Misty Pearl

By Ian W. Cooper

In Dawson’s Glen, mommas keep close eyes on their daughters and daddies are assumed to have a shotgun handy. Them’s just the the rules of engagement, but the young men cheerfully take their chances anyhow. Floyd’s just some boy who growed up in a holler, and not all that keen on hard work and application. He also has this magic phone number, and a souvenir postcard from the lady herself. Her name is Misty Pearl, and if her story don’t quite add up that’s fine with the boys. For she has considerable skills otherwise. A short story.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ian W. Cooper
• Release date: Mar 11, 2014
• ISBN: 9781927957233

Ian W. Cooper

Ian Cooper has written fiction, non-fiction and worked for newspapers and magazines. He likes to make people laugh as well as think. His writing has a strong sense of the dramatic. Out of work and recovering from a life-threatening illness, someone suggested writing his sexual memoirs, which he initially rejected for the amount of research involved. He didn’t want to have to make it all up from scratch. A single dad and semi-retired from his most recent experience in the construction industry, Ian squeezes a little writing time in between raising a daughter and building a home-based business.

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Misty Pearl

Ian W. Cooper

This Smashwords edition Copyright 2014 Ian Cooper and Long Cool One Books

Design: J. Thornton

ISBN 978-1-927957-23-3

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The following is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any person living or deceased, or to any places or events, is purely coincidental. Names, places, settings, characters and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination. The author’s moral rights to the proceeds of this work have been asserted.

Table of Contents

Scene One

Scene Two

Scene Three

About the Author

Misty Pearl

Ian Cooper

Scene One

A little fuck-party, Floyd? You’re outa your fuckin’ mind. Len seemed angry, yet the light of curiosity burned behind those eyes.

It sounded good and everything, but the chances of it ever happening were miniscule. Just take a quick look around. Everything you see around you is a message, and it says, ‘square.’ There was just no way a lightweight like Floyd would ever be able to pull it off.

That’s what Len was really saying.

Elmer Pickett, Clyde Jenkins, and a few other boys were standing around in front of the Drug Mart. Young bucks, they were all in town on a fine, June Saturday on one pretext or another. They were all life-long residents of The Holler, as it was called hereabouts. A more formal name would be Dawson’s Glen, a straggling village of about thirty-five hundred which meandered up and down the valley, bunching up at the occasional cross-road. Mouths were abruptly clamped shut as a man and a woman, preceded by two little girls in pretty clothes, strolled up to the doors and went in. The eyes had it all. Married, kids, mama and papa.

Square.

You’re full of shit, Moore.

Nope. I tell you it’s true, in fact I seen it—I been there, boys.

Did you fuck ‘er, Floyd? Merle leered, looking around for support.

"Ah, well, no, but I was just dropping off a case or two of beer—I never paid, so I didn’t get to go, don’t, ah, don’t you know. A beatific smile crossed his face. I seen this lady naked though."

He stood there looking superior.

Shoot! Mark Donnelly, for one, didn’t believe him, that’s for sure.

But, my good friends and colleagues, that’s how I got her name—and her phone number—and that’s how I made the present arrangements, gentlemen. He went on. "This will be my third evening of providing clean, fun and professional, ah, entertainment, gentlemen, and you-all can ask around. I