BBUUUUZZZZZUZUZZZZZUZUZZZZ
My slick fingers hum as they manuver the purple stick in, out, and around my dulled nerves. I squeeze my eyes tighter, playing roulette with all of the fantasies that had previously gotten me to that place.
I see the my tits bouncing in the reflection of his mirrored shades as he's fucking me in the cab of his F-150. Shell casings roll around, soundtracking every thrust as we get closer and closer. His face is flushed red with the heat he's sending through us. My head falls back on the pile of realtree camo threads that I'm using as a makeshift pillow, as the faint scent of Malboros hits me as his breathing becomes more intense.
I try to place a face behind the Oakley shades. Maybe Officer Mackey who lives down the street. Or possibly the firefighter who does practice evacuations at Kayleigh's school every few months. Or the Ford-tough built, army-vet Lucas Hoggerty, who works with my husband...
Fuck! No! Not my husband!
My mind recoils back towards last week and the Budwiser-stench fuming from Roger's mouth as he was begging me to get naughty since Kayleigh was at a sleepover for the weekend.
Our cocker spaniel, Amber, watched unenthusiastically from the corner as the muted tv lit up the room. Rog squeezed his eyes shut, heavily grunting as I lay on my back. Behind him, Tucker Carlson is mouthing off the dangers that woke culture is having on our men. As the delayed subtitles popped up, I can see him discussing how younger men are weaker and less aggressive. Amber began licking herself.
Rog cowered over me, blocking my view. The prickly grays on his beard scratched my chin as he kissed me sloppily. I layed stiff. If I move even an inch, the cock is out of the hole. Once the groove is lost, there's no guarantee it would be found again, and depending on how drunk he was, that could end up somehow being my fault.
Amber got bored and left the room. Rog began to grunt heavier and yelped "Jesus Christ," before spasming on top of me. When he collapsed on me and Tucker Carlson popped back up in my eyesight, the black box at the bottom of the screen read, "Women are becoming increasingly disappointed in men."
And those goddamn liberals have the nerve to say Fox News is all lies.
The vibrator in my hand starts spurting as the juice in the batteries begin running low. All is well. I wasn't going to manipulate an orgasm today anyway. It became increasingly tougher for me to imagine that Officer Mackey or the firefighter or Lucas Hoggerty were some types of sex stallions, built with porncocks dedicated towards pleasuring a woman's intense desire. Chances are they left things to be desired just like every other alpha, chest thumping, smug 'man of God' that I've fucked in my lifetime.
I clean the strawberry lube off of my hand with the wet washcloth laying beside me and then circle the length of the vibrator with it. Twisting the bottom, the batteries fall out and I shake them and put them back in the remote control.
It was still lost on me how an anniversary party gag gift from Rog's white trash sister has become my greatest companion. I threw it in a shoebox with my old Jessica Simpson clogs and curiously cautioned my way around it until the Devil tempted me after a long night of drinking, arguing, and realizations.
The realization that I gave up pleasure for security. That sex was more mental than physical for a long time. That it was to be accepted. I was to spend every Sunday morning of my life thanking the Lord for the health he's blessed me with and every Sunday afternoon tattooed to the chair at some greasy, Golden Corral getting my money's worth.
And lastly, that I was stuck here, because the last thing I'd want is to be living off of alimony alone in some shaggy, lower middle-class haven, tending to a harem of cats because I made a rash decision about a man.
But overall, Rog wasn't a bad guy. A lousy lay, yes, but a great provider and a meddling-to-decent father.
"You're not oppressed, sweetheart," he exclaims later that night while sitting at the dinner table. He's still in his dirty work clothes and clutching a can of Budwiser, speaking to our daughter, Kayleigh, while blankly staring at the TV screen, which is always anchored on Fox News.
"Those women with the"--he limply waves a finger around his face--"what are those Muslim thingamajiggy's called?"
I place a plate of spaghetti in front of him and Kayleigh.
"Burkas, niqabs, and chadors," she shoots off, while quickly adding, "but there's no need to add arbitrary rankings to our collective struggles as women."
"Jesus Christ, Misty," he says, turning his neck to look at me. "Do you hear what they're teaching thirteen-year-olds nowadays?"
I down the remnants of my wine glass and refill it.
"She can be oppressed if she wants," I say absently, not really paying attention to the conversation.
"See, this is why we need somebody like DeSantis in the White House. That goddamn CRT or whatever in the classrooms is fucking up our kid's head." He's seething now. "How did this kind of talk end up in our household?"
I roll my mind's eye.
"She is not oppressed. She's a kid, she's a girl, she's white, she's petite, she's pretty, and not to mention, pretty well off."
He grabs his tall boy, raises it to himself and takes a sip, then looks back at Kayleigh.
"I've literally worked my entire life to provide an environment where you didn't have to grow up disadvantaged and poor like I did, so it's a little insulting when you try to create these... fake struggles. Please, let's just talk about something else."
I struggle myself to try to shift the conversation before the beer really starts pickling his brain and makes his dissatisfaction more aggressive, and then I remember--
"I got a call from Turf Kings today. They said they're coming to service the yard tomorrow."
Rog spirals the spaghetti into a clump and forks it in his mouth.
"Well, you tell that incel nerd Bradley that the zoysia in the back isn't choking out those weeds like he said they..." He begins coughing out his food. "Jesus Christ, woman! What the hell did you put in here?"
"I only added a little paprika."
He takes a long pull from his can of beer until it's hollow.
"Feels like the Devil just jizzed down my throat," he whines, inhaling sharply. "Why'd you go and do that? What's wrong with how you usually make it?"
"I... I just wanted to try something different," I say. "I was looking on Instagram and..."
"You and Instagram and her and that Tik-Tok shit," Rog says, pointing his empty can at our daughter. "Ruining this entire family."
He grabs the bottle of ketchup from the middle of the table and drowns the spaghetti in it.
"I work hard all goddamn day long and just wanna come home to a good meal and Chef Boyardee here wants to experiment. Nothing was wrong with my mom's recipe."
He cautions another bite in and spits it back out.
"Still hotter than a darkie's trigger finger. Forget it. I'll go grab a chili dog from the gas station."
He gets up and drunkenly staggers towards the door, slamming it shut behind him. Me and Kayleigh look at each other.
"That's your father," I say.
"You married him," she shoots back.
*****
BZZZUZZZZZUUUUUZUZZZZZ
My mind goes absolutely blank.
I scratched the itch until a wound began to form and now I'm just fingering tendon and sinew.
My fantasies are now disappointments.
I try to shift positions, hoping to catch a new sensation, but nothing suffices. The scent of the strawberry lube whiffs around me.
BUUZZZUZZZ
This one comes from my phone, accompanied by the chime from my Ring camera by the door.
I exhale a defeated sigh and pull the vibrator out. Not expecting anybody, I reach over to check it but the lube on my hand is leaving a streaky mess on the screen.
The doorbell chimes strikes now.
I finally manage to input my phone password and the Ring app pops up. On the screen is a black man wearing a Turf King uniform. Shit. I forgot.
"Hello?" I say through the phone, which startles him on the other side of the screen.
"Hey," he replies. "This is Trent from Turf Kings. I was just alerting you that I was here to service your yard."
