The Lucky Star House of Celestial Pleasures

The Lucky Star House

of

Celestial Pleasures

by

Hank Kellner

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2013 by Hank Kellner

Thank you for downloading this eBook. The Lucky Star House of Celestial Pleasures is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental

Other Smashwords Books by Hank Kellner

Terror at Mirror Lake

I Don’t Wanna Be an Orange Anymore!

The Taste of Appalachia

Chapter One

Marge Leaves Me and I Meet Alandra

Before you begin reading this book, let me tell you that most of the events you’ll read about are so outlandish, unbelievable, and politically incorrect that you won’t believe they happened. But take my word for it: they did. After all, why would I lie to you? In any event, you’ll just have to read on and draw your own conclusions.

Call me Winston. It was a bright cold day in April when the clock struck 11:30 that my life changed forever. I never thought it would happen to me. But it did. One minute I was a married man. And then, almost before you could count your toes, I was a divorced sixty-five-year-old retired stockbroker with plenty of money I’d earned by taking advantage of my clients for many years.

I don’t think I’ll ever forget that day because that’s when Marge packed her bags, hailed a cab, and went off to live in Mississippi with her girlfriend Monica. Why she chose Monica, I don’t know.

Maybe she liked the alliterative sound of the names Marge and Monica. Or maybe she just decided she liked girls. Who knows?

And why she chose Mississippi will always be a mystery to me. Before our marriage fell apart, we’d lived in an expensive apartment on Central Park West in the Big Apple. Not exactly Monte Carlo, but not the bottom of the barrel, either.

And in better times we’d traveled to Rome, Madrid, Paris, London, Prague, and even Baghdad before it became a war zone.

As you can see, Marge wasn’t exactly what you’d call unsophisticated. That’s why what she planned to do in Mississippi would forever challenge the world’s deepest thinkers beginning with Aristotle and continuing to Einstein.

But who can figure out what goes on in the mind of a woman who spends most of her free time shopping and doing lunch with her girlfriends? Or painting her toenails while she watches soaps, home shopping shows, and reality shows on TV?

Don’t try to find me, she said as she stormed past me one day in April. I’m tired of you. You’re fat. You don’t work more than an hour a day. You have hair growing out of your ears. You fart in bed every ten minutes. And as if that isn’t bad enough, you laugh when you pull the covers over my head and make me gag. I hate that. You’re a pig, Winston Finn! Of course, I didn’t want to fan the flames by telling her that the times I farted in bed were among the best times I ever had with her while we were married.

But I did tell her that, as far as weight was concerned, she was packing more than a few extra pounds herself. As you can imagine, she didn’t appreciate my comment. As a matter of fact, her response brought to mind the eruption of Krakatoa during the 19th Century. My lawyer will be in touch with you, she erupted, and when that happens, you won’t have enough money left to buy a roll of toilet paper.

After that, I moped around for a few weeks before I got so horny I could have made out with a telephone pole. Time to get back into the dating pool, I thought.

Determined to succeed—and very mindful of Marge’s toilet paper threat—I told myself that being sixty-five years old wouldn’t be a problem because, as everyone knew, younger women preferred older men. And if younger women weren’t easily available, then the same must be true for rich widows and other older women who were hungry for love.

Luckily, I thought, I wouldn’t have to worry about the problem that plagues all the other men you see in the TV commercials. The last time I tried, I didn’t have to use those expensive blue pills to get my engine started. So that was a plus.

Of course, Marge being who she is, I couldn’t even remember the last time I’d had sex with a woman. For all I knew, it could have been during the 12th Century.

Nevertheless, I was confident that my old soldier could still stand at attention and salute the flag.

A few nights after I made my decision, I polished my black shoes, got dressed up in my blue business suit, chose a nice tie that didn’t have soup stains on it, and set out for McClapperty’s Pub, a local watering spot known for its shepherd’s pie and the numerous female customers who frequented it.

I’d found out about McClapperty’s from one of the guys at the Veterans Administration hospital who claimed that he scored big every time he went there. Of course, I didn’t believe him because he weighed about 500 pounds and couldn’t get out of his wheelchair without using a crane. What’s more, his wife looked like a woman who could kill you by mental telepathy.

In spite of my reservations, I hoped that at McClapperty’s I’d hook up with a young lass who was long on looks and short on brains. Or maybe one who was short on looks and even shorter on brains. Anxious as I was to prime my pump once again, it really didn’t matter to me. As a matter of fact, I would have settled for the Wicked Witch of the West.

Because McClapperty’s was like a million other Irish bars you can find anywhere, I won’t need to describe it except to tell you about the music.

As usual, the television set above the bar was tuned to a soccer match while at the same time a tape deck or CD player pumped out music that would have made Ivan the Terrible or Vlad the Impaler break down and cry. Over the sounds of the soccer game I could hear the plaintive words of a song titled Goodbye Sweet Mother, I’m off to the Wars Never to Return. This was followed by There Will Be No Peace in Northern Ireland Until All the Protestants Are Dead.

Crossing myself fervently even though I’m an atheist, I sidled up to the bar, tried not to inhale any of the cigarette smoke that blanketed the area like fog over London, and ordered a beer.

To my dismay, I didn’t see any single women in McClapperty’s. But I did see quite a few couples and some single men, one of whom eyed me affectionately. Not wanting to offer him any false hope, I looked away and pretended to watch the soccer game.

But then, as if by magic, a woman I hadn’t seen because she’d been lurking in the shadows appeared next to me and asked, Are you alone?

My God, I thought, surely this was a gift from heaven (if there is a heaven). Surely this miraculous appearance would lead me down the road to a night of passion, no-holds-barred sex, and unrestrained physical joy.

Uh, yes, I responded. What about you?

Of course I am, she responded, eyeing me the way a Kindergarten teacher looks at kids who poop in their pants. Would I have asked you if you were alone if I weren’t?

Very logical, I thought, leaning forward so that I could see my new companion more clearly through the smoke. I guess she was about fifty or so and not too bad looking. She was maybe 5' 6" tall and a little full-figured. If she were to lose about thirty pounds, she would have been just right. But her breasts were so full and tempting that I had trouble pretending that I wasn’t staring at them

No problem though, I thought. At least my potential lover wasn’t a female wrestler. Or, worse yet, one of the Wicked Witch of the West’s cousins. What’s more, a starving man should never turn up his nose at anything that comes his way—not even the leftovers from his mother-in-law’s lunch.

My new companion said that her name was Jeanette, but that she preferred to be called Alandra. When I responded that Alandra wasn’t exactly a common name, she said it had something to do with the moon. I think she mentioned a heavenly moon goddess who was her spiritual sister in the world beyond reality, wherever that was.

But to tell the truth, I don’t remember exactly what she said because I wasn’t thinking about anything even remotely connected to things celestial at that point—unless, of course, a good firm erection followed by a massive orgasm could be considered celestial.

We chatted for a while as she pretended to be interested in who I was, where I came from, and what I thought of the plight of the homeless. Trying desperately not to reveal my hidden agenda, I lied repeatedly while I tried to appear sincere.

Then, as I pretended to want to find out more about Alandra, I noticed that still another merry Irish tune was coming through the loudspeakers. Ignoring the loud noises of the soccer game, I concentrated on a wonderful tenor who sang this little elegy with great emotion: You Were a Wonderful Man, Sean O’Leary, But You Shouldn’t Have Run Off With My Wife, And That’s Why I Killed You. At the end of the song, the announcer pointed out that it had been at the top of the charts for forty-seven weeks.

After about an hour or so of chitchat, listening to the music, and lying to each other, Alandra put her hand on my knee and asked, Would you like to come up to my place? I have wine. We could talk more and get to know each other better.

Would I like to go up to her place? Do birds fly? Do babies poop in their diapers? Do fish swim?

I don’t know, I responded slyly. After all, we barely know each other. And I’m not the kind of guy who likes to, uh, you know what I mean, don’t you? Having established my innocence, I sat back and waited for Alandra’s response.

No problem, honey, she replied. I’m not the kind of girl who gives herself away unless I’m in a deep, meaningful, loving, committed relationship. We could just drink some wine, listen to music, get to know each other better, and decide if we want to go out again.

This was too good to be true, I thought. Never before during my lifetime had I hit a home run the first time at bat!

Feigning reluctance, I said, I suppose we could do that, Alandra. I certainly do want to get to know you better, especially since we might become good friends in the future.

I suppose that each of us knew the other was lying, but what the hell! I may have been new to the dating game, but I was learning a lot in a very short time.

We took a cab to Alandra’s place, which was a ground floor unit in an apartment building not far from McClapperty’s. I remember that it was just beginning to get dark, and that it was quite warm.

It was a very nice place, even though every square inch of it was occupied by one piece of junk or another. Looking around, I could see many dolls, lots of small statues, more than ten lamps and pillows, and enough candles to light all the cathedrals in Europe. I saw some statues of elephants, too.

Alandra walked over to one of the small tables scattered about the room, struck a match, and lit some incense.

Don’t you just love the aroma of incense? she purred. I find it so very sensual.

Oh, yes, I responded, stifling the cough that rose in my throat. How could I tell her that I’d rather sniff pepper than inhale what I thought must have been cow dung set on fire?

And how about a little soothing music? she continued as she fired up her CD player. It’s so calming and relaxing that it carries me off to another world.

Me too, Alandra, I agreed, wincing slightly. Because I could see that she was setting the scene for what could be an exciting evening, I didn’t want to spoil things by telling her that I hated music that sounded like it was recorded in a bazaar in Calcutta.

Now that the incense was smoldering away and the music was whining through the air, Alandra moved to a corner of the room and switched on one of those table top waterfalls that had been popular ten or fifteen years earlier.

Ahh, she sighed, as water gurgled over the little rocks in the unit. Isn’t that just like the sound of nature? So peaceful. So spiritual.

And so suggestive that I found myself aching to visit the bathroom to empty my bladder.

But before I could do that, Alandra guided me toward her sofa and asked, Would you like a nice glass of wine?

That would be wonderful.

She disappeared into what I supposed was the kitchen and returned with two glasses of wine. I think it was red, but I’m not sure.

As she sat down next to me, she said, You know, I’m a very spiritual person. I attend the Little Church in the Meadow Near a Stream. We don’t really pray, or anything like that. We just meet under the sky once a week, sing praises to the clouds, and try to experience the essence of life—and of each other—while we seek the secrets of happy, wholesome living.

Oh, that’s impressive, I lied as I wondered how much time would pass before Alandra and I finally became spiritual enough to sing praises to the sky, experience the essence of life, and ultimately have happy, wholesome orgasms.

At the same time, I hoped that I wouldn’t have to attend the Little Church in the Meadow Near a Stream before that could happen. As I saw it, becoming religious all of a sudden would take up too much of my time. But as it turned out, it didn’t take long for Alandra to make her move. One minute she was sipping her wine discreetly, and the next minute she was kissing me so fervently that I thought she’d blow a fuse before we moved from the living room to her bedroom.

I always felt that kissing a woman should be like brushing a canvas with a feather. Or teasing her with a rose petal. But when I felt her tongue probing my mouth insistently and without letup, I discovered that Alandra subscribed to a different theory.

Holy canola, I thought. The woman’s a slurper. If I didn't exercise caution, she’d probably work her way down my throat and choke me to death.

Oh, kiss me, kiss me, she panted.

Screwing up my courage because I didn’t want to disappoint her, I abandoned my notion of feathers and rose petals and met her challenge. Frankly, I didn’t find exploring the inside of her mouth that thrilling or exciting.

But as I said earlier, a starving man should never turn up his nose at anything that comes his way.

Apparently, Alandra felt the same way about a starving woman because, as she continued to pant and slurp her way to what for her must have been herShangri-la, she slid one hand down my body and rested it on my upper thigh. At the same time, she unbuttoned her blouse. Then, with one quick flick of the wrist, she unhooked the front of her bra to reveal her more than ample breasts.

Do you love me? she asked between slurps. I can’t do this unless you say you love me.

Did I love her? What a silly question! There we sat with Alandra’s splendid boobs heaving passionately just inches from my hungry eyes and her hand on my thigh, and she wanted to know if I loved her!

I love you more than all the stars in the sky, I replied. More than all the water in the oceans. More than all the trees in the forest. What the hell, I thought. I’d told so many lies to clients during my lifetime that a few more certainly wouldn’t matter.

Ohh, she sighed as she unzipped my fly. Do you have some, uh, protection with you? I think I’m gonna lose control.

I was once a boy scout, Cassandra. I replied. Of course I’m prepared. Once a boy scout, always a boy scout.

Oh, I’m so glad. You’re the first man I’ve been with in sixteen years, and I don’t wanna take any chances. By the way, I'm Alandra, not Cassandra.

I think you could safely bet your bottom dollar that if I was the first man Alandra had been with in sixteen years, ducks don’t quack, geese don’t fly, and roosters don’t crow..

But before I could reach into my pocket for my protection, my willing partner gave out a mini shriek and exclaimed, Oh, my God! You don’t even have an erection. She sounded like she’d seen a mouse.

Well, I could have told her that my soldier was still at ease, but because I’d never had a problem rising to the occasion before, I thought I’d respond appropriately after things heated up to a greater extent and my blood began to flow more freely.

But I never had a chance to find out.

Oh, oh, oh, sputtered my soon-to-be-forgotten lover as she moved her hand away from me as quickly as if she’d touched a hot griddle. I think you’d better leave. Oh, I’ve never been so disappointed in my life.

Disappointed! What did she know about disappointment? At that point, I could have conducted a seminar on disappointment.

Imagine, if you will, a cloud of misery so dark that you can’t see the nose on your face. Then throw in some of the loudest thunder you’re ever heard. Finally, while you’re in that dark place, imagine yourself jumping off a high cliff onto the rocks that line the shore below it. That’s disappointment!

Luckily for me, the nearest high cliff was a few hundred miles away, and I wasn’t about to drive that far to kill myself when I could have done so right in my own back yard.

As a matter of fact, I decided not to kill myself just because I was suffering from what I called Post Divorce Syndrome (PDS), one of the countless syndromes that plague our society.

So I zipped up my fly, tried to regain whatever dignity I had left, and walked out of Alandra’s place without saying a word.

The next day, she called and left a message on my answering machine. I’m sorry about last night, she said. Please call me.

I deleted the message immediately.

That’s when I decided to try to get rid of my PDS by going on a long road trip, a pilgrimage across America if you wish.

Chapter Two

Wally Johnson Is Converted and Then Unconverted

One of the best things about traveling is that you get to meet many different people. As I sat down with my atlas and yellow highlighter to plan my modern pilgrimage across the country, I wondered. who I'd meet. Circus performers? Magicians? Religious zealots? Beautiful women? Down-on-their-luck drifters? Thieves and murderers? Others who had interesting backgrounds and exciting stories to tell?

Or would I meet only ordinary people who lived and died in a vacuum, whose lives were as bland as a cup of yogurt? People who passed through life like the wind over the desert?

As it turned out, I met enough interesting and colorful characters to form an army. And I even met a wonderful young lady who became my traveling companion. I’ll tell you about her later.

I met Wally Johnson one day at the Qwik ‘N Easy Lube, Tire, Auto Repair and Pre-Owned auto section of my local Gall Mark Humongous Super Duper Value Center, where you could buy anything from a hot dog to a house. I was there for tires.

Wally was probably in his early fifties. Slumped in his chair, he looked a bit shopworn. His hair was disheveled, his clothes were a mess, and his right eye twitched. Occasionally, he sat upright and stared into the distance. Life, I could see, had taken its toll on him.

He was waiting to have the transmission in his Atoyot Cellina replaced. The car’s brand new, he said, "but the dealer who sold it to me claimed that the all-inclusive 100,000 Mile No-Holds-Barred-Why Worry Warranty was invalid because I’d changed the oil at 3,500 miles rather than at 3,000 miles.

I called the Atoyot people on their 800 number to complain, but no one spoke English, he added. What’s more, the dealer claimed that I’d driven the car irresponsibly.

That’s not unusual, I replied. I once called an 800 number for help with my computer and spoke to someone in India who sent me an E-mail recipe for beef stew.

That’s when the service manager squeezed into the tiny waiting room and reported that in addition to new tires, I would need