by Phil Stern
For me, lonely and a little lost, being with a married couple was an experience I’d always wondered about. And clearly it would make things easier for my friend, who might otherwise have to push me away. And since dating in general seemed like a real drag right then…well, I went with the flow.
So I showed up with a bottle of wine around eight o’clock, wearing a sexy little dress. Johan was about what I expected, older and stouter, but with considerable Latin charm. After forty-five minutes of delusory conversation Maria took my hand, caressing my fingers and arm. Seated on the other side of the room, Johan just watched as we began kissing, my own hands now running through Maria’s long, dark hair.
After a time Maria led me into their gorgeous bedroom, Johan staying behind in the living area. Simply slipping out of her own tight outfit, she carefully undressed me, kissing my neck and lips. After winding up on the bed, Maria then caressed me all over, finally bringing me to slow, exploding orgasm with her tongue.
Crying against her supple chest, my body trembling uncontrollably, I was barely aware of Johan entering the room, unclothed. Coming to sit beside us, he began stroking my hips.
“Sophia, my darling,” Maria whispered, her lips brushing against my ear. “Do not be afraid. I am here with you.” I mutely nodded, stretching out on the bed between them.
Pulling my head into her lap, Maria smiled over my naked body at Johan, now positioning himself between my legs. Taking my hands into her own, Maria then kissed me long and deep, her breasts cushioning my cheek as her husband entered my body.
Pressed against Maria, Johan’s rough ardor brought me to climax once more. This also allowed Maria to experience her husband’s shuddering orgasm through me.
“Oh, how wonderful,” she murmured, kissing me again. “Sophia, you are a goddess!” Letting Johan roll off to one side, Maria then massaged his chest, telling him what a great lover he was. Spent, I could only lay there, my body still wracked in ecstasy.
Leaving Johan where he was, his wife now took my hand, leading me off into the stunning marble bathroom. We showered together, Maria’s hands passed all over my body once more while her husband’s seed ran unchecked down my leg. With blazing white towels, she then carefully dried me off and combed my hair, providing fresh clothes in my size.
I never saw Johan again. Maria and I talked for a bit over coffee in the kitchen, holding hands from time to time. I finally left around midnight.
I’ve maintained my friendship with Maria over the years, though we’ve never been sexual again. She now has two children, one by Johan a few years before he was killed by a heart attack, and a second child by her new husband. She’s very happy.
But that night provided a balance I’d been searching for since losing my virginity five years before. As crazy as it sounds, it was the most grounding sexual experience I’ve ever had.
The crazy post-virgin-Catholic period of my life was finally over. All the mysteries had been solved, lingering curiosities sated. From then on I was the one in control.
DAVE MILLER
You know what a credit counselor is? That’s just a guy who tells a woman what her husband has been saying all along. Namely, they can’t afford to run up any more money on their credit cards.
“Mrs. Miller, you do understand, don’t you, that when you charge something to a credit card, that’s money you have to pay back?” Clearly, our credit counselor was finding Jen a challenge.
“Of course I know that! What do you think I am, stupid or something?”
The three of us were seated around the kitchen table, our three major credit card bills laid out like Exhibits A, B, and C. Even after putting a grand towards them last month, we still owed about six thousand dollars.
It was interesting watching the credit guy argue with Jen. “This two hundred and forty-seven dollars you spent last month, Mrs. Miller? Was that necessary?”
“I told you! Our daughter Mandy needed a new outfit for school!”
“She needed this new outfit? She had nothing else to wear?”
“Yes! No! I mean, she needed it!”
“But you also purchased two outfits for yourself, Mrs. Miller,” the credit guy persisted. “Were those necessary as well?”
“I need clothes too!”
“As I understand it, Mrs. Miller, you have no professional obligations. For what purpose did you need two business suits?”
This guy was hardcore, which was just what Jen needed. Who knows? Perhaps we’d even get back on financial track.
So after twenty minutes of this my hero sits back. “All right, I think we’ve made some progress on these bills here. Why don’t you get your other credit card statements so we can look at them as well.”
“Uh, I think this is it.” Puzzled, I looked at the three bills before us. “Yeah, we’re all good to go here. These are our three credit cards.”
Smiling, the credit guy raised an eyebrow. “Are you sure about that, Mr. Miller?”
“What? Why, of course…” Glancing over, Jen pointedly avoided my gaze. A hollow sensation appeared in my stomach.
“Because I took the precaution of running a credit report before coming here tonight, Mr. Miller. Actually, these bills here represent only three of your eight credit cards.”
Pulling a document from his pocket, the credit guy showed balances on five major department store cards, in both mine and Jen’s name, all carrying obscene interest rates. All in all it was another six thousand, for a grand total of twelve thousand dollars owed.
“Jen,” I demanded. “What do you know of this?”
“Listen, I’ve had enough Inquisition for one night!” Standing, she pushed half our papers on the floor. “You guys can play with this all night if you want. I’m going to bed!” And with that, she stalked off.
Half-an-hour later, after the credit guy left, we had the mother of all fights.
Thank God Mandy was staying over at the Cantons that night (preemptively sent off so Jen wouldn’t run out of the kitchen to “check” on her every two minutes), because the walls literally shook. I mean, it was something else.
“ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR FUCKING MIND!” I was just beside myself. “Are you crazy? How could you do this to us!”
“But Dave, you don’t understand! You see, they have these sales in the stores, and if you open up a store account you get an extra 5 percent off…”
“Five percent off!” I bellowed. “What about the 95 percent we have to pay, plus the 22 percent in interest tacked on every month! What about that, Jen!”
“Fuck you, Dave!” Bolting up from the bed, Jen’s face screwed up in rage. “I’m not going to deny myself, or Mandy, any longer!”
“Any longer?” I laughed. “Since when have you ever denied yourself?”
“Mary, and Lynda, and Olivia, all buy WHATEVER THEY FUCKING WANT! They put it on their credit cards, and their husbands pay the bill! That’s the way it works, Dave!”
“Not for me it doesn’t! We’re cancelling all these cards. Immediately!”
“The only thing we’re doing immediately,” she shot back, “is that you will IMMEDIATELY stop torturing me!”
“Torturing you?” Boy, did I let go that night. “It’s a fucking torture to be in the same room with you, you crazy bitch!”
“Dave, listen to me very closely.” Folding her arms, Jen was clearly making a stand. “When I want to buy something, I’M GOING TO FUCKING BUY IT, AND THAT’S THE END OF IT!”
“Like hell you will! I’m cancelling all our credit cards tonight!”
“No you won’t,” she snarled. “Because if you do, I’ll fucking divorce your ass!”
For the purpose of perspective, by the way, this was three-and-a-half years deep into holy matrimony, and the first time the “D” word had been vocalized between us. Even in the midst of our rage it was a moment.
“Wow.” Leaning back against the dresser, I took a deep sigh. “So there it is.”
“Yeah, there it is,” she agreed. “I should hav
e the same rights other women have in the stores…”
“No, no. I’m not talking about that.” Can you believe a weight suddenly came off my chest? I almost felt giddy. “It’s out there, in the open. Divorce.”
Though about to launch another blistering salvo, Jen’s face instead sank into a puzzled frown. “What do you mean?”
“You said divorce, Jen.” It was weird, like I had scored some major points on her in some way. “And the only reason a person says something is if they’re thinking about it.”
Sinking back down onto our bed, Jen suddenly looked very young. “Do you want a divorce, Dave? Is that what you’re saying?”
Wow. I can still recall, vividly, how I felt. The honest answer was yes, I did want a divorce. Our relationship, if you could even still call it that, was going nowhere. We were both tense and angry all the time, and the fabled home life we were trying to provide for Mandy was clearly unraveling. I couldn’t imagine myself with Jen in ten years, or five years, or even next summer. In so many ways it was time to throw in the towel.
So why didn’t I? Right then, at that Moment, I simply could have said yes, I want a divorce. The credit card revelations even gave me a perfect excuse. I was the fast food manager who despised the day shift supervisor, finally catching her, red handed, stealing from petty cash.
But you have to act right then. Explode in indignation, call the cops and have the day shift supervisor escorted off the premises immediately. Don’t wait until next week, or even the next day. Because if you do, then obviously the theft wasn’t a big deal. Hell, by that point it’s all just a big misunderstanding.
But I blew it. Instead of asserting myself, of recognizing the Moment for what it was, here’s what I found myself saying. “No, Jen, I don’t want a divorce. I want our marriage to work.” It was almost as if I was listening to a stranger. “We need to be a family for Mandy. I just can’t afford all these credit card bills, that’s all.”
So we talked for awhile, and Jen promised to curb her ways. We even had sex that night, the best it had been in some time.
But here’s the reality of it all. Jen and I got divorced exactly 18 months later, and in that time things really got bad. It would have been so much better, for everyone, if I’d simply been honest with her that evening. She would have agreed to a divorce, we’d have gone off to sleep in separate rooms, and then began calling attorneys in the morning. Relatively speaking, it might have been quick and fairly easy.
A divorce at that point would have also saved me a trip both to bankruptcy court and the looney bin, but that’s another story.
Don’t worry, Steve, keep reading. It gets even better. Trust me.
HAYLEY SYKES
You know, I was looking through a website last night describing all the marvelous applications you can get for cell phones now. There are thousands of them! Finding restaurants, stocks, travel guides, shopping tips…why, just about everything!
But it got me thinking. Clearly, there are some apps that have yet to hit the market. And just think how much money you could make by inventing them!
For example, we need an app where you could photograph a guy and then your cell phone could tell you whether he would ever cheat on his wife. That way you’d know he was a cheating asshole BEFORE YOU EVEN MARRIED HIM! And then you could leave him at the altar or something and fuck his best man! That would be cool.
Or conversely, if you were looking to hook up with a married guy…well, there would be a number of uses.
Okay, here it is! How about an app that let you knew if a guy had an STD? No doctors, no bullshit, just…ta da! You have AIDS, fucker! Go fuck yourself, ‘cause you sure as hell ain’t fucking me! Wouldn’t that be great?
All right, I’m pretty good at this stuff, but no one’s perfect. What about an app that told you EXACTLY which way his pecker was pointing? Totally gay, totally straight, somewhere in the middle…there’d be like a graph or something to tell you. Wow, think about it! Then you’d never have to worry about marrying a guy that was even a little, tiny bit gay. Wouldn’t that be awful?
Wait a minute! I’ve got it! An app that instantly calculated a guy’s total net worth! Just point, click, and…$15,000? $90,000? Half a mil? Ten million? WOW! The app could search financial records worldwide. It could add up everything! Then you’d know whether to give him your phone number or not. Pretty cool.
And in the spirit of equal time and everything, here’s one for guys. An app that photographed a woman, digitally removed her clothes, and then mapped out her erogenous zones. So when they get into bed, the guy would know exactly how to please her right off! Guys would LOVE that!
How about an app that told a guy if he was talking too much on a date? Perfect! BUZZ! Shut the fuck up! It is time for you, Mr. Droning Asshole, to shut the fuck up and listen to her now! Danger! Danger! Painful gamma rays will be released into your nut sack unless you stop talking instantly! Here comes the gag ball! Shut up, shut up, SHUT UP!
I’d like that. It would be really cool.
By the way, on another topic entirely, why do stores put up such stupid signs? There’s a convenience store next to my school. Today there was a brand-new sign that read: “Will open new cash register if more than two people on-line and more than one employee trained to use cash register.”
The only problem is there’s never more than one employee on duty, and that one person often doesn’t know how to use the cash register. So I stand there, shifting from foot to foot, while the moron in question stares at the cash register in fierce concentration. “I’d better call the manager,” they finally mumble, running into the back.
Maybe patrons should put up signs in stores. I’d like to put one up in there that says “Warning! This establishment is mismanaged by ill-trained cretins. They will waste much of your time, along with what remaining little good will you might have after a long, pointless day at work. Go somewhere else.”
At least it would be more honest.
STEVE LEVINE
I’m often asked why I’m no longer in radio. In truth, local talk radio all but collapsed. Most of the jobs dried up, and it just didn’t seem worth it to fight over the crumbs.
And no one really understood my show. I was actually fired seven different times, including the cataclysmic explosion that finally ended my career. But before I get to that, let me give you just a taste of all the bullshit I put up with along the way.
When I was about 30, I took a talk radio job in a medium-sized city in North Carolina. At the time it seemed like a big step up, my career finally taking off. So I moved into an apartment and turned on the local news.
You can tell a lot about an area from the local news. In this case the evening anchors were completely mismatched. One was a fat, wheezed-out, older guy of around 65. The other was a stunning southern belle-type of 22 or so. I mean, this girl had it all. She spoke well, had great presence…the whole deal. Within a few years she hit the big time. She’s on a national cable channel now, and I still get a kick realizing she’d recognize my name. She might want to puke just after recognizing it, but she’d know who I was.
So anyway, the next day I hit the air for the first time. After introducing myself, I talked about how happy I was to be on the station, how wonderful the area was…you know the drill. Then, just before my first commercial break, I dropped this little gem:
“You know, I was watching the Channel Three news last night, and I’ve got to tell you, I don’t think I’ve ever seen a more mismatched pair of news anchors in my life. I mean, what was that, take your granddaughter to work day or something?”
Smiling, I looked up at my call screener, a college kid I’d just met that morning, sitting behind the glass. He noticeably blanched, wordlessly shaking his head. Ah, fuck ‘em, I decided. This town needed shaking up.
“And while I’m on the subject of Channel Three,” I continued, “that is the worst looking television news set I’ve ever seen! And old! Hey, guys, the 1970's just called. They want the
ir set back!”
I found out later they had my show turned up in the Channel Three newsroom so everyone could hear the new local radio host. At my “take your granddaughter to work day” line, the old anchor, whose name was Henry Bilt, wordlessly got up and headed into the bathroom, where he remained for two hours. Apparently everyone at Channel Three took turns talking to Bilt from the next stall, assuring him I was an asshole who didn’t know what I was talking about. Of course he didn’t look like his co-anchor’s grandfather! How silly! But the damage was done. Bilt went home, claiming illness.
The young blonde news babe cried all afternoon, screaming that I’d destroyed her “credibility.” She appeared solo that night, mumbling and bumbling her way through the news copy, eyes still puffy and red.
And as to the Channel Three news set…well, it was brand new. Apparently Channel Three had been running teasers for months about their upcoming, ultra-modern look, with the grand unveiling of the new set just the previous week.
That evening, blissfully unaware of all that was transpiring at Channel Three, I dropped by the local supermarket. The kid bagging groceries on my checkout line was adorned with a big name tag reading “Bobby.”
“Eggs!” Bobby exclaimed, holding up a woman’s purchase. “I love eggs! You’re so lucky, lady! You get to eat eggs tonight!” Nodding eagerly, Bobby then dropped the egg carton in a plastic bag, promptly crushing it with a huge, frozen turkey.
“Ooops!” Puzzled, Bobby stared at the bag, his face then bursting into a wide smile. “Hey, lady, I love omelettes too! Is that what you were going to make?”
The woman didn’t answer, looking in distaste at the egg yolk now running over the counter.
This, I quickly realized, was very common in the south, supermarkets employing armies of mentally-disadvantaged people in any number of sundry positions. It certainly made for an amusing time at the check out.
“Oh, boy!” Now Bobby picked up a box of feminine products. “Wow! Are you…”
