Her Conquest

My collection consists of original Odis Redding tracks and Bob Dylan's notes from Tin Pan Alley. I have Elvis Costello first additions and rehearsal tracks of the Supremes and the Miracles. I can listen to early 78's by Aretha Franklin or Ella Fitzgerald. I have a recording of Jerry Lee Lewis playing backup piano for a long-forgotten singer who didn't make it passed the one attempt at musical fame.

What I don't have is any contact with a real-life singer who has made it to the best-seller ranks. That's why I was so envious when my wife breezed into our flat, bragging about her shagging a more than a little famous performer I had actually heard about,

"He wants me to travel with him and his band on tour," she announced with unusual energy and eagerness. It wasn't that I could not live without her, but the green fingers of jealousy haunted me immediately after hearing her declaration of conquest.

"Ike Turner likes my orgasms and says I am one hot mama," she bragged with obvious pride and bluster.

"So where did this wonderful copulation take place?" I asked.

"In his trailer," she snarled. "Right on the beach seat in the cab."

"And when did this band fucking take place?" I asked.

"I haven't fucked the band," she said.

"What happened to those days when we actually had sex?" I said sarcastically.

"You mean back when you could actually get it up?" she shot back. "I don't know," she added, "probably where all the flowers have gone. Probably in the fragments of your mind."

"Okay," I said. "I am happy for you that you fucked a star. Congratulations. Are you a success now? Does fucking an icon improve your status? Are we now a modern family who has sex outside of our marital vows? Tell me are you now a liberated woman?

"Sarcasm does not fit you," she said. "You could be happy for me," she said with equal sarcasm. "It's not like we are a typical family with PTA values. You would fuck the stage girl if you could. I have been with a legend," she bragged. "You could show me a little respect."

"Okay. That's what I have for you: a little respect," I jabbed at her.

"When we first married you thought I was one hot mama."

"No, I didn't want you to become a mama," I said. "You kept going off the pills. That's different."

We bantered like that for another thirty minutes, then things slowed and we lost interest in fighting. I was impressed that she had done the deed with Ike Turner. "Where was Tina?" I asked. She ignored my question and made a face.

"You care?" she finally said. I admitted I didn't and dropped it. I was jealous that my groupie wife had scored with Ike Turner. Hell, I would have screwed Ike Turner just for bragging rights. Why couldn't I just congratulate her on her conquest, her social achievement, after all we didn't have what could be even mockingly called a traditional marriage. We had different lives. We went different ways. I had my collection and she collected concerts and people, other groupies and now a star, so why was it hard for me to say, "Cheers, good job?"

If I fucked Barbra Streisand she'd probably say, "Way to go. Nice work." But then she was better than me. No doubt. I am a narcissist who collects old records and shit, so just give her the applause she deserves. I should acknowledge her social climbing achievements. Is that so hard. I know I should say, "Way to fuck a legend. Nice going, love." It's just when I start to say it the words fall out of my mouth and I end up saying, "What do ya want, a fucking metal?" My wife is getting fucked by a star, why can't I say, "Good job," whether it's a hand job or not.

Why do I have to be a wise ass?

Okay, so when she comes back I'm going to get all gushy and give her the appreciation she so desires. I am going to say, "I am so happy you fucked Ike. Tell me all about it." See, I am ever a bitch when I plan to be nice. I can't even pretend nicely.

I should be happy she got to be screwed by someone who has sold over one record, signed an actual contract.

Am I bothered by the fact she has fucked him and not me. Probably not. It hasn't bothered me when I jackoff alone when she's being a groupie at some concert in Hollywood.

Okay, now I am serious. I am just going to be nice and show I care she was able to fuck somebody who was actually conscious while she did it. I pledge to be nice. To be happy for her. I swear I will be cheerful and well behaved.

She just came in. Here I go. "So, Linda Lovelace, any new sugar daddies lately?" Oh shit. I did it again.