A 4th of July Mud Larking Adventure: Brooke Battles Bobby in the Mud!

"Hi Brooke," I said as I finally laid eyes on England's (unofficial) reigning 'Queen of Messiness,' the famous Brooke Maddison.

My long-awaited trip from Montana to the west side of Great Britain had been put on hold more than once. First, it was the Covid virus, which struck so quickly and with such devastating force, that brought virtually all inter-continental traffic to a halt. Then it was finances, and last year's visit was put on the backburner due to work obligations. Now, however, I was finally able to travel to merry ole England and a visit with my good friend, Brooke Maddison.

And since I was finally in England, Brooke had been harping on me to get out and see Mother Nature. And I had a pretty good idea about what parts of Mother Nature she wanted to show me. Ha!

As I looked down at her black, six-inch stiletto-style heels, with their cute little pink flowers, and saw how every step taken by my friend pushed those shoes deeper into the loose, mucky, soil, I finally commented, "You know Brooke, it doesn't make a lot of sense walking out here in those high heels."

"Oh, come on, Bobby," Brooke said behind a dazzling smile, "you just don't know the first thing about women's fashion."

"Ha!" I grinned at my new best friend. "I know you'll wind up on your impeccable ass if you aren't careful."

Wow! What an ass! And what boobs. She has the most perfect set of tits I've ever seen.

"Oh, come on, Bobby. Don't be such a wuss. I've done this a million times. What could possibly go wrong?"

I was just about to answer that question when something did go terribly wrong.

Not paying attention to where she was stepping, Brooke's right heel came down into a shallow depression that was obscured by an overflow of mud on the mound of soft turf we were walking. With a loud crack, I heard her heel snap off. And with the sudden loss of equilibrium, Brooke went head over heels off the soft berm we had been walking on for the last half hour. And when she landed, it was face-down in the sloppy muck of this back-country marsh.

SPLATTTT!

Shit! Me and my big mouth. I had to go bragging.

As she came up from the mire, Brooke was completely saturated with squishy, brown mud. And the look on her face was, how did that old commercial go, oh yeah, 'it was priceless!' Ha!

Oh, you just keep that silly grin on your face, Bobby. We'll see how much you . . .

Arrgghh!

SPLASH!

NO. Not again!

OH shit! I tried to hold in my laugh, but this time, I just couldn't. As my friend stood up, her left heel had dug in to the mucky grime, and when Brooke went to take another step, it was down she went, doing a header, or faceplant, straight into the mud, again. But this time, Brooke fell in the deep end of the mud pool. And when she hit, it was all in, as in completely under the mucky, almost syrupy mud. There were a few bubbles that came to the surface, but other than that, it was like Brooke Maddison had disappeared.

FUCK! Is she gonna be pissed?

As Brooke Maddison came out of that slimy pool of messy muck, she was beside herself.

Shit! Fuck! What the fu . . ., oh fuck me, Nooooo . . ."

Splatt!

Why me! Why me, Lord! It wasn't supposed to be this way . . .

As Brooke tried, repeatedly, to regain her footing and get out of the mire, she would stumble, or slip, or lose her footing, and then find herself back in the mud. And despite my best intentions, I couldn't help but laugh.

When Brooke finally regained her footing, and it took the better part of a minute, as she kept slipping and falling, over and over again, I could tell that my friend was not in her normally jovial mood. In fact, Brooke reminded me of that cartoon character back in the 60s. You know, the one that every time he got mad at Bugs Bunny a big boiling black cloud would form over his head. Yosemite Sam, yeah that was his name. I do believe if looks could kill, I would be dead, buried and already decomposed. And to say she was muddy would have been an understatement. Brooke Maddison was completely covered from head to toe. Not one square inch of her beautiful body remained unscathed by the brown mire she had fallen into.

Fuck me! As I stood there, looking at the woman I had travelled so far to see, I could feel a swelling in my loins, if you get my drift.

Wow!

"Are you okay, Brooke?"

"Do I LOOK okay?"

Brooke's snippy reply came on the heels of a stormy look that forebode dire consequences to anyone who crossed her path. And I knew that someone would be me, if I was not careful.

"Actually, you look fantastic. But then again, I have always liked big-boobed women covered in mud."

Don't laugh, Bobby. Whatever you do, do not laugh!

I was doing my best not to laugh. I kept telling myself over and over, 'do not laugh.'

And I was doing a pretty good job of it.

And then she had to go and jinx it.

"Don't . . . you . . . DARE . . . Laugh!"

And that was all it took. I couldn't help myself. Every ounce of willpower left my very being, and I burst out laughing.

You son-of-a-bitch . . . I'm going to . . . oh you just wait and see . . .

"I'm sorry, Brooke. I wasn't going to laugh. And I was doing a good job until you had to jinx it by saying, "Don't you dare laugh."

After calming down just a wee bit, I added, "So, it's just as much your fault as it is mine. Don't cha see."

As I looked at Brooke, standing in that muck up to her waist and with mud streaming down her body, I saw a range of emotions cross her mucky face.

"My fault. MY FAULT! Did you just say it was my fault?"

"Well, it . . . "

"Yeah. About that . . ." But then she stopped, and in the next moment, Brooke said with a slight smile breaking the line of mud on her lips. "Why don't you give me a hand."

Now, as I stood there gazing upon the muddy statue that Brooke Maddison had become, an object of beauty that would have rivaled Aphrodite, herself, I pointed my index finger at my friend, not realizing just how precarious my position had become, nor just how close my finger was from Brooke's outstretched hand.

I found out in the next instance, when my friend, my dear friend, grabbed my wrist with both of her mucky hands, and yanked me into the mud.

With a startled cry, I found myself flying through the air, and the next thing I knew, I was landing with a loud splash in the grimy muck that so covered Brooke. Well now, it covered me, too. Ha!

"Shit." I got up laughing as I looked down upon my muddy clothes and then looked at Brooke.

"I must get you, for that," I said sounding just like Dolph Lundgren in Rocky 4 when he said that he "must destroy" Rocky Balboa.

As I continue laughing, now Brooke joined in, and I knew everything was going to be alright.

And as I've always said, I don't mind getting messy as long as I can get you just as messy, so I grabbed Brooke by the hips and threw her down in the muck once more.

After that, she snared the flapping ends of my shirt tail, which had escaped my trashed trousers, and pulled me back into the brown muck, of almost pudding-type consistency, beside her. Over and over, we pulled or threw each other in the mud. Time after time, we hurled big globs of mud on each other.

After our final plunge in some of England's finest mud, we came up for air, dripping brown goo. And then we started laughing. At first, it was just some soft chuckles from two really good friends who had been acting kind of silly, but as realization came, we soon began laughing our fool heads off.

Finally, Brooke and I crawled out of that mire and sat on a nearby berm. As brown mucky goo, from our saturated hair, dripped down our faces and cascaded over our bodies to splatter on the ground, I looked into Brooke's gentle eyes. Though happy, I also saw something else, perhaps . . . melancholy.

"What's wrong, Brooke?"

As I gazed into the muddy face of my new best friend forever, I felt a sense of trouble, a forlorn look.

"What's the matter, Brooke? You can tell me."

"It's just," a sob escaped her mud-covered lips, as she strove to find the right words.

"I . . . I . . . I . . . wanted . . . it . . . to be perfect."

"For you, I mean," Brooke added.

"Brooke, it is perfect. You . . . are perfect!"

"But . . . it's not . . . not what I . . ."

"Brooke," and I put my finger, my right index finger, to her grimy lips. "Baby . . . relax."

"Everything is going to be alright, dear," I said in a soft voice, almost a whisper, "don't sweat the little things."

"But . . . but I . . . I wanted to . . . to surprise you. I wanted to . . . get fully decked out. You know. Don't you?"

As my eyes roamed over Brooke's mud-soaked body, I thought back to my first view of her.

From the skin-tight blue jean "short" shorts, made famous by Catherine Bach as Daisy Duke in the late 70s, that covered the most magnificent ass I have ever seen, to the body-builder legs, long, lean, powerfully built and yet not muscle-bound like true body builders, Brooke's lower half was amazing. But it was this modern-day goddess's torso that riveted heads of every man who walked by. The sheer white button-down satin top, strained to the nth degree by the magnificent breasts that were not restrained by a bra, covering her upper body was simply impeccable. Every item of clothing, from the simple top to the hardly-larger-than-a-postage stamp bottoms was strategically designed to enhance the unadorned sexuality that defined Brooke Maddison. Throw in one of the most beautiful faces I have ever seen, enhanced by just the right amount of makeup, not too much, not too gaudy, just right, perfect in other words. Just like everything about Brooke Maddison was perfect.

"Bobby," Brooke said, her eyes now dry, "I wanted everything to be perfect. I wanted to get out here and get dressed in my best latex outfit . . . you know. The one that you love so much. The one that has the cutouts, so my boobs stick out. You have always said how much you liked that outfit."

"I wanted to wear that outfit . . . for you. And I wanted to wear the bunny rabbit headgear, just like I did for Easter, only this one was all black. I wanted . . ."

"What baby? What did you want?" I said, as I took Brooke in my arms. "What did you want? You can tell me."

"I wanted to get decked out, then get covered in mud . . . with you . . . and then . . ."

"And then what, baby?" I gently asked as my lips found hers.

"I wanted us to make love."

"Yeah?"

"Yes, baby," Brooke replied, both to my gentle words and to the pressure of my lips against hers, "I wanted everything to be perfect. And then I wanted you to want me."

As I looked into the mist-filled eyes of the only woman I had ever truly loved, "Brooke, I have always wanted you."

As I looked at her, at Brooke Maddison, the hottest thing to come across the Ultimate Messy Directory since . . . well since chocolate pudding. Ha! A slow smile crossed my lips.

"Brooke Maddison . . . you are Perfect! Perfect, and I mean that from the bottom of my heart."

"Do you know what I think is wrong?"

"No," she whispered in a tear-filled tone.

"You are a creature of perfection," I said as I took her grubby hands and held them against my muddy chest. "You like everything to be perfect because you are perfect. You plan everything down to the tiniest degree. And . . . this is the first time things have not worked out the way you wanted them to."

Now I moved even closer to this beautiful English woman, who in such a short time had managed to capture my heart. As I gazed upon Brooke's mud-caked face, with slimy goo cascading down from the top of her head and flowing over that radiant look, to bounce off her more than ample breasts before finally dripping down to the ground where Brooke's mud-drenched feet resided, I could hear the gears working inside her brain, as she started to take in what I was saying.

"The difference between you and I, and please don't take this wrong, Brooke," I said while gazing longingly into her beautiful eyes, "the difference between us is you like to plan everything and follow through, while I will make a great game plan but then adjust as things start going wrong."

"No," I put up one finger as she started to speak, "please hear me out, then I will listen to everything you have to say, ok?" I said this with a smile to lessen the sting.

"Like any good football coach, or wartime general, I will always make the best gameplan I can. But, to quote Clint Eastwood in one of his movies, I will 'improvise, adapt, overcome' if something goes wrong."

"And you know what," I said with just a touch of melancholy in my voice, "in the real world, something will always go wrong. Nothing is perfect. We are not perfect. And I have learned to accept that."

"One last thing, my love," I said as I saw a smile start to cross Brooke's muddy face, "it's okay, if you aren't perfect all the time. It's okay if things don't always go the way you want. I will still love you."

Then I kissed Brooke on her lips, softly at first, but then, as she started to respond, to come around, so did I. After a long time, we came up for air. And once, again, I saw this most beautiful of beautiful smiles come across Brooke's mud-soaked face.

"Thank you, Bobby. Thank you so very much."

"You're welcome, Brooke."

Then I saw a mischievous grin light up Brooke's face.

"You know what, Bobby?"

"No, baby, what?"

"You're not dirty enough." And as she stuck out her tongue, Brooke Maddison pushed me into the mud again.