up
and glared. Grover went off to his new quarters, anyhow.
That room was dusty and odiferous! If he were to meet a lovely damsel
that evening, any 'entertaining' would clearly have to be at her
place! But, first of all, he knew he would first have to clean himself
up before setting off to go hunting for joy.
While entering the hotel, Grover by lucky chance had noticed a barber
shop next door, with an extra sign stating that a clean bath was also
available there. He dropped the bulk of his goods on the bed, and he
filled up a smaller bag of clean clothes which he carried over to the
shop next door.
In the rear of the shop, such a great, clean bath facility was a
miracle find in such forsaken territory! The tub was cut from a very
big barrel, and it could hold an adult-sized human body, although he
had to sit in it kind of funny. It also had room for a fair amount of
sudsy water, which an elderly, male attendant continuously replenished
by means of heated buckets from a nearby wood-burning stove. This
bath felt nice and warm, as many months of grime fell away from his
warm, eager hide. His joy-jewels started feeling fresh and frisky. A
warm, daydreamer's glow started to dominate his loins! (Watch where
you scrub, and don't be too long at it!) Grover was tempted to quiz
the attendant about availability of congenial female companionship, but
quickly decided against it. The old boy's light blue, vacant eyes just
stared off into space, and he just mumbled to himself. (He's not in
this world!) Grover finished cleaning up, dried off, and put on clean,
presentable duds. Now off to the barber.
Man! There's nothing (Well, almost nothing!) like a hot bath and a
warm, luxuriously lathered shave, plus a haircut after months in the
wild! With all this topped off with a misting of cologne, Grover was
champing at the bit to sally forth and check out the local social
amenities. (About these, he could not quiz the barber, who spoke no
English.)
Ah, now bring on the lively ladies with their smouldering, vibrating
loins! But where? Only one place to look, he guessed. Grover trudged
through the street's frozen mud & slush, to the entrance of the
biggest, busiest looking saloon. He pushed through between the
weatherproofing blankets tacked over the entrance of what he excitedly
figured would be a splendid pleasure palace.
Dark and crowded in there! He elbowed his way through, stepped up to
the bar and ordered a small glass of popskull whiskey. Ahhh! A pillar
of fire, from the sinuses above his eyeballs right down through the
duodenum! Good stuff, if you didn't spill any on you - it would eat
holes in leather and take the enamel off your belt buckle!
After his eyes re-focused, he slowly looked around the room. In the
feeble light provided by a few flickering candles and some oil
lanterns, this saloon's interior looked just as drab as the exterior.
The raw lumber was already well coated with sweat and tobacco
particulates. Sawdust on the floor was lightly scented with spilled
beer and barf. The overall aroma, however, was some blend of damp wool
and fermenting armpits.
Tables and seating arrangements were just boards laid on sawhorses, or
empty beer kegs. All these were more or less gathered around a black,
cast-iron, wood-burning stove. Here, most of the patrons sought warmth
to ward off the icy, chill breezes whistling through chinks and
knotholes in the walls. At one end of this main room, there was an old
upright piano, kind of beat-up but still playable. (No one was playing
it, at the time.)
This saloon was well patronised. They were pretty quiet, though - no
animated conversations, mostly dull murmurs, except for those who were
dozing off and starting to snore. Grover could see musty prospectors,
claim-jumper wannabe's, some card-playing tinhorn gamblers in a corner,
plus a few fur trappers.
Speaking of fur! Muff! Muff! Sweet muff! No females of any kind were
to be seen! No stage! No scantily clad dancing girls, and certainly
no sweetie-pie 'hostesses' mingling among the patrons with invitations
to explore Paradise!
Our horny prospector turned back to the barkeep, who poured him another
dose of popskull. (Down the hatch!) Now Grover's loins began to ache,
and his saddle horn started to stir relentlessly. He finally asked the
bartender:
"Where are the girls? Where can a fellow get a little ... uh ... (heh!
heh!) .. a little you-know-what around here?
"Sorry, Mac! There ain't no dames at all in town, right now. There
used to be a whorehouse next door, but all the girls got the clap so
bad, we sent 'em packing, back down to Seattle! The only action you're
gonna get tonight is Old Man Mose; for six bits he'll let you butt-
bang him!"
No, no, no, no, I can't do that, Grover thought. He started taking
more note of his surroundings. The barkeep was a puffy-faced rascal,
with a big handlebar moustache and eyes like the proverbial two piss-
holes in the snow. A dirty white apron half-covered a grubby union
suit. A collection of large, dark stains on this clothing made him
resemble a brown-and-white Holstein cow, if there's ever been such a
thing.
The bar, however, contrasted with the overall squalor of the saloon
with its elegant, highly polished dark-stained wood. Behind the
bartender hung a clean mirror over the usual collection of exotic
looking bottles. Above that mirror, a big oil painting started to catch
Grover's eye.
The bartender momentarily distracted him with another refill of
popskull. This time, the firewater was right to the brim, so that
Grover could not lift the glass without spilling some. He lowered his
head almost to the bar top and slurped up enough to get the level
down. Only then would he lift the glass to gulp down the remainder.
While raising his head back up, he had to grip the edge of the bar
while he waited for a sudden, motion-induced vertigo to pass. Whoooof!
He looked again at the oil painting, and suddenly gasped and caught his
breath. It was of a fantastic young woman, in the nuuuuuude! Wow!
Naaaaked! Yes! Yes! I want! I want! Steam heat began to thump
through Grover's veins and arteries!
(One last plaintive try) "Tell me, barkeep, are there any nearby towns
where I might find some ladies? How about the Indian villages?"
"Sorry, Mac! The nearest town's about four days away, and it looks
like a blizzard may be coming in late tonight. Forget about any Indian
girls around here. They all say white men smell bad and give red and
purple spots! Trust me, Mac, Old Man Mose is the only comfort you'll
get tonight!" (Another pour)
Our very horny, dissipating young prospector did not reply right away.
His eyes were glued to the oil painting. A veritable goddess was
reclining on a dark red, velvet, overstuffed sofa of a style popular a
century ago.
(Coincidentally, a saloon patron began to play on the piano - some soft
_andante_ ragtime melody, which somehow seemed to intensify the
painting's erotic impact.)
This angel's long, blond hair was piled up on the top of her head and
was held in place by some blue combs. Large, wide-spaced blue eyes
were very, very lightly edged with mascara. Such sensuous ruby-red
lips and a pure peaches-and-cream face! This painting was a knockout,
even by the light of this dingy saloon's flickering candles and oil
lamps! Further down, below smooth-as-silk throat and shoulders, was a
firm pair of breasts, like alabaster mountain-temples, with big, light-
tan aureoles and long, sort-of-pink, hard-but-sensitive nipples one
could roll between thumb and forefinger - maybe even wrap a hungry
tongue around! This goddess was just plump enough - no more - that the
ribs didn't show. Her round tummy looked like a perfect place for a
fellow to rest his head when reviving from the sweet exhaustion of
frantic love-making!
The mixture of visually teased testosterone and fuming frontier alcohol
threatened to polymerise poor Grover's brain tissues. He was visibly
getting to be in pretty bad shape by now. All his gyros were madly
processing out of sync! Beads of sweat glistened on his forehead,
which alternated, back and forth, between fiery hot and icy
cold!.There was lava in his veins, and his manhood thrashed like an
angry weightlifter! He squinted his eyes and his mouth, contorted into
an upside-down U, drooled from each corner, all over the bar top! His
whole body quivered with shallow, rapid panting, and horny sobs!
"Hell's bells, Mac! Butt-banging Old Man Mose ain't half bad, if you
just close your eyes and use a wee bit of imagination! Only six bits,
Mac, that is, seventy five cents!" cooed the barkeep. (Another pour)
(Eyes back to the oil painting) Her thighs and lower legs,
delightfully fleshed, radiated a life-giving bodily warmth. He could
just feel those legs enthusiastically wrapped behind his back! Golden
slippers - normally worn only in a bedroom - adorned her feet. And
that wasn't all! This angel's legs were ever so slightly parted! A
stunning mons veneris, as awe-inspiring as a full harvest moonrise, was
graced by an incredibly soft, fleecy, carefully trimmed golden
trapezoid! Down in the heavenly shadows one could just barely see -
wow! no doubt about it! - the outline of a pair of plump, luscious,
slightly moist, love-hungry labia! This sweetheart-woman seemed to
glow from within, with a golden light. In fact, Grover's drunken
hallucinations saw her breasts rising and falling as if she were
actually breathing, and her hips appeared to rock and undulate -
slowly, invitingly. He could sniff the scent of her femininity - some
sort of maddening mating season musk. Those big, deep blue eyes were
silently, desperately saying: ... please ... please ... hurry!
As if on cue, the piano player switched from ragtime to a spirited
rendition of _Liebestraum_ . This guy was good! He gave that grand
old Nineteenth Century Romantic humping song a perfect, rolling,
joyfully lusty, pelvis-pumping rhythm. Not too fast, not too slow, but
feverishly intense!
The sensuous music and erotic imagery further fed Grover's intensely
aching, sorrowfully unfulfillable, wilderness-incubated libido, which
was by now thoroughly marinated by the rotgut firewater. He was
starting to see the Northern Lights wiggling and waltzing throughout
the bar-room!
Too much, too much! Our poor friend finally broke down: "I can't
stand it any more! Where's Old Man Mose? I'll do it, I'll do it!"
With surprising alacrity, the barkeep darted out from around the bar.
With his right hand, he grabbed a spare oil lantern, and he put his
left arm around Grover's shoulder and led him - practically shoved him -
toward the back , into a small room. "Just wait right here, Mac, and
I'll go fetch him!" He hung the lantern on a hook, closed the door, and
left him there.
This room, probably a primitive rest room, judging by the acrid
bouquet, was filthy and cold. You couldn't see out the single twelve-
light window - the lower half of each pane was matted with wind-driven
snow, and the upper half was just plain dirty. There were no graffiti
on these slimy walls, because any such works of art, if ever created,
would only have slid down to the floor. On the other hand, the floor
was so sticky (and crunchy) that there was no danger of slipping and
falling. Just ... don't ... look ... down!
Grover didn't have long to wait. There was soon a slap-slap-slap of
sandaled feet, growing louder, coming down the hall outside, toward the
door.
The door opened, and in came Old Man Mose! What a scruffy, wrinkled
old prune! Long, dirty-white hair was hopelessly tangled with icky-
sticky wads of who-knows-what! Eyes were blood-shot, and only two or
three teeth were visible. Cheeks and chin bristled with a six-day-old
beard-stubble, with scabs intermingled. His almost skeletal arms and a
naked scrawny chest were covered with coarse, possum-like hair,
crawling with lice and silverfish! Scraps of burlap passed for
trousers, with just a frayed sisal rope for a belt.
The old geezer undid the belt, dropped his britches, turned and put
both hands against a wall and thrust out his withered, scabby posterior
invitingly in Grover's direction. "Ready anytime, sonny", he cackled
softly. Between a swaying pair of wrinkled, scrofulous buns, something
resembling a sticky hairball winked rhythmically. Both his breath and a
small fart condensed visibly in the chilly air.
The whole dreadful sight repulsed our poor lovesick young friend. To
himself he said I can't I can't, but the popskull whisky said oh yes,
you can, you can! He closed his eyes. The pagan goddesses, Methyl,
Ethyl and Isopropyl, dazzled him with a shimmering, rippling image of
that exquisite oil painting. Oh, those blue eyes! Those glistening
lips! Those tender nipples! Those undulating loins! Ah, those Gates
of Heaven, leading to that hot, wild, wet love-tunnel, which was sure
to be fully aroused, gulping and convulsing, waiting to engulf and
entrap his passion-crazed battering ram!
His hootch-befuddled head then imagined hearing more than just the
piano music. From some dream-world came a chorus of froggie croaks,
plus jillions of crickets and other night-singing insects - like you
hear on a sultry early summer's evening at the peak of mating season.
Somewhere off in the distance, a whipporwill called. All of these
urgently throbbing creature-groin songs swept Grover's out-of-control
libido forward in the real world, in a red fog!
He snapped back to reality - the task at hand! Now! He finally
spurred himself into action! With one hand he lowered his trousers and
held them just above his knees. With his blindly throbbing siege-engine
in his other hand, he uttered a long, quavering, desperate, despairing
moan, as he lurched forward toward Old Man Mose as if doing a bunji-
jump!
(The now-distant piano music ceased.)
Grover was just inches away from Old Man Mose, when the ancient wretch
suddenly let fly with an incredible diarrhoea explosion! It was like
one of those fancy lawn watering set-ups - Splat! Splat! Splat!
Splat! Cheega! Cheega Cheega! Cheega! Splat! Splat! Splat!
Splat! Cheega! Cheega! Cheega! Cheega! Warm, wet slops slammed
Grover amidships, and a powerful stench of overly-digested junk food
paralysed his nostrils. While still holding his trousers up, he opened
his eyes and saw that, from his mid-section on down, he was dripping
with slime, green and yellow and brown , with solid lumps zig-zagging
down here and there, even down inside his pants legs and down inside
his boots!
Then, Old Man Mose turned around and said:
"Awww, whassamatter, sonny? Did I cum too soon?"