Welcome back Phil...
When she’s rocking on top of him, he imagines taking his hands from her near perfect tits and reaching up, wrenching her wicked bony throat, watching her eyes turn from pleasure to emptiness. She leans back, her hands down by his knees. He has to think about his girlfriend Trisha to delay his orgasm, though his Honey-babe is going soft, her face loose and glassy and she’s faking another one, throwing herself on him. He gets a nose full of hair goo, hot breath curdles his eardrum, their bodies sticking together.
He over-groans through the finish line and she falls off, in cuddle mode replete with communication. Well, it’s just her blathering and he’s hoping to stay awake long enough so she’ll make him bacon and eggs for breakfast.
Oatmeal. With water. She knows he prefers milk. Women will never understand the fatigue of horseplay. Not worth pondering, cuz he’s got to morph into white collar guy; get the three S’ in, put on the trousers, shirt and tie—Honey-babe, do you see any wrinkles?—buff the shoes, check the mirror for mismatched clusterfucks. Nope, none, he’s good, nobody will utter a nasty comment after he passes by. He hits the highway at eighty, playing NASCAR with all the other commuters. This gets the juices flowing better than the paltry American java served up on every filthy street corner.
He’s a customer service rep with the Department of Labor. In a recession, too! Great job! Listening to all those sad sacks worrying about their future. His favorite question: reason for separation from employer? “Fired.” Oh, you’re a loser. “Lack of work.” Oh, you’re boss is a loser. “Company closed down.” Oh, there’s kids all over the globe who will work for five cents a day. Ha. Ha.
At lunch, he takes ten for chowing grub and thirty for chowing on Trisha in her
car. Dessert pussy. Fantastic. He likes to call her Trysta, but she tends to get pouty, as if their 69 in the back of an SUV in a parking garage ain’t special enough.
Post-work, fueled by his “customers’” bad news, he avoids Trysta—she’ll want to talk about her feelings—and heads home to a simmering crock-pot. Honey-babe isn’t there yet, but he’ll wait for her before consumption. Sitting in an easy chair, he tries to figure why he loathes Honey- babe to her very villus, yeah it’s that primeval, that disgusting. But, really, he’s got no good reasons for his feelings. She keeps a clean house—OCD freak he suspects—reads books, prepares Rachael Ray-like meals, and her freed boobs droop only a millimeter— or perhaps it’s a .9 mm. Heck, she doesn’t even like oral. Could she be any more wholesome that than?
As she opens the front door, he thinks, maybe, just maybe, it’s how she pretends—it’s too good really, as if she truly loves him.
After dinner, he’s getting signs from his co-habituating horny toad; she’s powdered and lounging around half nude. Her hand brushes his unicorn and the rut begins anew. He twists and bends and flips her into a sticky caramel frenzy and then she’s climbing on board— All a’ bored!—and she’s doing him slow and tender and then whispers how jealous she gets and how he must never cheat on her.
He mumbles oaths of fidelity as his hands reach up, grasping her hair, then down the damp cheeks, and now for the snapping of her wind section. That’s when she reaches behind her, grabs a brick—a brick she stole from Trisha’s back patio— and swings it towards his face.
Phil Beloin Jr. is not a psycho, but his mental health provider might disagree.
He lives in New England with his wife. His novel, The Big Bad, is available on amazon.co.uk. Check out his other story on TKnC in the July 2010 archives,The Devil Knows My Love.