"Harry, you're the biggest loser I've ever met. Why did I ever leave Jim, for you? This is the last straw. I've definitely had enough of your bullshit. I refuse to lower my knickers for you anymore, ...I'm leaving you!"
"Haven't you had fun, Mary?"
"That's not fair and you know it, ...interesting is more like it, but all this bullshit is too much for me to handle."
**************
So, you think your life is boring? In a rut? Working your balls off to cover your nut? Wife constantly wanting more and driving you crazy? Wish a lightning bolt would strike you, just so you can be jump started into something more than normalcy, or removed from the same old, same old? Careful what you wish for, and always remember, ...more people die from lightning strikes, than survive them.
**************
As I sat in the old wooden chair, being starred at by these bloodthirsty boring men, the sweat dripped from my forehead. I wondered how many people have sat in this very chair over the years, which were as stupid as I was? 'Humiliated' wasn't a strong enough word. Where do I start? This has been such a screwy day, ...no matter where I start, ...you'll never believe me anyway.
I repeated my story to these fat bastards for the, ... well, I lost count hours ago how many times I told them the exact same story: The first time I saw the mystery woman was this morning in the teller line at the local Savings Bank on Main Street. My wife had overdrawn my checking account, again, over the weekend, and at five minutes to the nine o'clock opening of the local bank this morning, I was standing by the front door hoping I could get some cash in my checking account - before the mortgage check bounced, again. Then, the old wicked witch of the west (I hate that old bitch) Teller Supervisor opened the parking lot entrance (probably on purpose) before opening the front door entrance, where I was standing. Otherwise, I would have been the first one in line, ...just an hour, or so, late for work, and none of this crap would have ever happened.
It was a Monday, and being a slow banking day, there weren't very many tellers working, and the few that were working, were still setting up their booths, so everyone had to wait a few minutes for service. I couldn't tell you who else was in the bank, or what they were wearing, ...and if it wasn't for 'that damn red dress' the mystery woman in front of me in line was wearing, I probably wouldn't have noticed her either. My mind was thinking about much more important things, ...like making a deposit in my damn checking account before my account was overdrawn, and then getting to work late, again. Then, I looked at her in that wonderful red dress. It looked as if the damn thing had been hand stitched to fit her perfect erection producing body.
I was standing behind her in line, patiently waiting my turn, looking at the back of the sexiest woman I had probably ever seen, ...without ever seeing her face. She wore black spiked heels, black stockings (or at least I fantasized they were stockings, and not pantyhose). She was tall, slender, had long beautiful legs, and the most beautiful ass I had ever seen on a woman, ...especially in 'that wonderful form fitting short red dress' she was wearing. On an average height woman, it wouldn't have been as short, but it still would have been almost as sexy. No panty lines were visible at all. (The thought of not knowing what, if anything, was under that dress brought a smile to my lips, and an unexpected twinge in my crotch.) The dress was cut several inches above her knees. It was short, but not a mini, but on her tall statuesque body, it looked absolutely perfect, and shorter than it actually was. I couldn't help but stare, ...besides, who would know? She was facing ahead anyway, and she would never know that I had my eyes glued to her wonderful ass - as probably were everyone else's eyes in there too.
Then, 'you know what' slowly started to wake up from its sleepy existence. Before long, it was saluting her beautiful ass for all it was worth. (The trouble with 'things' is, they seldom listen to your brain. They are like disobedient little children, and only a good spanking will cure the problem - no matter what society says.) When you want them to listen, most times they won't. And, when you want them to be still, they won't listen either. It's a no win situation for men. They aren't very smart either. Like it really believed in its heart of hearts that this gorgeous mouth watering creature would even consider riding the pony with 'my little Johnny', ...let alone even look at it, ...other than to giggle at it.
Soon, my little Johnny was about as big as it possibly could be, and I started to get self-conscious about it, and I looked around the bank to see if anyone had noticed my predicament, (with the emphasis on the 'dic' part of the word). Then I wondered if that was where that word originated from? Laughing under my breath, and trying my best to avoid looking at that mouth watering ass of hers in that wonderful red dress, I nervously looked at the ceiling, and softly hummed a patriotic tune, ...desperately hoping that old serpent of mine would go back to sleep for awhile in its dark and confining cave.
Finally, it seemed, the line started to move and soon the mystery woman was being waited on. After a moment or two, she turned around, sexily winked at me, and left the bank. (The front of her was more breathtaking than the back.) Somehow, I thought, she doesn't belong in this sleepy quiet little town, and certainly not dressed that way at 9am on a Monday morning. I just stood there puzzled. Did she know I was staring at her? Did she know that 'Johnny Boy' had been aimed right between her cheeks for several minutes? Then I heard the wicked witch of the west say, "Sir, ...Sir!" I immediately turned toward her and walked up to her booth, ...as she gave me an even more scornful look, than usual.
I handed her my deposit, and she processed it. As she did, she gave me some nasty looks. Somehow she seemed even more miserable today, than usual. Yes, I had the torturous pleasure, over the years, of sitting down with her in her cubicle on the other side of the room, to try and explain the several overdrafts to my checking account. Somehow she seemed to never believe me when I told her it was my wife and not me, who had made the errors. She always charged me the full penalties, and never once did she ever budge an inch - and never once did she ever act a little compassionate. After the bank closed, the bank manager probably put her in the vault and plugged her in to recharge her batteries for the next day?
All joking aside, she probably had a boring uneventful lonely weekend, and was grumpier than usual, so I desperately tried to think of something else while waiting for her to process my deposit. After awhile she handed me my deposit receipt, and then she handed me a large envelope. I asked her what the envelope was, but all she said was, "Take it and leave". So, not wanting to hold up the line any longer, I did.
As I walked out of the front door of the Savings Bank towards my car across the street, I stopped at the curb to let a few cars pass by before walking in the street, and then I casually looked at the large envelope the witch had given me inside the bank. Probably some promotional literature from the bank - maybe I'll get a new toaster for opening up a new account? As I was about to step in the road, suddenly startling me from my neurotic thoughts, a gorgeous red Mercedes Benz 450sl from the parking lot in back of the bank loudly sped around to the front of the bank, and stopped right next to me by the curb, screeching its tires. The window quickly went down nearest me, and the mystery woman from inside the bank forcefully said, "Get in!"
Don't ask me why I did, and I still can't understand why I did, ...but I did. As soon as I was in her car, she quickly proceeded down the street very fast again screeching the tires loudly. The car suddenly turned the corner, past the County building, and took another quick left, until she hit German Street, and then headed out of town past the new high school. As we proceeded up Oak Hill, she suddenly swerved the car into the cemetery, and drove deep into it. After turning and twisting around the narrow dirt roads at a high rate of speed, she drove past the white fenced in Jewish section of the cemetery, and proceeded even further back, until we were in the remotest and oldest part of the cemetery, where the tombstones were a least a hundred fifty, or more, years old.
