"Rumor has it you could be in need of some consoling, John."
I vaguely recognized the soft voice, a barely audible combination of syrupy honeydew and husky seduction. Or so I hoped. I could have used some seduction in my life right about now.
I turned slowly, diverting my attention away from the soccer field full of adolescents where my son's coed team was playing against one of their rival middle schools. Presuming, of course, that there can be such a thing as a true rivalry in suburban middle schools.
The sun was bright and the Mid-Atlantic breeze was surprisingly warm on this late October afternoon. I was not disappointed, but exceedingly surprised, by what I saw when I turned, the owner of that voice.
Jayne Harrington. Yes, that Jayne Harrington. A full-fledged, first-ballot card-carrying member of the AMT. That's All-Mommy-Team to the uninformed, a soccer mom disguised as a MILF, or vice versa. Who just happened to be, quite possibly, the biggest cunt in town.
You see, Jaynie Lee Harrington was one of those moms who showed up at her kids' athletic events attired as if it were an excuse to show off the latest and most expensive fashion trends and accessories.
Which is exactly what it was for Jayne, married to perhaps the most prominent neurosurgeon in the state. Any public appearance, even something innocuous as a Saturday soccer game, was an opportunity to flaunt both her elaborate wardrobe to the other mommies and also her fabulous body to the less-than-subtly drooling daddies.
A stunning early-forties redhead, Jayne looked like a cross between Debra Messing of Will and Grace fame, and Christina Hendricks from Mad Men, perhaps less a bust size or three. Her personality, though, was pure Lindsay Lohan. Narcissistic, condescending, and self-absorbed.
In fact, the only person in town who was more universally loathed was her husband, Doctor Jim Harrington. Doctor Jim, you see, could never be bothered hob-nobbing with the masses at something as mundane as his daughter's soccer game. Even on weekends, he was usually off performing brain surgery, or rocket science, or some such scientific marvel.
Hence, Jayne's appearances at the kids' games were usually confined to sitting in her late-model BMW on the hillside parking lot and gazing down upon the activities like some royal highness on a veranda. But, hey, someone had to pick up her kid, right? So Jayne reluctantly attended to her maternal duties with this begrudging realization.
Jayne rarely, if ever, mingled with the other parents, honking her horn at her daughter at the conclusion of the game and speeding off to the bliss of her solitude, no doubt to fund the nearest mirror.
And that explains my profound surprise when I was actually spoken to by Jayne for the first time since I attended the annual Chamber of Commerce charity ball, about ten months ago, when we were seated at the same table.
My date that night was my now-former girlfriend, one smoking hot Hispanic lady, Marta Gutierrez. Marta resembled Salma Hayek, with one glaring exception. Marta's tits were much nicer than Salma's. And Christina Hendricks', for that matter. Marta was as tall laying down as she was standing up, and she was one of the few females on the planet who not only was not intimidated by Jayne, the two actually seemed to enjoy each other's company. Probably in the way that a female praying mantis gossip to another about their respective man-eating sagas.
In the last few weeks, Marta was kind enough to inform me that she was rising up the social ladder that she so diligently craved to climb, dumping me for the assistant attorney general for the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania, who just happened to be an heir to the family's substantial real estate holdings.
I was acutely cognizant that Marta only enjoyed the pleasure of my companionship for one reason. "Seven-and-a-half inches of sausage-thick man meat." That was Marta's own description one evening as she struggled mightily to gobble me whole with her impossibly plump and moist lips.
Not that I minded being used as a sex symbol for my Brazilian bombshell. I always knew it was just a matter of time until some guy's wallet trumped my non-financial package.
Little did I know, until now, that Marta used that evening at the Chamber social to brag to her new bestest bud, one Jaynie Lee Harrington, the most intimate details of my girth and carnal stamina.
Before I could even open my mouth to reply to Jayne's comments about being "in need of some consoling", Jayne lowered her designer sunglasses which probably cost about as much as my monthly mortgage payment. This revealed her sparkling blue-green eyes, and she cooed, "Isn't that right, El Caballo? Marta traded your substantial talents in for some attorney? Tsk, tsk, silly girl. You most definitely could use a consolation prize, and I have quite the idea."
"El Caballo" was Marta's pet name for me. The Horse. I've come to realize there are two true blessings about being hung. One, you can tell how cold the water is before you jump in the lake. (And deep, too!) Two, women talk amongst themselves. They talk more than men, you can bet that. And when they find themselves a well-hung man, they aren't shy to share that fact with even casual female acquaintances, bragging about their sexual good fortune in a similar manner of a trout fisherman unexpectedly bagging the big one. But, like the trout, we all get thrown back sooner or later.
I intuitively knew already where this conversation was going. It was no secret in town that the two most despised people in town, Jaynie and Doctor Jim, detested each other as much, if not more, than the rest of us mere proletariats. And urban legend had it that Jayne took frequent 'stress-relieving' trips to the Big Apple to, um, sample the wares of the local young male New Yorkers, with very big apples.
"What's on your mind as a consolation prize, Jaynie?" My question was succinct. Talking is overrated, and besides, I realize that Jayne had no interest in what I had to say. Which was just fine with me. As I stated, I can play of the role of a sex symbol without the slightest blow to my ego, believe me. I'd rather be admired for my cock than my portfolio anyday. (Though I reserve the right to alter that way of thinking as I age.)
"The kids have that Halloween party at Sabrina's house tonight, from 6 to 10. My daughter is going, so I assume your son is as well?" I nodded in response to Jayne's inquiry.
