by Tomi Shaw
(02/09/05)
You wear it. Whatever it is he asks, you take it out of the closet, from under all the rag-day underwear in the farthest corner of your panty drawer, off the rack at the adult store where all the strippers, hookers, and bored husbands shop, and drape yourself in it. The auburn wig of waist length curls bobby-pinned over the brunette passed on through your mother's DNA, hiding the simple bob. Thick black eyeliner, electric blue metallic cream eyeshadow and Chianti red lipstick, juicy with gloss. A long black coat before walking out the door, the material soft against freshly shaved legs.
He's waiting on you...somewhere...preplanned. He's waiting on you to get him off, and this is how he likes it. Public. With strangers. You know one of the reasons he likes it is because he thinks you hate it. The pleasure is that you choose, safety is the ring wrapped around your finger, your husband is in the corner. He's proud of the hard-on pushing against his sweat pants. It's weak, is what you think.
The bartender mixes a perfect margarita and smiles beatifically at the tip. You're looking, not at hands or feet, pretty eyes or smiles, rich shoes or suit jackets. Necks. You want one your hands won't go all the way around, one you know can handle pressure, squeezing. Tonight, the pick has two buddies with him, both with scrawny necks and a girl or two apiece ogling them. The guy with the thick neck is chugging pitchers of beer. No one notices but you.
Grabbing a waitress, you send him a shot of bourbon and a note. When he sits next to you on the empty stool, you say, "I like the taste of bourbon." He nods, gets ready to ask something, probably stupid. So you stall it, "Hush." He's startled, unsettled even. "I talk. You do." Give it a beat to sink in. "Okay?" He almost speaks, then nods. He's got it.
You start: "I'm wearing red under this coat...a bra...crotchless panties. I'm wet. Feel me." He does. "Put my clit between your fingers and slowly squeeze it. Then go around in circles." You talk him all the way through a quiet orgasm at the bar. Then you tell him to follow you to the bathroom, and you walk easily into the men's room. Straddling the toilet, you slip a condom over his thick cock, spread your legs and tell him to have at you. When the bathroom door opens and closes smoothly then a stall door clicks shut, you know your husband has his dick in his hand. "Talk to me," you tell your guy as you wrap your hands around his neck, squeezing. His voice is thick. He says stuff like "hot pussy" and "my cock" and "fuck" and "bitch." And it is hot, and you are going to come. He bites into the bra, stifling a yell. You bite him back, doing the same.
Adjust clothing and with smiles, you head back to the vacated barstools, except now there's another chat-up going on. He orders two shots of bourbon. You click glasses, pour the drink in your mouth, let it burn everything before swallowing. A kiss on the cheek and walk out.
The drive home is when stuff annoys you. Fluids making you stick to the leather, sore nipples from the scratch of the padded bra, razor burn. You don't even shower before sliding into bed, just dropped the coat in the closet. Your husband will be home shortly, and he'll slide in beside you. His soft dick might rub against your leg. He doesn't want anything else. Not from you, anyway, which is just the way you want it. You've already planned the conversation come the day he might want to flip the roles. "No, watching and listening isn't my thing. It's yours." You close your eyes and pray you can fall asleep before he gets home. What he doesn't know is that you don't want to stop.
