Lubricia’s back with another reader letter!
Hello, lovers! I’m Lubricia Cosmoline, your hoe-stess of “After Dark.” As a long-time aficionado of everything that goes “bang,” I seek to offer a platform for all of your most intimate, personal experiences in the world of guns and hunting. I’ve seen it all—a .50 BMG can’t go too far for me! So sit back, unholster, and get ready for today’s letter…I call it “My 10-Inch Groups.”
Dear Lubricia Cosmoline,
I never thought it would happen to me, but one night with a real expert has taught me how to overcome one of my greatest challenges. You see, Lubricia, as a stunning redhead with long, curly hair, high cheekbones, and a butt that just won’t quit, I’ve always been self-conscious about my shooting skills. Specifically, the size of my groups. All the other girls get to go strolling off the range with targets showing teeny little groups, while mine are basically like someone was throwing hot dogs down a hallway. That is, of course, until I met her.
I was at the range late one night, all by myself. All the other girls had gone home by then, so happy and satisfied by those itty-bitty, tight little groups on their targets. I was seething with envy—I try so hard and spend so much time taking instruction from so very many “teachers,” but my holes just kept getting wider and wider. I had just pulled my latest disaster of a target off the backstop, and I was so frustrated I was jumping up and down on it and wailing like a very busty foghorn when I heard a soft, sexy and bosomy voice from behind me.
“Oh, babe,” she said, “What’s got you all upset?”
“This,” I sniffled, picking my filthy bullseye off the ground. “I work so hard. It’s not fair.” Only then did I see that she was practically ancient—at least 25, maybe even 26—but her enormous rack was still defying gravity and the wisdom implied in her sparkling black eyes reassured me.
“Oh dear,” she cooed. “Well, may I see your pistol?”
“Go ahead,” I sobbed. “It’s clear.”
“I know, babe, but I have to check,” said the crone, slipping one finger deftly into my chamber. I gasped at her audacity. How dare she doubt my word?
“Who do you think you are?” I said, stomping my feet angrily.
“I’m Miss Virginia Kegel,” she answered calmly, still testing my chamber with practiced ease. “Hmm,” she mused MILFily. “It looks like maybe your tolerances are too loose.”
“They are not!” I snapped. “I’ll have you know I always wait until the third date!”
“No, I mean your 1911,” she replied cheekily. “Some of the older ones need a little…tuning up…because they were originally designed to run dirty.” She winked at me, knowingly, then she slapped the magazine right into my magwell without so much as a how-do-you-do. Bringing the gun on target, she murmured, “Let me take it for a little test-drive here.”
Lubricia, I just couldn’t believe it. Despite the fact that she was so unimaginably superannuated, when she brought her target back, there was nothing on it but one small, neat little hole. It was so unfair! “How did you do that?” I whined.
“It’s not the gun,” she murmured, ignoring me. “And it’s not the ammo. Would you like to try a little exercise with me?”
I didn’t think she could really help me, of course. Everyone says my form is perfect, after all. But I decided to humor her, and sent another bullseye downrange.
“Not there,” grinned Miss Kegel, pushing the button to bring the target closer. It was barely 3 yards away by the time she brought it to a stop. “Get your sights aligned, put that perfect index finger on the switch, and practice your squeeze.”
Lubricia, for the first time, I realized that I never really think about squeezing—I guess I just figured it was the gun’s fault for not having a long enough barrel. So when I tried squeezing instead of just giving that trigger a slap and tickle…something magical happened. I hit the target—not just once, but eight times—and all I made was one small, ragged hole.
“Why isn’t mine as neat as yours?” I complained to Virginia.
“Everyone’s groups are a little bit different,” she soothed, patting me on my perfect rear. “It’s normal for them to look a bit ragged—especially after a long, strenuous night like the one you’ve just had.”
Ever since then, Lubricia, I’ve been working on my trigger squeeze and all my drills have been slow-fire. But my groups just keep getting smaller—even though I’m shooting as much or more than I did before!