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Bad Taste in your Mouth

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SSHOLE

Posts: 4540
Registered: 3/8/2002
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12/17/2002 at 14:25

It's Wednesday. The day for the weekly handjob.

After dinner -- Kraft cheese and macaroni, ground beef in ugly little lumps with ketchup, and diet orange soda -- he races to the bedroom. It's 8:15. He's trying to hurry things along. She knows this trick, calls her mom, files her nails, watches something dumb on ABC until 10:00. She leaves the nails a little ragged on purpose. Sometimes she can "slip" and get extra mileage out of the weekly handjob. It made him curse last time like a Chinese devil.

He lies in bed, wishing wishes about life. Singing rock songs measured to get her into the mood: White Lion, Foreigner, Earth Wind and Fire. She can hear but ignores. She has a job to do but doesn't have to like it.

At 10:00 (the usual time) she maneuvers her bulk into the bedroom, the scene of the weekly shame. His head immediately orients toward her, his eyes open and hopeful as Bambi. He can't ask, after all. It has to be offered. Every motion is weighed and checked on the chart in his head, spinning out a moving average of "will I get the handjob tonight or not?" The line is currently somewhere around 65% likely. He was never much good at math, though -- could be less. Hope owns him, hard anxious hope that makes him feel like a fetus trying to stay in the womb. She teases, the bitch. Tosses clothes in the hamper, cooing over his dirty socks. This is a ritual between them. He likes to get her dirty. She pretends to hate it, not telling him about that fling with the mechanic when she was 19 and the tricks they played with his car lift and the oil pans and the oil. None of his business anyway.

Tying her hair back for the night, she turns out the light and crawls into bed. He's there eager like a hound. In his head, a turbulent game of ping-pong is racing back and forth. He can't ask but he can hint. He arches his back, placing his hours of erection on her leg, body in a tight C shape, head and feet on his side of the bed, hopeful bits in her jurisdiction. Prayers. She shifts, sighs moodily. He can feel the losing. He better capitalize on the moment.

"It's Wednesday, hon. Wednesday. You know Wednesday." He can barely keep the eagerness out of his voice.

She snorts. "Did you take out the garbage?"

"Yes!"

"Did you get new flowers for the dining room table?"

"No... you didn't tell me to!" Whining now a little, he wants to grip her bathrobe in his fists but better not.

"Do I have to tell you EVERYTHING?"

"Hon... it's Wednesday. I'll get flowers tomorrow, I swear!"

"Oh, get your dirty dick off me. Go to sleep, you ape."

Denied again. Maybe next Wednesday.

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HOBO

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^SSHOLE

Posts: 1144
Registered: 3/19/2002
Offline

12/17/2002 at 15:07

Monday is garbage night.

____________________
" I have never understood the female capacity to avoid a direct answer to any question." ~Spock~