Elin Nordergen had flown on a Gulfstream G5 into New Orleans on a flight from Stockholm. She brought one suitcase, a small one, with certain traveling and identity essentials. Elin had gotten into the habit over the years to travel light and merely purchase what she needed on arrival. She took a taxi to the nearest Volvo dealer in New Orleans and bought a white 2010 Volco c70 with leather seats. Using her iPhone’s mapping, she had made her way to Interstate 10 going north, crossing over Lake Pontchartrain, eventually hopping onto Route 11 which took Volvo into Mississippi. Then she veered onto Interstate 59, going north to Hattiesburg, Mississippi. Elin was searching for the Pine Grove Gentle Path Facility where her husband, Tiger Woods, was being treated for his “problem.” Though the Pine Grove center treats its patients in groups, Tiger was given a private “cottage” residence. This did not conform to Pine Grove procedure, but the risk of media encroachment justified the special treatment. Tiger’s offer to make a generous contribution also persuaded the Pine Grove management to satisfy Tiger’s request.
Elin was leaning again a dark green wall in the cottage where Tiger was housed. Tiger was sitting on a couch, his buttocks perched on the edge of the couch, his hands on his knees, his legs to together. It was not a relaxed position, nothing casual about it. This was there first meeting since Elin had left for Sweden and purchased a house on Faglaro Island about an hour’s drive from Stockholm. Elin was wearing black sweatpants, Reebok running shoes (no more Nike for her), and a black running shirt covered in a black leather jacket. The blond hair was long as it draped over all the black. Her legs were crossed, her back leaning on the wall, her arms crossed.
“So what is this place?” asked Elin.
“You know what it is,” said Tiger.
“Well, actually, I don’t. It says clinic. (Elin made quote signs with her fingers.) Like a golf clinic, yes,” said Elin, trying not to be sarcastic.
“It’s a clinic for sexual addiction,” said Tiger.
“Oh yeah. What is that? Is that like an illness? Do you have an illness, Eldrick,” said Elin.
“Could you not call me that,” said Tiger.
“It’s your fucking name, Eldrick. Maybe you should start using your birth name. Isn’t it more honest,” said Elin.
There was a moment of awkward silence.
“So tell me about what they do here for your problem,” said Elin.
“They have group therapy, and they do shame reduction work and trauma work,” said Tiger.
“Shame reduction work? You mean they are trying to make you feel less shame,” said Elin.
“It’s part of the therapy,” said Tiger.
“You’re joking,” said ELin.
“It’s part of the process. I cannot overcome my addiction to sex without first dispensing with the shame,” said Tiger.
“They should fucking make you feel more shame. It is shame that got you to come here,” said Elin.
“But it will be the eradication of that shame that will permit me to leave,” said Tiger.
“And trauma work? what trauma did you go through, Eldrick? Tell me that? Like I didn’t have any trauma. Like the kids,” said Elin.
“Maybe you can check in with me. We can go through this together,” said Tiger.
“That is not happening,” said Elin.
“I have to talk about you and our relationship here. With the doctors, with the other patients when we are in group,” said Tiger.
“You talk about me? You better not talk about me. This is your problem, not mine,” said Elin.
“No, listen. After I described things to them, it might be the case that you are suffering from sexual anorexia,” said Tiger.
“What the fuck did you say?”
“Sexual anorexia is a pathological fear of intimacy, a fear of sexual interaction,” said Tiger.
“We have two children, Eldrick. What kind of goddamn fears do I have? None. And you don’t talk about me to them. It is none of their business,” said Elin with rising anger.
“Sexual anorexia is a serious problem,” said Tiger.
“Oh, and they are trying to blame this on me, is that it. What a load of crap,” said Elin.
“And you have paranoid tendencies, Elin. That little bit you pulled with my cell phone and texting Rachel, that was deceitful,” said Tiger.
“It’s Rachel, now? You can just say her name in front of me,” said Elin.
“It’s part of the shame reduction therapy. It is working,” said Tiger.
“They call this place “Gentle Path,” said Elin. ”Like this thing you are going through is supposed to be ‘gentle.’ They are making this easy for you. Making you think that what you have is a disease, and to come to terms with it, and then just recover, gently, easily,” said Elin.
“Yes,” said Tiger.
“Let me sum up my diagnosis, Eldrick. You are a prick. An asshole. A liar. And the last fucking thing this recovery should be for you is gentle,” said Elin.
Elin moved to the front door of the cottage. Tioger watched her as she walked. He noticed how she walked, the sway of her hips, her long shimmering blond hair.
“Do you want to make love?” asked Tiger.
Elin turned to face Tiger. She looked at him. And then she opened the door and left. Eldrick Tont Woods placed his forehead into both his hands and his body’s posture bent forward. He did not cry. Crying was forbidden at the Pine Grove Clinic.
John Edwards was pacing back and forth in his study. He was in boxer shorts and a white dress shirt. He was wearing white sports socks with a navy blue strip around the top. Think of Tom Cruise sliding into frame in his underwear in Risky Business. Edwards was on his Blackberry Bold.
Edwards: So tell me, how did this tape get out, Rielle?…I saw you throw it in the garbage. I saw you do it after we watched it, remember?…No, no, I distinctly remember you placing it in the garbage. I did not tell you to preserve it…no…I was not stoned…I was not so stoned that I would forget such a thing…and by the way, thanks for giving me a heads up on getting the call from the National Enquirer. What, the money I gave you was not enough?…forget it. OK, just forget the fucking thing…Excuse me, what? You want what? Child support? You fucking goddamn bitch…all the goddamn money you been taking is not enough? Now you fucking want child support…great….don’t tell me what I can and can’t afford. I did not want a child, Rielle…you are so fucking lucky there are laws….laws against murder, because I would break your fucking neck, do you hear me. Too fucking bad we don’t live in Saudi Arabia…I’d be able to just get rid of this problem with one call. Just one call I’d be able to lock you up or cut out your tongue. So fuck you, and fuck your goddamn Frances, whatever her name is.
Edwards throws his Blackberry against the wall where it shatters. He falls to the floor and grabs his forehead trying desperately not to cry. He raises his head, takes a few deep breathes, and slowly rises. He walks over to his desk and opens the bottom drawer revealing a small 22 caliber handgun. He looks at it, standing, motionless, staring at the gun. He then slams the drawer shut.
Continued From Yesterday.
It was a diner on Route 15 a few miles south of Six Mile Falls, Maine, north of Bangor. Ann Coulter sat in a booth and she wondered how Michael Moore could possibly have maneuvered himself onto the bench on the opposite side from her given his enormous size. But Michael seemed comfortable in his fat body, moving with ease as if he were a thin man trapped inside. But it was clear to her why Michael was fat: his appetite. He had a stack of pancakes, two orders, eight cakes highs, with whipped cream and strawberries on top. They were the kind of pancakes that were each a half inch thick. Michael popped a strawberry in his mouth and then proceeded to pour half a jar of maple syrup on top of the mountain of carbohydrates.
“Good strawberries,” said Michael.
It was about ten minutes short of 9:00 PM and the diner was half filled with locals, mostly guys in flannel shirts with jackets stuffed to their sides on the seats. But for the three waitresses, Ann Coulter was the only woman in the diner. Her black tight blouse and black leather jacket over a short black skirt was too upscale for this venue, but she was wearing hiking boots with white socks that made her legs seem even longer and thinner than they already were. Plus she was sitting with fat Michael Moore who looked blue collar with his denim shirt and blue jeans. Michael seemed to provide cover for Ann who didn’t wish to stand out in this crowd.
Ann was sipping onion soup on this chilly Maine evening.
“How’s the onion soup?” asked Michael. By this point Michael had devoured a third of the stack of pancakes.
Ann thought Michael was angling for trying some of her soup. She would have none of that.
“So this was interesting, today that is, back at the motel,” said Ann.
“Yeah. It was great,” said Michael.
“I’m sure,” said Ann.
“You’re sure about what?” asked Michael.
“I’m sure it was great for you,” said Ann.
“Babes, you were screaming with pleasure. I think that is an accurate description,” said Michael.
“I was acting,” said Ann.
“You are not that good an actress,” said Michael.
“Well, you see, you can never know, for certain, can you. With a woman, that is. But you on the other hand. I have evidence inside me that you had a rip roaring time,” said Ann. The thought of Michael’s semen inside would have made her nauseated, but she had come to terms with the temporary intrusion. She hoped most of the Michael Moore ejaculation was removed with the shower she took. But, even so, her diaphram was firmly in place, thank you Jesus.
“I can have a rip roaring time with my palm, Ann,” said Michael, though he knew he had not done so in years, maybe even a decade.
“Well, I am not surprised that you are happy to be achieving pleasure just with yourself,” said Ann.
“So what are you saying about the acting thing? Why would you act?” asked Michael.
Ann did not know how to answer this question because in fact she was not acting. Having sex with Michael Moore was simply a vehicle for achieving an orgasm. To Ann it was an adventuresome and reckless means of possessing a throbbing and living dildo, which was amusingly attached to a big fat liberal. But that did not matter, did it. A throbbing organ is a throbbing organ whether it is attached to a Communist or a Fascist or an illegal alien. The important thing is that she did her research, as always, and Room 17 of the Bangor Motel had a large mirror over the headboard. And it was that mirror and feeling her long hair on her back and the site of her pencil-thin arms and firm breasts that gave her pleasure. Maybe she did scream. But it had nothing to do with Michael Moore, except possibly for the mere fact that she was dominating a loudmouth liberal while watching herself. She liked watching herself. She had cultivated her body with the care of a Renaissance sculptor, mostly using the tool of starvation, and examining her body while having a stand-in surrogate erect penis throbbing inside was enough to make her scream; yes, scream with pleasure. She found it curious that fat men do not have fat penises.
“OK. OK. It was not an act, Michael. I loved every minute of it,” said Ann.
“You’re patronizing me,” said Michael.
“Whatever,” said Ann.
“You know I have the whole thing on tape,’ said Michael.
“What?” said Ann as she spit out a spoonful of onion soup.
“That mirror above the bed is a two-way mirror. I had a camera going the whole time,” said Michael.
“You did not. You did not,” said Ann, thinking Michael was just being provocative.
“I did my research. I paid Joe Bean, the Bangor Motel proprietor, several thousand dollars to retrofit Room 18 with a camera, cutting a hole in the wall, and installing that two-way mirror in Room 17,” said Michael.
The details made Ann nervous. She chose the Bangor Motel. She did her research. But maybe she made a mistake of telling Michael Moore where to meet a week in advance. Was a week enough time for Michael Moore to make all these arrangements, pay people off and do construction? And when she called the Bangor Motel she did recall speaking with a Joe. Damn.
“So you have video of me, like from what, the waist up?” asked Ann.
“I have not checked the video. I think it might catch the top of my belly, which means the video includes a shot below your waist, below your belly button, god knows how low it goes,” said Michael. How low can he go, thought Michael. He snickered to himself.
“But you do not have permission to use my image,” said Ann.
“I am a journalist. I am doing a documentary on the sexual lives of conservatives. I can use it,” said Michael.
Ann Coulter absorbed this information; but Ann was not about to show this asshole that she was concerned or upset. Anyway, she looked great. She saw how great she looked. The lighting was subdued. It would be all over the internet. And it would just create more buzz about Ann Coulter. Good buzz, because she was hot. Indeed, she would even watch it. She would get to watch it all over again. And wouldn’t that be a trip.
“Can I have a bite of your pancakes? asked Ann.
“Sure,” said Michael.
Ann reached over with her fork, cut a stack with the side of her fork and jabbed a forkful wedge of pancakes, swapping up a pool of maple syrup. She placed it in her mouth, carefully, not permitting any residue on her lips.
“Good, huh?” Said Michael.
“Very good. Very good,” said Ann.
Ann Coulter was on top, Michael Moore on the bottom. This is the way Ann preferred it. Michael did not have a choice because of his girth. How it came to pass that these two individuals would be having sex together is another story. It was a motel, a small one with dark green but faded shingles, a single story with twenty three rooms, numbered from two to twenty four, number one being the motel office. It was called the Bangor Motel. Simple. And appropriate since it was outside of Bangor, Maine. Michael liked the poetry of it. He kept thinking ‘Bang Her’ Motel, which is what he was doing at the moment, although Ann was working a lot harder than he was.
Ann looked down as she moved her hips rhythmically, glancing occasionally at the large mound of fat that moved like a bowl of red Jello. Michael Moore was not only fat, but he was very pale and somewhat hairy, blotched with red spots. Ann saw the red spots as Michael’s circulatory system struggling to deliver blood to outlying areas, succeeding only at finding the places where the red spots congregated. Ann’s slender but tight muscular arms were extended, her palms moving from the white sheets of the bed to her thighs, and back again, avoiding touching Michael. There was a mirror above the headboard and Ann saw herself. Her breasts were a healthy size, small cantalopes, and although firm, they were undulating up and down with each of her movements. She liked her body, and as her thick long blond hair moved, it tickled her back. It made her smile, almost giggle.
Michael was glad to see Ann smiling. Good. She’s enjoying it. He certainly was. He had never been to this part of Maine before, but there was something special that it gave him and that was a sense of peaceful isolation. And if you are going to be having a conjugal visit with Ann Coulter, it is best to be isolated, Michael thought. Michael reached out and grabbed Ann’s waist, a hand on each side. Ann’s waist curved in to a size where Michael thought his finger tips could actually touch each other. A hard thin body. He thought this was typical of conservatives. Very worked out, like Schwarznegger. Liberals might be thin, but they were thin from organic food and twigs and berries. Conservatives ate what they wanted and consumed whatever they wanted and then tried to cover it all up with exercise. Dishonest, but damn Ann had nice arms and shoulders.
Ann’s eyes went back into her head and her mouth opened, her breathing was harsh and noisy, grasping for oxygen as she shook and trembled. Michael also started to heave and he felt it. It came up his legs and into his thighs and it went down his belly and into his groin, meeting in one big explosion. Michael had almost forgotten what it was like. It had been so long, about three years actually. Four, five, six squirts of pleasure. Wow. Wow. Yes.
Ann reacted to Michael’s pleasure and she screamed. Yes, it was a scream, that is how Michael heard it. He wondered if there was anyone in Room 18 which was immediately on the otherside of the wall behind him. Ann muted her scream. Well, it wasn’t really a scream. It was just noise, muffled, channeled, controlled.
Ann went limp and fell to the bed. Michael’s body was taking up most of the real estate, so Ann fell to a sliver of bedsheets to Michael’s left. Ann was on her side, but she made the mistake of falling on her right side, facing a wall of white hairy flesh. A wall of Michael.
Ann Coulter and Michael Moore lied together in Room 17 of the Bangor Motel for several minutes without talking. Ann then pushed herself off the bed, stood and stretched. Michael watched Ann massage her arms and tight body with her long fingers, working the blood, her blond hair wet with sweat hung down almost to her waist.
“I’m taking a shower. Then we’ll have dinner,” said Ann.
Giving directions, thought Michael. Typical. He was hungry too. Dinner would be good. But he didn’t think it appropriate he join Ann in the shower. He would wash up afterwards.
To Be Continued.
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