The A.V. Club

A Novel by J.K. Ermon (jokermon)

Chapter Four:The Sausage Joint

Chapter Four:

The Sausage Joint

This is a work of erotic fantasy fiction for the entertainment of adults only. Everything in this story is imaginary and is not meant to represent any real-life people, events, or medical conditions. It contains explicit futanari (hermaphrodite) content. If that's not your thing, or if reading this type of material is unlawful where you reside, don't read it. All characters in sexual situations are 18 years of age or older, even if it seems otherwise for dramatic or narrative purposes. Please enjoy this story responsibly and do not repost without permission. This story is copyright©2016 J.K. Ermon.

~~~

Friday night finally arrived. All six of us piled into Mark's monstrous Chevy van. I was the last one to be picked up. The Fotomat kiosk squatted in the parking lot like a giant mushroom, and the van didn't even stop as they drove by. Mark slowed down and my friends held the big sliding side door open so I could dive inside. A bunch of hands hauled me all the way in and slammed the door behind me.

Mark's van had a bunch of beanbag chairs strewn around the back and a carpeted floor. I had a nice soft landing.

Donnie's brother had come through again with a jug bottle of some cheap, sweet wine, and we passed it around. We were all in dizzy high spirits. We talked and joked and laughed as we drove over the Ohio river and into Kentucky.

"Hey," Jack said suddenly. "There's a lady up ahead. Looks like her car broke down."

I craned my neck to look out the large side window. Some small foreign job had pulled off onto the shoulder and a woman in a white-belted purple mini-dress was standing by the roadside waving her arms in the air.

Mark slowed down. "Man, are youkidding?"I protested before I could stop myself. "We're on a timetable here." I remembered what happened the last time I was late to a DG show at Ogilvie's.

"It's a side road, Bobby," Jack said quietly. "No one else might be along for hours."

I looked out the side window. It was a dark, moonless night and nothing but woods to either side. "Okay," I muttered. I felt ashamed.

The woman -- she looked like she was in her mid-to-late twenties -- trotted up to Jack's window.

"Thank you ever so much for stopping. My poor car just died on me."

All of us started a little. She had a British accent. I can't tell you how jarring that was on a county road in northern Kentucky.

She wore a white hairband holding back a full head of light brunette, almost auburn hair. She had big inquisitive green eyes in a tanned, outdoorsy face and an open and energetic smile. "I don't suppose any of you wonderful boys know anything about motors?"

We all looked at Donnie. He shrugged and hopped out of the rear doors of the van. The rest of us looked at each other, shrugged, and followed him out.

Her eyes widened as we all appeared. I imagined it looked like a bunch of clowns emerging from a Volkswagen. "My, there certainly are alotof you...all of a sudden."

We were a lanky bunch and she couldn't have been more than five foot four. We must have looked like a stand of ambulatory pine trees to her. I stuck out my hand. "I'm Robert Halverson ma'am, nice to meet you."

She shook it reflexively. "Claire-Anne Powell, charmed."

I shook her hand like my Grandfather taught me - firm double dip, then release - while smiling as reassuringly as I knew how. It seemed to do the trick. She smiled back and relaxed. The other members of our group shambled over and Claire shook more hands and made more introductions.

"Frank Audette."

"Jack Porter."

"Mark Radakovic, pleased to meetcha."

"Allen Hastings, hi."

Donnie already had the hood up and propped open with the access rod. He waved instead.

"Donnie Corso, ma'am, how do." He poked about for a bit and whistled. "Well the fan belt's busted. This car isn't going anywhere 'less it's behind a tow truck."

"Oh,shit,"she said.

Donnie smothered a chuckle. We all shot him a look, but I couldn't really blame him. Hearing that expletive pronounced with such elegant precision was a treat. Allen looked pained, but had the good grace not to complain about her swearing.

"There's a garage in Alexandria, where we're heading," offered Mark. "It's three miles down the road. I know for a fact they got tow service. We could drop you off."

"Oh my," she laughed. "Hop in the back of a van with a bunch of teenage boys, whatever could go wrong?" She threw up her hands. "Fine then. Just let me get my things."

She fetched a black leather camera case and a small duffel from the trunk and slung both over her shoulder. I recognized the logo on the side of the case:Hasselblad.She was toting some damned professional hardware. Then she pulled out what I first thought was a large black suitcase, but as she approached, recognized as an AV equipment case, the kind with rounded silver heels on the corners.

"What the heck is that?" I asked. She gave the case a fond pat.

"My baby," she said. "Portable thirty-five-millimeter movie camera. My first and best. Where I go, she goes."

We helped her stow her stuff and she gave a pleased coo at the sight of the bean bags and carpeting. "Oh well, this is cozy, isn't it?"

She curled up onto one of the sack seats like a cat. "Ooh, this is much nicer than my Fiat."

Donnie offered her the wine jug and she politely declined. With a jerk and a bang from the tailpipe, we were on the road again.

"So, are you boys off to the pub?"

My mother was a devotee ofMasterpiece Theateron our local PBS affiliate. Before any of my doltish friends could ask "off to thewhat?"I jumped in and said, "Yup." I smiled. "It's what we do on a Friday night around here. Yourself?"

"I'm going down to Bowling Green to cover a Wallace rally forLifemagazine." She tapped her camera bag. "I'm a photojournalist."

We were all impressed to varying degrees, myself especially. I was already a camera nut. When she talked about covering the riots in New York last summer, we were all riveted.

She looked around at us. "Forgive me, but the legal drinking age in Kentucky is still twenty-one, yes?"

Mark chuckled. "In the counties that aren't dry, yeah. But nobody ever told the management at Ogilvie's that."

"Ogilvie's?" Her eyes lit up. I groaned inwardly and felt like slapping motormouth Mark upside the head. "Why younaughtyboys. I believe I've heard of that place."

"Well, we're kind of going on a crawl," I put in hurriedly. "We might be hitting that place later--"

"Forgive me, but isn't that one of those places that features dancers with Seahag Syndrome? A what-do-you-call-it, sausage bar?"

"Sausage joint," corrected both Donnie and Frank in unison. I wanted to knock their heads together.

"How wonderful! I've been meaning to do a photo essay about girls with AXA forages."

At first I blanked, but then I remembered the proper scientific name for the condition: Acquired Xenogenic Andromorphism. Nobody in the states used that acronym when I was a kid. That was a European thing.

"Access has always been an issue," Claire was saying. "Finding them, gaining their trust. Learning their stories." Her eyes were dancing and her manner animated. She sparkled. In that moment, she was the most fascinating woman any of us had ever met.

"If you boys could accompany me there, get me inside...I'd beeverso grateful."

None of us could say anything to that. I cleared my throat.

"Well...it's not like we wereintendingto go there, you understand?"

"Oh surely," her eyes kept right on dancing.

"Well okay. We'll take you."

"Lovely!" she rummaged in her purse for a moment, then pulled out what looked like a plastic compact. When she opened it, however, there was a ring of pills inside, shaped like tiny aspirins. Some were white and some were orange.

"I think I will have some of that wine, thank you," she said, and washed one of the pills down with a sip. She grimaced at the taste and returned the bottle to Donnie.

"That has to be the most wretchedly sweet wine I've ever tasted," she stated. She put the weird compact back in her purse.

"Was that...LSD?" asked Donnie in a hushed voice.

"What? No." She shook her head with a smile. "Birth control. I do have this, though."

She dug around in her purse again and pulled out what I recognized as a hand-rolled marijuana cigarette, what we all called reefers back then. Her smile grew roguish.

"Do any of you boys fancy a bit of pot?"

~~~

We stopped at the garage so Claire could make arrangements to have her car picked up and repaired. It took no more than five minutes. I was amazed at her composure. I was still dealing with my first experience with cannabis. It made me giggly and tingle-brained. I still wasn't sure if I liked it. Ten minutes after that, we were pulling into the dirt-and-gravel parking lot of Ogilvie's.

Claire threw her large equipment case an anxious look as we all hopped out. "Does your van lock up properly?" she asked Mark.

"Oh yeah," he said. "Safe as Fort Knox."

She glanced toward the bar and then leaned into the van to unzip her duffel. She pulled out a pair of dressy high heels, the kind with lots of straps that exposed most of the girl's foot. She swapped them out with the plain brown flats she was wearing. When she straightened, she was taller than Jack and Allen.

"Right then, lads," she told us with an emboldening smile. "Once more unto the breach."

She walked ahead of us to the doors. The heels put elegance and confidence into her suddenly long-legged stride.

~~~

Back then, peeler bars in rural Kentucky weren't anything like the strip clubs you see today. There was no neon trim, no flashing lights, no brass poles. Most of them were little more than shacks on dirt roads. Many, like Ogilvie's, were converted barns.

Walking in there, I was always reminded of Sheik Ilderim's line fromBen-Hur,"There is no law in the arena." Ogilvie's was the most unruly and unregulated dive I'd ever visited. I doubt if any health and safety inspector had ever darkened their doorstep. Their licensing fees were probably paid in bribes.

The place was lit by miles of Christmas lights. They imbued that tumble-down shit hole with a dim, multi-hued, magical ambience. There was sawdust on the raw plank floor. A lot of burlesque joints had live bands, but Ogilvie's just had a jukebox hooked up to some ridiculously large amplifiers hanging from the rafters on chains. Customers could pick their own tunes, provided their tastes ran to country-and-western classics or Big Band staples. The stages had soft floodlights, and some extraordinarily curvaceous country gals were shimmying away in the altogether.

It was hot as the Tobes of Hades in there, and the girls' naked bodies shone with sweat. The whole place stank like one of Grant Memorial's co-ed locker rooms after Football and Cheer practice. I glanced at Mark, and he was inhaling it like the world's sweetest perfume.

My first thought was:pervert. My second, and more honest thought was:He's right. The smell alone is giving me a boner, not to mention all the naked chicks.

"This way," Mark said, and led us to a door beside one of the side stages. We all followed him in a kind of side shuffle so we could keep our eyes on the nude dancers, Claire included.

While we watched, one of the locals stageside slapped a dollar bill to one of the dancer's thighs. It stuck there from the sweat. She stopped dancing and stood still with her legs well apart. I'd seen this kind of thing before the last time Mark and I were there, so I knew what to expect. The others gaped and drew stunned breaths as the man wormed a finger up her vagina. He slipped it in and out a few times while the girl obligingly thrust her hips, making sure he got it in good and deep. He took it out, licked it and put another dollar on her thigh. She just smiled and continued dancing. A lot of the girls were plastered with sticky bills. Apparently, a whole bunch of finger-fucking had been going on that night.

"Oh my," whispered Frank. He was too spellbound to think about hiding the big erection bulging in the front of his pants. I had one too. I tried not to poke Claire in the butt with it as we filed through.

The door led to a short hallway. Another door at the end of it opened to a much smaller performance area, one with just one bar and one stage. There was a girl seated at a small table at the entrance with an open cashbox. To my shock, I recognized her. It was Bitchy: the pretty, big-bottomed black-haired girl from Polly Pole's latest movie. She looked a lot more mature with her hair up and a pair of tortoise-shell cat's eye glasses on her face.

"Hey there boys," she said in a strong backwoods drawl. She did a double take at the sight of Claire. "And lady. Two-dollar cover for the sausage festival." We paid up, and she smiled sweetly.

"Now, the rules are, ya'lldon'thave to keep your hands to yourselves, but 'challdohave to tipfirst.If ya'll can't keep it in your pants, that's fine, but again, no happy endings without tipping. We all clear?"

Numbly, I nodded. The others were doing the same. A weird sense of unreality washed over me. I couldn't believe I wasn't dreaming. Then Claire brushed against me and I smelled her hair. Reality came rushing back. This was happening.

"Can I take pictures?" she asked the girl.

"Five bucks up front," Bitchy answered without batting an eyelash. "No flashes andnoshots of the customers' faces."

"Certainly," Claire said and pulled a crumpled five out of her clutch. "There you go, darling."

Bitchy's eyebrows lifted slightly. Claire's accent had registered.

"I justlovethe way you talk, sweetie." She flashed her a pearly smile. "Show's in ten minutes and there's a three-drink minimum. Bottoms up!"

There were three small circular tables clustered around the low stage. Jack and Allen staked our claim on one of them while the rest of us trooped to the bar.

"First round's on me," said Claire brightly. She slapped another five on the oak countertop and the serving woman (who looked like an older sister of the dancers out front) started pulling pints.

The beer was surprisingly good; strong, not too bitter and very, very cold. All of us, even Claire, chugged gratefully in that hot, sweaty place.

There were no waitresses back there. Also, we were the only ones sitting at a table. There were about four other patrons rubbernecking around the stage, which, including us, put that small backspace at capacity.

I can't stress that enough: Oglivie's back room wastiny.It was half the size of a standard school classroom. There was the door, the bar and the stage, and precious little elbow room besides. I learned this was typical of most sausage joints. I came to appreciate their intimate, close-quarters charm.

"Shit Jack," muttered Donnie. "Compared to this place, your basement's the Copacabana."

Claire giggled. "You have a bar in your basement?"

Jack laughed. "No, a movie theater. We get together every week to drink beer and watch movies."

"What kind of movies?" she asked. Jack got all tongue-tied and blushed, as did the rest of us. "Well." She laughed. "That answers that. Younaughtyboys."

She said it in such a playful way, even though we let out some embarrassed chuckles, we could tell she was tickled. Also, the teasing, drawn-out way she pronouncednaughtyput insta-steel in my dick.

"Just to clarify," she said, "they aredickgirlmovies, yes?"

"That's right," Allen said before I could cue up a denial. I sighed. I couldn't get upset about it. Claire had that effect on me. I wanted to tell her things too.

Our beers were done in no time. We got seconds. I wasn't a big drinker; by the time we started in on our thirds, I was feeling woozy and relaxed. All my nervousness had disappeared. I was looking forward to the show with fierce-yet-boneless anticipation.

Claire held her booze a lot better than me. It made her flushed and chatty. She seemed just as excited as the rest of us.

"Where on earth do you get them? The movies, I mean."

We all traded looks and Jack gave a "why not?" kind of shrug. I spoke up.

"Mail order. DG models advertise in the backs of sausage mags. We've been doing it for awhile now."

"Do they ever show these movies in regular theaters?"

We all burst out laughing. "Hell no," I said. "People would riot."

"Hell, the God Squad would probably burn the place down," said Donnie.

"What about X-rated movie theaters?"

"Sometimes," said Allen. "I mean, there aren't any in Point Pleasant, but I heard about some porno palace in Philadelphia got shut down for that."

"Amazing," she said. "You wouldn'tbelievethe curiosity about Seahag Syndrome in Europe. Not just the UK, but Denmark, Holland, Sweden, France. Japan too, for some reason. There is a fascination with the AXA phenomenon overseas."

"No one's ever tried exporting DG flicks?" I asked.

"No," exclaimed Claire. "Nor making them." She looked around at our faces. "Has anyone ever done that? Made a full-length explicit feature film, with an actual budget, starring Hag-bred performers?"

"Emergentperformers," corrected Frank gently.

"With an actual story and characters and stuff?" asked Donnie. "Never. Be great to see, though."

Claire looked at Frank. "'Emergent?'"

He shrugged. "It's what the ladies prefer to call themselves. They're usually okay with 'dickgirl,' but none of them appreciate terms like 'Hag-bred' or 'Hag-born.' They like to call what happened to them theiremergence,and themselvesemergent women."

Claire pulled a notebook out of her purse and began scribbling furiously. "This is amazing. So what's the difference, then, between the terms Hag-bred and Hag-born? Or do they both mean the same thing?"

Ever concerned with language, Allen said, "Hag-bred is what you'd call an individual dickgirl. 'That girl's Hag-bred,' or, 'Mary got Hag-bred last summer.' Hag-born's plural. When people talk about all dickgirls in general, they refer to them as 'the Hag-born.'"

Donnie nudged Frank. "You should give her a copy of your manual."

Claire's eyes snapped to Frank. "I beg your pardon? You have a manual? For emergent women?"

Frank looked pained. "It's not a manual. Um..."

"Frank's pen pals with a bunch of emergent gals all over the country," I said. "Some of them for years. They've told him plenty about their condition."

"We asked if we could read their letters," Donnie said, "but..."

"ButIsaid that would be an unforgivable breach of trust," Frank said calmly.

"So," I said, "we asked him to compile all the anecdotal information about Seahag Syndrome they provided. No personal stuff, just the facts. He gave us all copies."

He did a lot more than that. Within three days Frank had prepared a one hundred and seventeen-page typewritten report in a labeled binder. He presented, correlated and even charted a huge amount of data culled from the dickgirls' letters. It was his first true research paper.

Frank's not great at conversation, but his writing is astoundingly passionate, precise and absorbing. I totally understood how he was able to maintain relationships via correspondence with all those different women. On paper, he's a completely different person. I guessed that's the person he really was.

"Is it true they can't lie?" Claire asked. "I've heard they cannot lie, nor be lied to."

"It's not that they can't lie," said Frank. "They just don't. They have nothing to hide."

"And being lied to?" asked Claire.

The A.V. Club Ch. 04

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