Smart But Like A Fox

Marcie was nobody's fool, but her inclination for acting stupid threatened to destroy friendships around the club pool. How many times did I demand, "Why'd you do that? You're a college grad married to a Wall Street hotshot." I mentioned the car accident she had recently.

"I don't remember," she claimed, sipping her Tom Collins. God, I'd've given up 10 years of life for her tanned body and apple-shaped breasts.

"If I recall, the traffic cop asked if you were okay. You said, 'I think so, but everything is spinning around and I can't see straight.' Then he held up his hand and asked, 'How many fingers do I have up?' And you screamed, 'Oh, my God, I'm also paralyzed from the waist down.'"

Marcie gave a wolf-like smile. "George didn't think it was stupid. He took me straight home, we got naked, he jumped my bones, and he asked, 'Can you feel this? Can you feel that?' It was one of the most beatific experiences I've ever had. George stuck his cock every place he could think of."

Hers was the most complicated relationship I've ever seen. Marcie met George when she went down to the harbor where he was working as a sailor. She saw her target and loudly threatened to drown herself over her depression. 'You're a beautiful woman,' he pleaded, pulling her down from the bridge. 'Please don't threaten suicide. I want to stay and get to know you, take care of you, anything to make sure you're safe."

What a drama queen. She wiped away a make-believe tear. "I know you're a sailor and you're going to leave. Will you stow me away on your ship? Maybe a lifeboat? Don't leave me alone. I'll do anything you ask if only I can get away from here."

Curiously, he took the bait and sneaked her into a lifeboat. At every free moment, George pulled back the tarp on the lifeboat and he covered her like a horny squid every night when it was quiet. He gave her sandwiches, bottles of Bordeaux, everything she needed for the next two days. Condoms absolutely littered the boat. It ended when the Captain made an inspection and discovered her lying there, smiling and humming.

"It's my entire fault," she told him. "I have an arrangement with one of your crew. My lover said he was leaving for Hawaii and I thought we could make a new life there together. Are we near Hawaii?"

The Captain couldn't believe her words. "Lady," he shouted, "this is the Staten Island ferry." Of course Marcie knew that, as well as the financial worth of George's family.

George was a caring, sentimental man. Marie had done her homework and knew George also had a future at a brokerage firm. And, she was going to tie her future to his.

I guess they were married about three years. Disaster struck when George was hit by lightning on the seventh hole of the Westchester Golf Club. Talk about handicaps! Poor George was stiffer than he'd been since he opened Marcie vagina like a clam on that ferryboat.

I learned a little bit more about Marcie because my husband has an insurance agency. Sure, we all belong to the club, but after they buried George I overheard Marcie ask my Harold what sex insurance would cost.

"Sex insurance?" asked my old man. "Come again?"

"Well," she said, "you have insurance in case burglars break in, fire insurance if you burn down the house. What do I get if I want to ensure my sexual needs are met?"

Harold didn't get flustered. I overheard him tell Marcie it was a brilliant idea that could revolutionize the industry. "Sex on demand if needs aren't met," he muttered in his sleep that night. "Double indemnity if the guy has erectile dysfunction. Put a policy on the pussy. Should be part of the Affordable Care Act."

I made notes and kept my mouth shut. I didn't learn till later that Harold was going to underwrite this policy himself. While he thought I was at a book club, I followed him to Marcie's house, out to the Kitty Kat bar, then back to Marcie's house. Fortunately, million-dollar houses have laaarge windows.

The house lights in her palace went on like a Christmas display, ending in her ground floor boudoir. Clothes streamed off as they entered the room dominated by a large chaise longue. I made a note that it looked like the Dance of the Seven Veils as bra and panties flew through the air, and necktie and shirt floated down.

Call me a voyeur, a stalker, a peeping Tom, but by God I had a right!

Harold jumped on her white thighs as though she was a circus horse. Made me take a note that he never jumped between my legs like an Acapulco diver. His mouth covered one C-cup breast like an asthmatic sucking oxygen, while another hand parted her bum and began exploring her chocolate factory. She arched her back and her pussy rose like a bushy piranha pulling in a tasty fish.

He grappled her legs at the knees and pulled them over his neck while his hips did a banzai attack on her clean-shaved pussy. I swear, it almost seemed like she was giving him a cunt wink that said, "Come on in and make yourself at home."

He slammed his cock up Marcie's alley the way a bowler pulls off a strike and they became a single writhing organism. My jealousy, rage and anger were at the same time clinically interested in technique — solely in the interest of scientific inquiry. It was a mathematical puzzle involving four hands, one cock, two nipples and mouths, and five body cavities. Okay, I'll stop while you calculate this.

He was jamming his dick up to Marcie's lungs and she was tearing his ear off and he was giving her a fingeroscopy and she was screaming in a C about high C. Did I tell you Marcie had a good voice? Now, she was singing Verdi's Donna è mobile as though Pavarotti himself had stuck her with an eight-inch meatball sub.

Before finishing, Harold rolled her over, shoving her face in the pillow while his Taliban cock drilled her doggy-style. (Memo to self: he never drilled my asshole.) She sounded a bit muffled but I could still hear Verdi's lyrics.

My heart sang out, not with love of classical music, but the promise that I was going to kill them both before cancelling our subscription to the Metropolitan Opera.

Harold ejaculated with a shout that sounded like "Geronimo." He drove into her parted pussy as Marcie rose like a bad take from the Exorcist. This was a four-star drama, a Hollywood premier and a triple-X banned-in-Boston show rolled into one. She screamed in ecstasy as he rolled off her lithe backside. His cock was still standing like the flag on Iwo Jima while Marcie lay zombie-like with her eyes rolled back.

My horrible last memory as I ran tearfully back to my car was of Marcie's pussy opened like a smallmouth bass gasping for more.

The tears dried quickly as I plotted revenge. Marcie was smart while acting dumb. Harold, I knew, was dumb but acted like a know-it-all. When he came home for dinner after trying to sell his insurance policies to clients who'd sit still for half an hour, I was ready.

"Oh, my poor darling," I said as he came in the door.

"Why are you in a negligee?" he asked.

"Well, we've had such a humdrum couple of weeks that I thought we'd chill out, sip Champagne, and nibble on the oysters I've shucked. You know. Just see what happens next." I winked, hoping it didn't look like Marcie's pussy.

Harold Hoovered up the hors d'oeuvres as he watched me drop my negligee, slip off my thong panties, and then oil my breasts. His eyebrows went up in little parentheses of wonder.

"Love oil," I explained. "It warms when it hits your skin and makes you feel all tingly. Want to try some?"

I lathered the oil over him, admiring the way his dick grew longer and stiffer. It was like old times. I'll admit, Harold is a very good looking guy. My problem wasn't his libido, his long dick, or the fact that he could give me an orgasm three times a night. No, I expected loyalty.

I suspended my conscience and desire for scorched-earth revenge as he carried me into the bedroom. I lay expectantly as he kneeled between my legs and entered my box. I dearly love the feel of Harold tentatively sticking it to my clit, teasing my pussy a bit, and then rushing to plunge all the way to the hilt.

There was an explosion inside my pussy as he rammed it home with insistence and assurance. His hips banged against my loins with increasing rhythm and his strong fingers clasped my ass to bring my hips as close to his belly as possible. Sweat lubricated our bellies as he drove me higher against the headboard.

I know I stopped thinking after Harold's first few strokes and simply let his push-and-pull rock me into ecstasy, as though I was on a paddle board in the Caribbean. The waves grew higher as he got closer to climaxing. His hands went around my back and head, pulling me into him like an Electrolux vacuuming up my soul.

Predictably, I knew when he was ready to climax and I let myself enter nirvana at the same time, our last time. I felt his wads of cum shoot up into my vagina as I unconsciously counted the spasms. This time was eight or nine. He must've screwed Marcie recently to reduce the volume of sperm in his squirt gun.

"Wow," he said breathlessly. "That was so nice."

"Yes, it was," I said, but he missed my emphasis on the last word. There would be no more joy for Harold crawling between my thighs.

"It's the love oil. Magic. Something science hasn't figured out yet."

That night, I left the love oil on my nightstand. It was still there the second day, but by the third morning it had disappeared. That was my ah-ha moment. Harold had trotted off to do the nasty to Marcie while he was supposed to be at work, using what he thought was my love oil.

Nothing tastes as good a revenge for being wronged. I had substituted Superglue for the love oil. Anything Harold's naked body touched would stick to it.

Harold didn't come home that night. I called the police a little before midnight to report a missing husband.

"Well," said the desk sergeant, "we've been meaning to call you, but didn't know what to say. He's at the hospital. Together with another woman."

"Together?"

He tried to cover his laughter. "Yes, it looks like they're friends. Very close friends."

"Thank you, officer. The best kind of friends stick together a long time."