"…he had clearly come to love three things in life: his penis, cartoons, and vodka which he cleverly poured into his clown-face sippy cup from his mother’s bedside bottle.”

"By the time he started fifth grade, Morton Wayne Beech had a comb-over, a 40-inch waist, and a penis that was his pride and joy. 

Born in the Beech Family Wing at Boring Memorial Hospital, Mortie was unenthusiastically welcomed into the world by wealthy, heavily intoxicated parents who owned a lucrative Chinese car dealership in Oldmens, Florida. At 42 pounds and 34” long, he was too big to fit in the hospital nursery’s bassinet. The problem required nurses to lay him on the floor in a see-through plastic storage box. Just to be safe, they taped a “No Basura” sign on the side so the night cleaners wouldn’t mistake him for a leftover pork roast and throw him away. 

Even though obesity dripped from the branches of both family trees like grease from deep fried bacon, Belvin Beech and his wife, Sandy Lynn, were inexplicably surprised by the bulkiness of their bundle of joy. This was despite the fact that Sandy Lynn’s pregnancy more than doubled her weight and made her look like the broad side of Iowa.

If it seemed strange that the Beeches were flabbergasted over giving birth to a newborn the size of a four-year-old, it was stranger yet that neither could remember doing anything to cause it. To say that the couple wasn’t intimate was the height of understatement.  Despite working in adjacent offices, they rode to and from the showroom in separate, chauffeur-driven, American-made limousines. 

Every afternoon, Sandy Lynn Beech drank her lunch in the service department with Ju-Long Garcia, a half-Chinese, half-Cuban midget with an eight-inch tongue that made him both popular with the ladies and a skilled car detailer. Belvin usually choked down a ham and cheese while his stacked, redheaded assistant, Deedee, choked him down from underneath his desk.

What kept the Beeches together, frankly, was money. As the sole heir to Clench It Up, a national chain of walk-in vaginal tightening clinics, Sandy Lynn would eventually inherit an astoundingly prosperous business empire. 

Founded by her parents, who had started out in the frozen bovine semen business, Clench It Up brilliantly re-purposed the artificial vaginas that bulls enjoyed in order to catch the national tidal wave of demand for vaginal rejuvenation. From one clinic providing side-by-side bovine and human sperm collection services in Montana in 1985, the company grew to more than 500 centers serving 3,000 women a day in strip malls in all 50 states. 

One promotion in particular, the Hot Pink Cookie, a mother-daughter weekend that packaged vaginal renewal, anal bleaching, a Brazilian wax and high tea for $12,000 a pop, more than quintupled the company’s already behemoth revenues and helped them launch a multi-million-dollar IPO. 

Just like the Clench It Up business itself, the company’s catchy theme song became extremely popular across the country by way of an around-the-clock barrage of TV and radio commercials:

“If he’s floppin’ his dong ‘cuz he ain’t no King Kong,

Ya’ gotta make it right and make ya’ kitty tight!

Clench it Up! Clench it Up!

Ya’ know a Hot Pink Cookie will get ya’ smokin’ nookie.

We don’t ask no cash advance ‘cuz we do our own finance!

Clench it Up! Clench it Up!

If ya’ got some busted credit ya’ don’t nevah gotta sweat it.

We treat you fair and square so get yo’ legs up in the air!

Clench it Up! Clench it Up!”

For as long as he could remember, Mortie hated his family. Virtually from the day he was potty-trained, his assholes of a mommy and daddy left him home alone from dawn to dusk without lights or air conditioning and nothing more than a box of cereal, a black-and-white TV, and a seven-inch-long Florida chameleon. Mortie’s relationship with the lizard that had wandered inside the house one day and become his only buddy ended abruptly when he accidentally stepped on the little critter and squished him to death. He took the gooey remains and put them in one of his father’s dress shoes. 

The old man never even noticed the stench. 

A highly conspicuous figure at 5’3” and 418 pounds, Belvin Beech turned a remarkably unattractive thirty years old a few days before Ronald Reagan won the 1980 presidential election. In addition to a flimsy brown mustache, tiny, fat legs that looked like pork chops with shoes, and a chronic rectal itch that forced him to take very small, careful steps when he walked, he did himself no favors by wearing ill-fitting XXXXXXXL black suits. Between four and five inches too long, his size 64 pants dragged on the floor and collected dust like a mop.

Widely known around town as a “prick’s prick,” Belvin was the kind of guy who was far more likely to push an old lady into the path of an oncoming bus than help her cross the street. He released dark, mind-altering farts in crowded places. At dinner parties, he’d soak his pants in his own urine and sit on his host’s upholstered furniture. He accused people in wheelchairs of being lazy and kicked homeless Vietnam vets in the head. 

With that kind of reputation, it wouldn’t have surprised anyone who knew the bastard that the day his baby boy got his head stuck between the bars in his playpen he told his son to “fucking figure it out yourself, ass clown,” closed the door and walked away. It took Mortie two days of wiggling and weight loss from dehydration to get free.

In the big picture, Mortie’s mother was less conspicuous but just as nasty. Polite society would have once described her as being a healthy-looking woman, a nicer way of saying that her ass covered three time zones. In the years before Sandy Lynn Beech started inhaling a fifth of vodka twice a day, she was an attractive girl with a beautiful face, striking green eyes, raven-black hair, and an exceptionally hot body that she loved to show off in extra-clingy tops and hot pants. Unfortunately, those pluses were largely zeroed out by an unappealing thick neck and unusually large hands that were the same size as her feet. 

Despite those stumbling blocks, she prospered in high school and college by readily agreeing to sex with the most popular boys and teachers. That said, she had several rules that required agreement before anybody touched anything. 

First, she didn’t take any of her clothes off. Ever. 

Second, her paramour was required to wear a special ballistic yarn, steel-reinforced, stab-resistant condom bathed in contraceptive jelly. 

Third, in exchange for “being did,” the “did one” would perform special favors for her. 

Last, but very far from least, was that the “did one” would never tell anyone anything about their relationship. 

The punishment for failure was simple: they would never get their rocks off with her again. As every lover, male or female, appreciated after only a few minutes in Sandy Lynn’s hands, banishment would be a crueler fate than death. 

Making sure that everyone followed her instructions required leverage, and Sandy Lynn had plenty of it. Her extraordinary moves transformed ordinary male orgasms into mystical experiences. An aspiring professional to the core, she studied anatomy and the physics of ejaculation and developed an impressive knowledge of male arousal techniques despite only being able to read 25 words a minute with 50 percent comprehension. 

When she performed what she called “supercharging” with two of her fingers, she could turn up the muscle in her lover’s sexual command center from the equivalent of a push mower to an F-18 Tomcat. 

Unlike that of other penis practitioners, Sandy Lynn‘s work didn’t produce an unsatisfying dribble or the 28 mph speed researchers clocked for average male orgasms. Sandy Lynn’s ejaculation rose up slowly from the testicles where it remained for what seemed like an eternity until the man felt as if he was suspended in time and space. Then the perineal muscles, prostate and shaft of the Johnson would work in concert to release a fusillade of unimaginably pleasurable contractions, eventually firing the sperm at 75 mph through the urethra in one continuous stream.  

Many guys found themselves unable to talk for at least an hour afterward. Some shook from pure ecstasy, others broke into sobs of joy, and more than a few completely blacked out. One even died. A coroner concluded that faculty member Juan “Bucky” Castro, Ph.D. passed away from a subarachnoid hemorrhage moments after his ejaculate pierced the roof of the car he was seated in. Sandy Lynn’s physics professor, one of her frequent flyers, suggested that NASA could learn a thing or two from her about propulsion.

A lot of boys who didn’t know anything about Sandy Lynn’s sexual exploits wanted to date her simply because of her hot body and seeming popularity. She went out with some, enjoyed their money and gifts, but never even kissed them goodnight. From those whose pocket rockets she touched, of course, she extracted much, much more. Among other things, Sandy Lynn had 50-yard-line football tickets, floor seats at basketball games, a timeshare in Boca, free podiatry services, and guaranteed annual selection as the school’s homecoming queen. 

As it happened, one of the boys who summoned enough courage to ask her out was a fit and trim young man with thick sideburns and a wavy brown comb-over by the name of Belvin Morton Beech. A fellow member of the Class of 1972 at Florida Union Collegiate University, Belvin was a hardworking, if not very smart, business administration major with a solid C-minus average. 

He was also a school legacy. Florida Union, whose Latin motto “Vestra Alternative Ut Opus-Liberetur” meant “Your Alternative to Work Release,” was founded in 1889 by his great-great-grandfather and great-great uncle, Edward and Vinny Palomino. The Palomino Brothers, who were originally from Chelsington, Massachusetts, made their fortunes as the owners of Steed-O-Rama City, South Florida’s first pre-owned, low mileage horse dealership. 

Belvin’s older brother, Mickey, who died from bizarre masturbation-induced injuries involving a burned Florida Union cheerleader hand puppet when he was 40, had also gone to school there. 

Spread out over an impressive 800 acres in the southern Everglades near Big Hare Key Basin, the university was the primary destination for high school graduates who ranked in the bottom 3% of their class, social deviants, and felons, including a large number of mortgage bankers. While other institutions required tough, expensive admissions tests, Florida Union could boast that its entrance exam involved little more than fingerprinting.  

The school took great pride in its 35,000 full-time undergraduates, a physical plant consisting of 392 buildings, accreditation by the state and the Florida Department of Corrections, and an 80,000 seat, state-of-the-art football stadium. Their Division I Fuming Sea Turtles—also known as “The Puce Wave” because of the odd, brownish-purple stripe in their otherwise flat, dark brown helmets and uniforms—had not only enjoyed 60 consecutive winning seasons but led the nation in the post-game deaths of opposing players."