Some years back, I was stationed in Japan with the military. A good buddy of mine named Pete and I palled around a lot, and he taught me a few cool things about computers, such as BBSes and modem-based chats, which were still big back then. After awhile, everyone basically knew everyone, since each base had only a few bulletin boards or chat rooms. We often had house (or barracks) parties together, especially during the holidays, when many of us either couldn't afford to go home, had no families to go home to, or had started new families.
Pete was one of the latter, so the computer allowed him to keep in touch with everyone, even when he couldn't come to one of our parties. (Again, this was before the Internet, so even being able to send messages between rooms or buildings was a big deal.) However, when he hosted, he was fortunate enough to have a few understanding neighbors to watch the kids. For one party, it was a good thing.
I was a short-timer; my orders had come in, and I had already packed out all but a few essentials, since I was shipping out in a few weeks. This topic joined the usual conversation elements at our parties, such as the next steps in computer technology, whether computers would ever play video games as well as the arcade machines, whether TV-based consoles would remain superior for such play, whether 'net porn was a big deal (little did we know!), and the like.
We were all kicking back with various beverages, shooting the breeze, singing karaoke, or watching Pete show off some of the cool stuff he had installed on his Atari ST (a series of computers that could have saved Atari had anyone inside the company just let it happen) when Pete's wife came in. If Pete was a geek, his wife Debbie was very nearly an anti-geek. She was a very cute, petite brunette who liked movies and music, but that was about as far as her love of technology went. As such, she didn't mind our little get-togethers, but generally she only went along to be sociable. That she was cute in a bouncy-petite sort of way, and didn't mind talking to a bunch of misfits and nerds made her quite welcome. Besides, conversations sometimes drifted away from computers to stuff she liked, and so she generally didn't feel too uncomfortable.
At the time, though, even though I didn't consider myself the most socially astute person on the planet (or even in the room), I could tell she was not happy about something. She crossed the room, heading straight for the kitchen. She did smile and greet people on her way (read: in her path), but she was clearly headed for the fridge and the beer. As soon as she had a can of whatever the base Class Six store had on special that week, she made her way with similar resolve to the back room, where she and Pete had some workout gear. She slammed the door, cranked up some tunes just to the point where we could hear them, and that was the last we heard of her for close to half an hour.
In the meantime, Pete and I got into a conversation about whether Atari or Amiga had a better handle on sprite animation, which continued with some really cool examples, when Debbie popped out of the workout room, grabbed another beer and a bottle of booze (Jack Daniels, if memory serves), and darted back in. My eyebrows must have gone up, because Pete held up a hand and shook his head, wordlessly indicating that he really did not want to talk about whatever was going on. I nodded, understanding only that something bad was going on, and that I wasn't really entitled to know what it was.
After another few dueling demos, we took a break and had a couple of drinks. It began to get late; since quite a few people had early duty, the party began to wind down almost in shifts. First, the early watch standers said their farewells; then the guys with the most computer gear to pack up; and finally, even the die-hard karaoke nuts began to give out. Finally, it was just Pete and me playing video games and chewing the fat. Then Debbie came out.
She had her black hair in short ponytail, and was wearing a loose, but flattering, white sweatshirt and a pair of very form-fitting blue tights. I hadn't noticed them before; either she had changed clothing after coming home, or I had been more interested in bits and bytes before she came out.
She sat between Pete and me, and cut off whatever he had been saying to ask him, "So, what'cha talking about?" in a voice that let us both know she really didn't care.
Pete tried to gut it out by answering. "Oh, we were just talking about football, the usual stuff...."
"Y'mean, you weren't talking about your little computer?" she asked, sarcastically. The thing was, she was definitely not a sloppy drunk; every word came out as perfectly formed as her spandex-clad thighs. Unfortunately, she was a very mean drunk, so every word also came out a little louder and a lot sharper than would have happened when she was sober. (As a military man, I spent a lot of time watching friends get drunk; one gets fairly observant.)
Pete gritted his teeth, and said defensively, "Those little computers put food on our table, dear..."
Debbie edged closer to me, for reasons I could not yet fathom. "Oh, not those computers, honey. The computers at work do that. Those computers just let you have little chats with your little friends."
I tried to raise an objection at that point, not for myself, but for Pete, but I only got as far as "I--" before Debbie cut me off and said, "Oh, I don't mean you, Joe. You're not little at all, are you?" On the word all, I felt her thigh bounce off mine quite deliberately. Given how rarely I dated back then, that was enough to give me a rapid and stiff erection.
