Boy was it going to be the best year ever for Trudy Stufflebean. 1962 and Trudy was a perky blond girl of 23, she was going to ride her big boobs and blazing white smile all the way to the big city. 1962 and she was finally about to bust out of small town living, leave her family’s hog farm in a cloud of dust as she sped off on the back of her boyfriend’s Harley, black leather seat stuffed intimately into her crotch.
It was the summer of 1962 and Trudy could picture this, the twilight Harley getaway, as she sat atop a duffel bag overstuffed with hot pants and tube tops, hair spray and romance novels to be read under the dim lamplight of salacious highway motels.
1962 was going to be the last year that Trudy waded around up to her thighs in mucous-y muck, refilling the slop in the pig pen while defending herself from horny hogs intent on dry-humping her legs. 1962 and Trudy was going to escape her father’s cracking leather belt and her mother’s swatting wooded spoon and the town drunk’s unzipping pants.
Trudy’s boyfriend Earl was going to come and rescue her, he was going to whisk her away on the back of his Harley and they were going to start a new life in Las Vegas. Earl was going to be a croupier and maybe do some tattoos with the handmade gun he fashioned to emblazon his biker gang with the flaming knife insignia he designed. Earl was proud of that design, he sketched it one day off the top of his head when he was waiting for his daddy to come home from prison.
And Trudy, she was going to be a show girl. She knew all about jutting out her pelvis to make the men in the front row lick their lips. She was looking forward to wearing a real headdress, after practicing for a month with her father’s prized deer antlers, making sure to replace them on the wall when she heard the crunch of his tires on the lane as he returned home from the bar.
That summer night of 1962, Trudy sat on the porch for three hours waiting for the headlights of Earl’s bike to peek over the hill. But Earl never came. He ran off with Holga Swanson instead, because she stole five grand from her lawyer daddy and they ditched his hog for her Mustang convertible. Plus, Holga would touch his asshole with her tongue and didn’t crinkle her nose at the skid marks on his underwear like Trudy always did.
It is now 2008 and Trudy Stufflebean, who has inherited her family’s pig farm, has lost the perk in her boobs and the sparkle of her teeth have been masked by a yellowed veneer. Trudy still reads romance novels but no longer struts around in makeshift headdresses. Trudy’s head still snaps when she hears the revving of a motorcycle engine in the distance, she cries when she sees flaming knives; Trudy is still morally opposed to salad tossing. Trudy makes supplemental income by traveling to Wal-Marts, K-marts and Big Lots in the Heartland where she instructs teen girls on tampon insertion and she warns of the horrors of pelvic inflammatory disease — the closest she’ll get to thrusting a sequin-swathed pelvis. Trudy no longer wears hot pants but she still has a camel toe.
Trudy Stufflebean goes home at the end of a long day to replenish the slop in the troughs. Sometimes, Trudy eats some slop too, and no longer cares when the horny hogs hump her leg.
(Photo courtesy of my friend Angie.)