“My husband’s a cheating bastard.” That’s what I keep saying out loud to myself as I maneuver past the primer colored cars and king cab pickups that litter the parking lot of Hank’s Tavern on East 23; a mile or two the other side of Corbett. It has become my mantra. That cheating sonofabitch. I’m sure that I’ve always known that Paul was having an affair or affairs. I just chose not to recognize the signs. Hair on the suit. Working late at the office. It becomes easy to turn a blind eye to those sorts of things when you practice. “That fucker!” The cusswords feel good in my mouth. Paul didn’t like me to swear, so I’m out of practice. But the words feel good now. They roll around on my tongue before spilling out. Each one carrying it’s own distinction like marbles.
I’ve been driving for a few hours. Ever since I picked up the phone after going out for a jog this morning and heard her voice. “Is Paul there?” The sugar dripping from her words.
“No, he’s not you fucking bitch,” I wanted to reply right back – spice on top of sugar. But I didn’t. Lost the nerve - again. “No.” I said. “May I take a message for him.” That’s right, I’ll just play his fuckin’ secretary. The dutiful little wife in this life he’s constructed for himself; while he’s just out fucking.
“Just tell him Darla called,” she said. Although it wasn’t Darla. It was Dar-la with the accent on the kiss-my-sister southern twang. I could just see her now. Fake tits, blonde air straight from the bottle and teased to the moon.
So I snapped. As soon as the bitch hung up, I absofuckinlutely lost it. The phone was easy. That came out of the wall with one solid tug. Actually it was a lot less satisfying than I thought it would be. I wanted to have to really yank the thing and have to cover my face from a shower of sparks and plaster. But it wasn’t like that. Nope. A little tink maybe as the little plastic dohicky pulled free of the wall jack and that was it. Almost landed on my ass for the effort though.
Now the plate glass window in the front room. That was much better. Oh yeah. Talk about satisfaction. The sound that window made after I flung the phone through it was like the primordial moan of a virgin having her first orgasm. Not that I would know on either account. I am obviously not a virgin and it had been so long since my last orgasm, I’d forgotten what it sounded like. The initial loud pop from the phone actually going through the window was good, but then right after that, so quick I almost missed it was a crinkle sound like wrapping paper on Christmas as the glass cracked into a tangle of spider webs. Then a half second of silence. The silence was exquisite. The lull before the grand finale of the fire works display down on Shoals Beach. The bewildered window gathering its strength for a final encore and then exploding. Pieces of glass flew everywhere inside the house and out. I stepped gingerly, over the jagged shards of glass that still clung gamely to their place in the window, into the flower bed that had been so meticulously groomed the other day by Holman’s Yard and Lawn Care. Bits of glass glinted like diamonds against the fresh orange barkdust.
Old Mrs. Tuttweiler, that fat bitch from across the street, was watching as usual. Nothing happened up or down our street without her supervision. Filling her own front window with her flabby frame, her hands fixed firmly on either side of her wide hips, Mrs. Tuttweiler’s mouth hung open in a curious mixture of disbelief and joy. Her mind was already working on who she was going to call first and share this gem of neighborhood gossip. I waved to her happily. She hesitated for a moment retreating a step back into the shadow of her living room. I could tell she was uncertain whether or not to become a participant in this delicious drama. I continued waving madly now. My whole arm pivoting from the shoulder frantically as if my life depended on pulling her back to the front window. A witness. If even an annoying feeble minded one, I needed to have a fucking witness to my freedom.
After a moment, Mrs. Tuttweiler lifted her arm weakly. I wanted to give her an exclamation point. Something to wrap up this little episode with pizzazz. The cherry on top of the sundae. Give her the finger, I thought. That will keep the old bitch’s phone line humming for a month. No, too easy. Anybody could come up with that. This was my great escape and it needed to be done right. I spun around and in one smooth movement pulled down my shorts, bent over and gave Mrs. Tuttweiler a shot of my black lace thong and creamy white ass. Slapping my right cheek with a tingling crack from my hand, I kicked off my shorts, sending them into a perfect arc to the waiting branches of the rose bushes and stepped back through the window and into the house.
The rough exterior of Hank’s Tavern is exactly what I’m looking for. I want to get fucked and I want to get fucked hard. I was through being the demure little woman. I was on a journey to take back control of my life and my desires and this seemed like the ideal place to start.
The lot was packed and I had to circle a couple of times before wedging Paul’s black BMW next to a dumpster. Two black cooks, wearing stained white aprons and sitting on plastic crates sharing a joint, eye my car suspiciously. I don’t think Hank’s caters to the foreign automobile set very often.
“Well, hello Ladybird,” smiles the older of the two. The younger one has just taken a deep drag, his lungs filled with the sweet smoke. “What can we do for you?” He asks with a leer.
“Just a potty break, I’m afraid,” and try to smile as sweetly as possible.
