Do You Want To Dance 1

Do You Wanna Dance

By Jay Cameron

Friday night, the ritual. Every Friday night it has become a ritual to meet up with some friends and have a good time. A little drinkin', a little dancin', and a whole lot of fun.

When everyone agrees on a place, we call an Uber and leave the cars in the garage. Better safe than sorry. That's not really true. One night I had so much to drink, I ended up leaving a huge mess in my best friend's car. I still don't think he has forgiven me. The cleaning bill was over a hundred bucks.

My wife and I have been married four years. We both work hard and when the end of the workweek gets here, we want to play hard.

Just in case you're wondering, my knockout of a wife is just an inch over five feet tall and built like a brick shithouse. I paid for some of those bricks; the ones that sick out from her chest. Not too big, but they do catch an eye or two, and they feel really nice in your mouth and hands. Oh, I almost forgot, her name is Jill, not Jillian, but Jill. The words 'honey' and 'babe' are solely for me.

Me, on the other hand, I'm Michael. I answer to almost anything. I've been called, shithead, asshole, dipshit, muther fucker, even, hey you, and once in a while someone will call me, Mike. Not to worry, I answer to anything as long as I know I'm not going to get the shit kicked out of me for doing something stupid. I have an above average pecker, and as far as I know, I've never left a girl hanging for want of a chart-topping orgasm.

If I gave you all the names of the party crowd, you'd just get confused. We all went to school together. None of us went to college, and only one new guy married into the group. He's a smart ass that went to community college and learned everything there is to learn in the world. I just call him 'The Prick.' He married a Prom Princess, and the way he talks, you would think she's the Queen. She is pretty; okay, she's a knockout, but she's' got no tits.

If you're reading this, and don't fully comprehend the mind of the workin' man. The poor sap that carries his lunch in a metal box and pulls at his dick all day. I just want you to know that men talk, and we talk a lot about sex. We talk about who is fucking whom, and if their wife knows, or even if the husbands know who is dicking his wife on the side. Every time we sit down for lunch or take a break from the mundane crap, we have to do to carry home a paycheck; we talk. It would be better to say we lie. The one that tells the biggest lie is the winner of not a damn thing.

It was one of those ordinary, I am bored out of my ass days, that 'The Prick," Chuck, or Charlie, or Charles made a Freudian slip. We ask him if he had a preference for Friday night? And he said that he couldn't go because his wife had a date that night. Well, I'll tell you right now you could have heard a mouse fart, that room got so quiet. There were five of us, and we all heard ole Chuckles say the very same thing and we all had the same reaction. Maybe not the same reaction, but I bet every one of us started to get a woody.

You see, Chuck had probably one of the finest, hottest wives in the whole damn plant. If it ever crossed your mind about 'maybe' fucking that woman ... let me put it this way, she could turn a fudge-packer into pussy eater in two heartbeats.

When Friday night rolled around, we had decided to go out of town to a big dance club about forty minutes away. Since we were going so far, I was elected to be the designated driver. Besides my wife and I had the only SUV that would handle eight people. Well, it was a little crowded.

The live band had already started, and the booze was flowing. Some yahoo I didn't know, came to our table and ask my wife if she would like to dance. I lied to her and said I had a bum ankle and for her to go get it. Well, she did just that. I don't think her ass hit the chair the rest of the night.

Every few minutes there was some fool asking me if I was going to be okay. Hell yes, I could drive, there wasn't a damn thing wrong with my ankle. I kept telling them it was my left ankle, and I don't need that to drive anyway.

Finally, they announced the last call, and our group was beginning to head for the exit. I started limping toward the door, when it dawned on me that I was limping with my right ankle. I made a few adjustments, and before, I think, anyone noticed, I was out the door and crossing the parking lot, leaning heavily on my trusted wife; still complaining about the pain I was suffering.

We hit the road, if you can call it that, after squeezing seven drunks into the once attractive seats of my wife's SUV.

That had to be the longest forty-minute drive in the history of forty-minute drives. There were seven drunks, all trying to talk at the same time. If that drive had been two miles longer, I would have stopped and dumped them all out on their collective asses.

As it was, when we dropped off the final couple, I had to help them both inside; one at a time. Finally, only one voice to put up with. The first thing I noticed was the quiet in the car. My wife had fallen fast asleep. Shit, this is not going to be fun. I was going to have to carry her into the house and put her to bed with a bad ankle. Oh, I forgot, I was fine, the ankle was a fake.

The next morning, I think it was Saturday. I was dancing around the kitchen, trying to make as much noise as I could, just to get the dancing queen on her feet and out of bed.

When she staggered into the kitchen, looking like something the cat wouldn't have anything to do with, let alone drag anywhere. I popped right up and got her a tall cup of really black and really strong coffee. Instead of thanking me, she ran off all those names I get called with the addition of 'you rotten bastard.'

Oh, this is going to be one day in history I'm positive, I will never forget.

She pissed and moaned all day. I finally got tired of listening to her yakity, yakity yak. I got in my truck and headed out to find something to eat that I could bring home to soothe the savage beastess.

Television was no help in getting rid of the minutes that kept dragging on and on. I finally gave up, grabbed a beer, my fifth of the day, hit the shower and tried to find a way to get my mind to shut off. As I climbed across the bed to my side; you know she had to have the side next to the bathroom. I can't help but grin at the idea of waking her up every time I had to take a wizz in the middle of the night. It was indeed a pleasure waking her ass up.

Sunday came and life was a little better. I got up early to watch the NFL game from London. My wife enjoyed football and so it was not unusual for us to watch the game together. I always wondered why she liked football, when all of her friends would rather go to the dentist than watch a juvenile game. So, one Sunday during halftime, I ask her what the big deal was with her and football. She didn't even stutter or stop to think of what she was about to say. She said it was their butts. She liked looking at the players' butts. Needless to say, I was shocked. I thought I had heard everything, but she laughed and informed me that if she was a guy, she probably would enjoy playing poker, and complaining about all the farting that was a part of the game. When I told her I had never farted in my life, she hit me with a box of tissues she had on the table next to the couch.

Sun comes up early in Texas. My wife had gone to bed while I was still yelling at the Texans to do something, anything. They didn't, I gave up and hit the shower.

She sure smelled good tonight. I wonder if she was doing special stuff so I would jump her bones. When she kept her face buried in that book, I knew getting laid was going to be a lot harder than my dick was right now. Then it struck me. I thought back to Friday night. I wondered out loud and directly into her ear, which one of guys she danced with Friday would she fuck if she had a chance?

Holy Joseph and Mary, you would have thought I shot the Pope. She sat up in that bed so fast, I was afraid she was going to pass out.

Ranting and raving, and again with all the names. I knew it was going to take a miracle to get all the shit back in one sock, but I had to try. That's when I told her about 'Chuckles the Clown,' and the reason he couldn't make it to the Friday night drunk-fest.

It dawned on her that Chuck's wife has been missing a lot of goings on lately. She was a no show for work twice in the last two weeks, and she seemed to have a little more hahaha when the girls were telling stories on each other. Then she realized, Chuckie's wife wasn't joining them at lunch everyday as was the norm. And, she had missed those two days of work.

Just like turning a page in a book, she was now wanting to know why I thought she would like to fuck any of the guys she danced with on Freaky Friday.

I was at a complete lose. I told her I was turned on by the idea of Chuck's wife fucking around. While I sat there watching her have a ball with all those strange men; I got a woody thinking about her bringing one home to fuck.

She assured me it wouldn't be any of that crowd, but there was a tiny, almost imperceptible catch in her voice.

Son of a bitch, it had crossed her mind. I'll bet a ten-dollar bill she has thought about it more than once, in fact, probably more than once today. I know she was mad enough Saturday morning to fuck the milk man, if we had one.

Things got back to normal the next few weeks, except good ole Chuckie the Cheese Head, better known as the 'Prick" was a regular no-show.

We all knew what was going on, so we played dumb and deaf, and blind. The weather finally changed, and we were going to go out without a jacket. There was also another change that I personally didn't like. At the last minute, my wife decided she was not feeling well. She was going to have to miss out on all the fun.

What the hell, I wasn't going to miss out. After all I had busted my ass all week, and it was time to breathe a little stale air and cigarette smoke. Plus, it was my turn to grab a few sexy butts, and let my hair down.

I had just finished my second T and T, and one of the gals ask If I was going to check on my wife. I was really having too much fun to give a shit about Jill's runny nose, so on with the dancin' and drinkin'. Not more than ten minutes later another of the wives asks the same thing. Only this time, Mrs. Pinocchio, had a big grin on her face. Big enough to get my single brain cell, going back to view the mental video of the last few days.

Something wasn't just the way I thought it should be playing.

Uber was two minutes away; that had to be wrong, because by the time I got to the door he was already waiting. I looked at the driver, and I knew at once he didn't want his car covered with all the crap I had in my stomach. Not to worry, I left all of that in the parking lot.

God, I was feeling like crap. Thanking the driver was the last thing on my mind, so as he drove away, I heard a few of the names I normally answer to, coming from the driver's window. Didn't I give him a tip ... I guess not.

When I quietly opened the front door, it was unlocked by the way, I heard music going in one ear and dancing around my head and then dying a certain death. I heard my wife yelling out things like 'fuck me, fuck me, slap my ass' and my all-time favorite, 'choke me.'

I couldn't resist. I opened the coat-closet door and removed my father's double barrel shotgun that had been our only protection against the dreaded robbers that went through the neighborhood stealing junk, and anything that had no value at all.

I announced my arrival with the voice just slightly softer than a jet engine.

That's when I got the surprise of my life. I would never have guessed it was 'the Prick", good ole Charles, that stepped into the hallway. He was naked, but I didn't really notice. The first sound he heard was his dick and his balls racing down the hall behind him. I don't think he heard the second bang. It took his eyes and pushed them into the back of his head along with a couple dozen small pieces of buckshot.

I was told later they found my wife screaming like crazy while trying to hide in the closet. But I didn't hear, see or smell anything from that night.

The decision from my trial came down on my twenty-fifth birthday. The verdict was guilty. The sentence was twenty-five years before I would be eligible for parole.

The third day I was in 'real-persons' prison, I bit a big mean SOBs dick off and jammed a shive up his ass. I could now look forward to the prison production line; the mundane job of making shit for the public that lives outside these fucking walls.

But if I want to dance, I get any partner I want. I lead.

END