This is a Valentine's Day contest story. Please vote.
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Husband sabotages wife's Valentine's celebration with his sudden nudism.
Robert listened to his wife, Susan, yapping endlessly about her plans for her Valentine Day celebration. She was like this with every obscure holiday. Every month it seemed they threw a party that cost nearly as much as their daughter's wedding. To him, the only days worthy of a celebratory party were birthdays, Christmas, and possibly New Year's, so long as he wasn't always throwing all the parties and shouldering the all expense. Let someone else throw a party for once.
The only other day worthy of a part was the wedding reception, the day his daughter finally got married and left the nest. One bloodsucking, money drainer in a family was enough. Between his daughter, Katherine, and his wife, Susan, they couldn't spend his money fast enough. No more, Daddy, I need this and Daddy, I have to have that. Now that his daughter is married, she's someone else's pain-in-the-ass worry and financial burden. Good luck to her husband because his daughter is just like her mother, a gold digger.
God forbid he should be able to listen to the news without having to listen to his wife yapping about planning to have another extravagant theme party. Last year he footed the expenses for a Valentine Party, an Earth Day celebration, a Summer Loving party, and a Halloween party, along with a Thanksgiving party, Christmas party, and then a New Year's party. Now, here we go again this year. It's someone else's turn to have a party and invite them as guests. Let them have this year's Valentine's party. He's done with feeding people, while plying them with his alcohol and hoping they don't crash their car on the drive home, kill someone, and then sue him.
God forbid he should be able to keep a thought in his head without having to hear her voice drone on about the same things every day, parties, party planners, caterers, landscapers, and interior decorators. God forbid he should get a good night's sleep without having to awaken in the middle of the night in a sweaty panic thinking about his wife spending every penny he has on new furniture and redecorating. The only time she gives him any peace is when she's out shopping. The only time she stops talking is when he fills her mouth with his cock and he's been doing that more lately, just to shut her up, so that he can hear the quiet.
"I want this Valentine's Day party to be the biggest and the best Valentine's Day party we ever had, Robert," she said with her head up in the clouds. "I found a new caterer and went there yesterday to taste their food and it's all yummy. Dorothy said she'll give me the name of her interior designer, Handsome Homes by Homer."
As far as Robert was concerned, the biggest and the best party translated into the most expensive and extravagant social function. Robert figured, no doubt, that Homer was another homo. With every party, from interior decorators, exterior decorators, landscapers, caterers, wait staff, party planners, and classical musicians playing songs that makes him wish he were dead, Brahms, Beethoven, and Mozart, his house is crawling with homos.
Classical music puts him to sleep. Why can't they play some Beatles, Led Zeppelin, or Pink Floyd? At this point in his life, if his choice is to go to Heaven and hear harp music or go to Hell and listen to the Devil playing Charlie Daniels on his violin, he'd pick Hell. He was tired of having a full house over a holiday. He'd love to spend just one holiday alone, so that he could just chill and relax in front of the television.
He hated working with the last interior designer. He was everywhere changing everything. He even came walking in the bathroom with his assistants, when he was in there on the crapper taking a dump.
"Get the Hell out of here," he yelled.
"Pardon," said the designer.
For him to get any peace at all, he had to move his recliner out to the five car garage. At least, as his birthday gift last year, his wife had Todd do his garage over. It was as nice as his basement. He could live out here, if he had to, which some days he thought about doing, just to get away from her.
When Todd, Odd Todd, he enjoyed calling him, was done decorating, he didn't even recognize his own house. Then, when Odd Todd threw out his collection of porn magazines, that was the last straw. It was worth the fifty thousand dollars he had to pay for punching him in the face. Never is when he wants to see that designer in his house again.
"That's nice, dear," he said tuning her out and squinting to focus to hear the football scores.
"I'm stuck on a band, though. Marsha knows of a trio that has an opening on Valentine's Day, a man on cello, a woman on harp, and a man on piano. Of course, the upright piano we have is much too small. We need to buy a baby grand piano, as our garden room isn't big enough to fit a grand piano and all 150 of our guests," she said looking at him, as if waiting for him to protest.
"See? I have a mind to the budget, Robert. I'm always trying to save you money, whenever I can, and the baby grand pianos are much more affordable that a grand piano," she said smiling and batting her eyelashes, when he looked over at her.
He wondered how long he'd serve in prison for strangling her? In the way she makes him crazy, he could claim temporary insanity. At least his cell would be quiet. He wondered if he could bring his flat screen to jail with him and if they had cable. He'd go mad, if he couldn't watch his football games. Suddenly, he had a vision of duct taping her mouth shut, before taping her to the garage wall, and pulling her off the garage wall, as if she were a handy tool, only when he needed a blowjob.
Gees, I wish she'd take a breath, have a drink, and take a valium. She's been wound up like this over this damn Valentine's Day party, since the day after the New Year's party we just had. She lives to entertain. She lives to spend my money. Doesn't she have any idea what these parties cost?
"That's nice, dear," he said again hoping she was done talking, but knowing she wasn't.
"Oh, and I forgot to tell you. My mother and my sister are coming for an extended stay, perhaps through the summer when..."
He stopped listening when she said her mother and her sister were coming for an extended stay. He just got rid of them last year, when they were here for nearly a year, nine months of mooching. She's got to be kidding. Blonde and busty, if she wasn't so damn beautiful and gave a great blowjob, not to mention that she'd get half of everything he has in the divorce settlement, he'd call his divorce attorney right now and put the paperwork in motion.
He'd do anything to stop her from talking, blah, blah, blah. Shut the fuck up! Maybe she has an ulterior motive. Maybe she's hoping to drive him crazy, so that he'll divorce her. Well, if that's the case, then her secret plan is working.
He was sick of listening to her on how she was going to spend his money. He was tired of coming home to a house full of people, most of these people, he didn't even know or like, for that matter. A pretend model and a wannabe actress, the woman never worked a day in her life. She doesn't know what it is to earn a dollar and he regretted the day he married her. He's been supporting her entire family, extended family, and her down and out friends their whole marriage. Enough! The bank of Robert is closed.
"Oh, and, of course, you'll have to cancel your trip to the Super Bowl in Texas. I'm going to need you here to help run some of the last minute errands that I'll surely have to throw this Valentine's party on such short notice."
"Sorry, Susan, I must be hallucinating and hearing things," he said with an angry laugh. "I actually thought you said that I'd have to cancel my trip to the Super Bowl in Texas. What was that about cancelling my trip to the Super Bowl? Surely, you didn't just say that I'd have to cancel my trip to the Super Bowl, after you just said your mother and your sister are coming here again."
He looked at her with a focused stare, as if his eyes could burn a laser hole through her pea sized brain or as if taking aim on a ten point buck and putting a bullet between the eyes. He envisioned his three favorite 300 plus pound defensive linemen, Big Bubba, Tank, and Mad Dog tackling his wife and holding her down, while the rest of the football team gangbanged her to inject her with enough football spirit and semen to be their number one cheerleader and biggest fan. After living and dying for football, heated by football fever, never again would she want to throw another party.
"The caterer has a conflict with the date, honey."
He hated when she called him honey in that placating tone. Every time she used that tone, it cost him money. He'd rather be burned with hot oil than to listen to her calling him honey in the way she elongates the last syllable, as if it's a bee buzzing before stinging.
"So? Get another caterer."
"I can't, honey," she said it again. "He's the one to have this season and he's already booked for Valentine's Day, which falls on a Monday this year," she said and all he heard was blah, blah, blah. "He's booked all that weekend. The only day he's free that month is Sunday, February 6th, the same day as your stupid, little football game that you go to every year, since forever. So, if you don't mind, just this once, for little old me, if you'd--"
"Susan..."
"Yes, dear?"
Smiling and batting her eyelashes again, he hated that she thought he was so stupid or so much head over heels in love with her that he'd do whatever she wants, whenever she wanted him to do it, by just batting her eyelashes at him. To him, she was just another dumb blonde, who happened to be his wife. If he could kill his friend for introducing them, he would. If he could change anything, he would have married his sister's girlfriend, Maureen. She was a nice women, who hated parties. Now, he's stuck with Martha Stewart on steroids, who thinks she has an unlimited budget to spend on theme parties.
Robert was so angry that he couldn't even formulate the words. He knew that if he said anything right now and he knew that if he stayed in the house, he'd strangle her to death. He got up from his easy chair, grabbed his car keys, and went out to the garage to go for a drive. Driving his Ferrari 599GTO cleared his head. Driving his Ferrari fast, with the focused tunnel vision that the sensation of speed gave him, erased her voice from his mind. One of the few true enjoyments he had in his life, a place where he could be alone, as she hated driving fast, which explains why his other car is a Bentley Continental GTC Speed, which is nearly as fast as the Ferrari, he felt more relaxed now and more at one with the car than with her.
She especially hated the Ferrari because it was so low and so loud. She had a difficult time talking over the exhaust music.
"What's that, honey, I can't hear you," he said double clutching before burying the gas pedal.
