What was it my brother said when enraged? Oh yeah, I remember. Fuck him and the horse he rode in on. Seeing my husband Jerry and his cheap blond floozy emerge from the Blue Bird motel definitely enraged me. Pounding the steering wheel, the radio playing a Three Dog Night tune, the car heater warming the interior of the car, I watched them through the dirty windshield of my car as they strolled hand and hand to their cars I said, ""Fuck you and the horse you rode in on." Saying it did not help much.
Since my marriage in a drab office at city hall, no man other then Jerry had touched me. Not one. I considered my marriage sacrosanct, fidelity the glue binding me to Jerry and Jerry to me. Over the past six years I always felt that our love was strong enough to endure anything, our sex life so rich and rewarding that neither one of us needed to visit some tawdry motel or grab a quickie in the back seat of a car. Not once in school did I cheat on an exam. I never tried to take a boyfriend away from one of my girlfriends. Honesty to me was a religion and I abhorred deceit. I thought Jerry felt the same way. Now I knew differently. I wanted to hurt Jerry as much as he had hurt me.
I worked at a roofing company. Me with my degree in fine arts, a love of literature, my snobbery masked I was the single member of the accounting department. I had a ready pool to implement my plan of revenge. Mr. Gearing, a gray haired man with a huge potbelly, a lover of beer and bad jokes, employed nine men engaged in repairing and replacing roofs. These virile, hot-blooded men spent their workdays under the broiling sun on baking roofs. All of them worked hard and played harder.
The following day, at closing time, less then twelve hours after seeing Jerry and the blonde emerge from the cinderblock motel, I shut my computer down, washed my coffee cup, rubbed away its brown stain and set it near my computer's keyboard. Then with a list of names floating around in my head, a list with five names on it, I strolled around the office asking a simple question.
Approaching each one in turn, I asked my question in a whisper. Would you like to come over to the house now and fuck me? Each one looked at me as though my question had driven them into shock. Of course, they quickly recuperated. I do not think I had ever said the word fuck around these guys. In less then ten minutes I said the word five times.
Most men consider me a babe; at least I think they do, with my long brunette hair, coltish legs and more then a mouthful of breasts. I had no doubts any of the five would turn me down. Not one did.
Leaving the parking lot our three cars formed a caravan. I led in my car, Miles Sheppard, Steve Miller, Alvin Tolson followed in Miles' car, and Mike Adams driving his ancient pickup, Duncan Defrain, his passenger, brought up the rear.
