I've been taking a break from writing erotic fiction for a little while, as I've been finishing off some non-erotic writing projects and other stuff. Next I thought I'd write a series of stories of encounters inspired by events that have taken place over the years I've lived in SoCal and traveled around the country. Some of these may have happened as described, others may have happened somewhat differently from how I narrate them, and others took place only in my vivid imagination. Rest assured that when an actual encounter is the subject of a story, some details may have been changed either to protect the innocent, or to make the story more interesting. Nonetheless, I hope they are all enjoyable to the reader.
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I live in a guard-gated master planned community, one of these that depending on your viewpoint may be described as the epitome of success and wealth, or the worst housing community concept ever created. I suppose I fall somewhere in between; ideally I would live out on the countryside, on a huge lot with lots of privacy, but unfortunately those properties are not as good investments as houses in the guard-gated communities, and the latter are far superior to the tract home developments that fill up most of Southern California.
I live at the end of a very short cul-de-sac, only six houses in total on the street, and the only traffic is the mail man, the neighbors and our kids. Idyllic and at the same time insanely boring. In this particular cul-de-sac, the families all seem to have two kids each, the husbands drive to work in their fancy European high performance luxury cars, while the wives stay at home tending to the house and the kids. The wives are generally younger than their husbands; they spend their days shopping and cooking organic food while wearing exercise clothes (I think this may be a SoCal thing) and sipping white wine. They look generally very nice, fit and healthy, always wearing full make-up and perfect hair for every trip to the local Whole Foods or to pick up or drop off the kids. I've often thought of them as the Stepford Wives, perfect clones of what men would generally consider to be the perfect, submissive wife.
When you live in the same community for years, you start learning a lot about your neighbors, for example that not all households are the harmonious little havens of domestic tranquility that they are projected to be, and some households engage in the illicit use of recreational drugs after the kids are put to bed at night. I sometimes enjoy my nightly glass of wine in my back yard, with the faint smell of marijuana drifting in from the neighbor's back yard, while from across the street I can hear a couple argue loudly, sometimes accompanied by the sound of broken glass or other fragile items, their kids most definitely not getting a restful night's sleep. We don't typically socialize, me, my wife and our neighbors, apart for the obligatory greetings and some friendly words when bumping into each other outside of the community.
This story begins, as most of them do, with alcohol. A couple of times a year the families inhabiting this little cul-de-sac gather for a barbecue right in the middle of our little paved circle, where we rent a bouncing tent for the kids and bring in plenty of booze for the adults. I am typically the grill master by virtue of once having worked as a cook, and generally being able to better control (or at least tolerate) my drinking early in the evening. We collectively own an old-fashioned Weber grill that I fire up with mesquite coal, and then cook sirloin that has been marinating for 24 hours after which it's basted with my secret barbecue sauce. The kids get burgers and hot dogs, and a jolly good time is generally had by all.
A tradition has developed over the past few years, when the neighbor's wife from across the street becomes my sous-chef for the evening. Claire, as I can assure you her name is not, makes potato dishes, mac and cheese and salad in her kitchen at home, and then helps with the basting, turning and plating for the main event. She is probably ten years younger than both me and her husband, with a pretty face framed by shoulder-length blond hair that she typically carries in a pony tail. She is slim, but with some nice curves in the right places, which are accentuated by the workout clothes she always wears. For the barbecue, she has put on a light knee-long dress with a floral pattern, which is very complimentary of her curves, slim calves and ankles.
While waiting for the coal to attain the proper temperature and glow, I sample the potato salad and mac and cheese, and duly compliment Claire. As always these dishes are well balanced and seasoned, and she has taken the time to prepare both from scratch. I again remind her that I want her mac and cheese recipe, and she again promises to give it to me as soon as I share the recipe of the secret barbecue sauce. This too has become a tradition, as for some reason we never get around to exchange recipes. I don't typically eat mac and cheese (and can cook a pretty good one if I have to), and we simply don't see each other all that much during the week although we are next door neighbors.
The sunset turns to night, and finally the coal is displaying a satisfying orange glow. I'm probably on my third glass of wine by now, a rare occurrence other than on the barbecue nights and other special occasions, and Claire and I are bantering back and forth as we're grilling the meat for the main dishes. Meanwhile, Claire's husband is completely ignoring us, tossing back the beer with reckless abandon while loudly speaking about his important lawyer job. Judging from Claire's facial expression she is not impressed with the monologue, and in combination with the late night arguing it is fair to assume that not all is well in that particular household, though I am not yet drunk enough to try to find out what is wrong. Meanwhile, my wife is staying as far away from him as possible, talking to another couple about something which I'm sure is both unimportant and uninteresting. That's the unfortunate life I've chosen to live, with the sweetest partner as can be, who unfortunately turned out to be a little too shallow and uninterested in matters that are not the subject of a reality TV show or headline items on E!
After the meat has been properly cooked and is resting, I put on the burgers and hot dogs on the grill. In a careless moment I let the back of my hand contact the red hot back splash of the grill and end up with a large red mark that will become a second degree burn by the end of the night unless immediately and properly cared for. I let Claire know what happened and that I need to hold my hand under running water for a while to temper the effects of the burn. She sends me home and takes over the kiddie-cooking duties, something she professes to be quite capable of handling. I am tempted to make a sexist joke about how a man must always be in charge of the grill, but think better of it. One burn is bad enough for any night.
When working in a kitchen you are told of the importance to immediately flush a burn with cool running water for several minutes, to minimize the tissue damage. I'm in incredible pain even after having flushed for well over 10 minutes, and am looking around for something with a local anesthetic when Claire comes walking in. I am surprised as I thought my wife would be the first to have some concerns for me, but if her conversation partners are interesting enough she would be oblivious to my whereabouts at an event like this.
"Are you alright, I was getting worried?"
"Sure, just annoyed at my clumsiness. This is a 7.2 on the fuck-up scale."
"Let me take a look." She grabs my hand from under the faucet and looks at it. "My God, you should have a doctor take a look at it."
"No worries, I'll be alright if I can just flush it for a while longer. Doctors are for wimps and are always looking for a reason to amputate. I may need some painkillers to fall asleep, though."
"You look pretty wimpy standing there." She smiles. "Where do you keep the painkillers?"
"In the cabinet over there" I indicate with my head.
She takes out a bottle of Advil and looks at it. "This looks old. I think it has expired."
"That's alright, so have I. We'll be perfect for each other. Besides, the effect is synergistic if swallowed with red wine."
"Lots of effects are synergistic with alcohol" she observes, looking somber. Somehow I don't think she was meaning it as a double entendre.
"Something you want to talk about?" I ask.
"We've been having some trouble at home. Nothing I want to bother you with tonight."
"That's OK, it distracts me from the pain." I don't know why I pushed her for the information as I typically try to stay out of people's personal lives. Perhaps I was just curious to learn more about our neighbors.
"Rick is having some problems at work, and has started to drink a lot more now. The stress is changing him for the worse, he doesn't have any patience with me or the kids, and when he's been drinking he becomes angry very easily and starts to argue, yell throw stuff. It scares me a little, because he never used to be like that."
"How about counseling?" I ask.
"I could never make him go, because he would never admit there is something wrong. He is too proud to admit there is a problem because he is the problem, and so he will not be able to fix it. I've tried to convince him that I can go back to work. I used to be an interior decorator before I met Rick, and now with Ben and Jerry in school full time I can start working again. Take the pressure off him as the sole financial provider." No, seriously they didn't name their kids Ben and Jerry - I just thought that name combination sounded, well, cool.
"That sounds like a great suggestion. You could even set up your own company and work from home. That way you don't have to get out in traffic every day unless you have to visit a client."
"Well, Rick doesn't think it sounds too great. The same pride again will not let him fail as the sole bread winner. It's not like I even have a choice in the matter, he will not let me work!"
That does sound completely alien to me, as I would love for my wife to work. Not because we need the money, but because it would send her out in the real world and get interested in real things.
I pat my hand dry and put some aloe balm on the burned area. "Well, it sounds like you have a decision to make. Either you continue to take orders, or you put your foot down and demand a change. Part of the reason women suffer through bad marriages is because they have no proper education, career or means to support themselves outside of the family. That's not the case with you. You have the opportunity to make your own life and pursue your own happiness. Once Rick understands that he may be far more amenable to changing his behavior."
She looks at me for a long time and I'm afraid I've gone too far. Suddenly she steps towards me and gives me a big hug.
"Thank you. I've been going back and forth on this for a long time now, and you're right. I must be independent and assertive in making Rick change. If I stay the same this will all spiral out of control. I have to be able to stand on my own two feet if things fall apart."
We walk out and re-join the barbecue gang. The volume has increased considerably, and I'm not surprised that no one seems to have noticed that we were gone for close to half an hour. I grab one of the few remaining steaks which is cold and horribly overcooked by now, and join my wife. I am told something fantastic - Dash and Kate's cousin is a high end real estate agent in Florida and has been invited to the Kardashian wedding! I can barely contain my excitement as I chew on the cold, overcooked steak, trying to ignore the pain in my hand.
* * *
A few weeks later I am in my front yard pruning roses when Cheryl drives by. I wave at her and she pulls up outside the house.
"Hi there, how are you?" she exclaims.
"Great, how have you been? I haven't seen you since the party."
"I've been really busy. Guess what, the day after the party I decided to do exactly what you told me. I am setting up my own interior design company. I will work from home, and if I ever have enough business I may rent some office space somewhere. I have the company registered, and I've been working like crazy on the web page and some printed marketing materials. Once that's all done I will go door to door in the local real estate community just promoting the hell out of myself."
