The Price of Pussy

There's no sex in this story. Just a flash with a bit of humor.

*****

I was in our dining room, which we never used, preferring the comfort and intimacy of our kitchen table. Well, we used to anyway. I'd set our desktop up there, the ornate table giving me lots of room to organize things. I was a bit of a neat freak, I'm afraid, And I really liked the ambient light of the room.

She came in, the new high heels she'd started wearing recently clattering across the floor, announcing her arrival. She called for me, but I was right in the middle of something, so I ignored her until I was done.

"I'm in here," I called out cheerily. "Can you come in for a minute?"

She appeared in the door, rolling her eyes. "What is it? I have somewhere I need to be soon."

I took her in. Twenty-nine, five seven, hundred ten pounds, spread out very nicely. Good boobs, not large, but very responsive. We didn't have children, so she never had to lose baby weight. She was within three pounds of when I married her four years ago. I always loved her auburn hair, and was pissed when she announced four months ago she was going blond. It made her look, I dunno, cheaper somehow, but my opinion may be biased a bit.

"It won't take too long, and besides, I have a feeling your appointment has been canceled. Come on, the quicker you do this, the quicker I'm out of your hair. And you've made it pretty plain lately that's where you'd like to keep me."

She sighed, giving an exaggerated eye roll as she sat across from me.

"Thanks. Like I said, I'll try to keep it brief. I need you to think, and be truthful. This is not an hypothetical question. How much would you say sex is worth, if you had to give a monetary value?

More specifically, I mean sex with you. Are there different values, you think, for different acts? I know prostitutes have different prices, oral being cheapest, anal being the most expensive, and I have no idea what call girls charge, but it's probably a lot more. I need your help trying to establish a baseline. Research, if you will. Do you think your value is as a high as a courtesan, or cheap as a street whore? Somewhere in the middle maybe."

"Do I try to factor intangibles? Enthusiasm, skill level, enticements like lingerie, mood enhancers like soft lighting, candles, strawberries, chocolate, motel rooms, that sort of thing? I'm going for an overall estimate here."

Her mouth sagged farther open as I talked. When I paused to let her give input, it snapped shut.

"What are you doing here? It's not funny Donald, it more like just plain stupid."

Well good, she used my full name. That meant she was pissed and if I kept it up she'd be in full bitch mode within seconds.

"Oh, I agree, Sherry. It is stupid. It became stupid when you started flirting with Jamison. Jamison, really? What a pompous name. He's just a redneck, even in the suit. His drinking buddies call him Jimmyjam, now there's a name for you."

Her eyes narrowed. I could see the eruption coming. Come on Mt. St Helens, blow.

"Will you get off that! I've told you, there is nothing going on between us. I don't even like him that much. Is this what this is about? I swear, if you bring him up one more time, I'll leave you!"

I grinned. "Jamison, Jamison, Jamison. Jimmyjam Jamison. Sounds like a rapper doesn't it? Jimmyjam Jamison, Redneck Rapper. He could bust rhymes about his pickup truck, getting drunk, fucking married women, maybe. I can see a real career, big money in his future."

Her eyes went wide, then narrowed a bit. I think she's starting to get it.

"Sorry, Sherry, lost my train of thought. Won't happen again. Back on subject here. You know, I really didn't want to come here at first, even if it was a good career move. But the longer I was here, the better I liked it. It was seventy-two yesterday. I played a round of golf, in the last week of February. Can't beat the weather. So I think I'll stay, regardless of what happens next."

"Know what I like most about North Carolina, though? You can still sue people for alienation of affections, you know, stealing a spouse. It's one of the few left that will let you do it. It takes a rare combination of circumstances to actually get any money, but anyway, it's the thought, I guess. That's why I'm doing all this research. I want to present a rock hard report, full details of the frequency and acts, and how I arrived at the numbers. I got a few videos, some eyewitnesses, enough to establish a baseline. But if I could get it straight for you how much you think that pussy is worth, it would help a lot. Kind of like calling an expert. My lawyer laughed his ass off when I told him what I wanted to do, but he kind of got behind it there at the end, something about precedents. Gee, it might just change the way people go about filing these suits."

"More money will change hands. The lawyers will be happy, the judge will be happy because it'll make monetary awards a lot easier to determine."

"So, help me out here. If you don't cooperate, my lawyer will have your ass up there on that stand, and he'll be glad to go through your affair act by act. That'll be testimony I would love to hear. And be glad for small favors. The meter stops running the minute you sign the separation and divorce papers. We won't even embarrass you by having you served, just drop by his office. Look at how much money you and Jimmyjam, sorry, Jamison will save after you move out, on gas and motel rooms. Then again, know he has a spare bedroom, if he can talk his wife into it. Oh, and I've given my research to her, and she's going to use it in her case against you, so maybe you can get someplace together. We're even splitting the cost of the lawyer."

I looked down at Sherry, passed out cold on the dining room floor. She didn't fall out, it was more like watching a balloon losing its' air as she slid to the floor. So much for an expert consultant. No matter, the papers are pretty self explanatory. I printed my research out, put it in a nice binder, and lay it on her chest. She'll wake up directly. Right now, me, my lawyer, and Mrs. Jimmyjam are having a dinner meeting. At Hog Heaven, the best barbeque joint in town. Another thing I like about the South.

I hope Sherry realizes as soon as the door clicks behind her tonight she won't be able to get back in. The locks have been changed.

Damn it, it's got to where you can't enjoy a good meal any more. Sherry has called six times already, I shut it off, Mrs. Jimmyjam was right in the middle of one of her hilarious stories about her errant husband. Said she was thinking about writing a book, Life With A Horndog. Seems Sherry isn't his one and only. Mrs. J said she'd give me their addresses, so I can share my formula with their husbands, AFTER mine was done. Don't want too many people shaking the tree at the same time, now do we? I tuned back in to the story.

"and then I asked him how he managed to get his tiny pecker stuck in that pine knot to start with."

...

Of course, it wasn't that simple. Sherry didn't want a divorce, She was so sorry, it would never happen again, she's learned her lesson. She fought for four months before she gave it up, signed the papers, and moved back home.

Jamison got a lot of publicity when the trial started, and the judge, an old school codger with two ex-wives to his credit, let me testify. The court rocked with laughter while he tried to figure out how to be invisible. He was actually pretty well off, owned half a car dealership, and I actually got some money, more than I thought possible. Mrs. Jamison ended up with the house, and a fourth interest in the car lot. As soon as we were done she gave my research to the three other husbands, and it looks like before it's over, he'll be lucky to have a job selling cars, instead of having a stake in a dealership.

I stayed away from women for almost two years before I ran into a feisty little redhead, redneck to her roots, a widow with two sons, eight and six. I coached her kids, basketball, something a friend talked me into, and though we didn't hit it off right away, we gradually warmed up to each other. She made fun of the way I treated her in public, opening doors, seating her at a restaurant, the way I always deferred to her in social situations.

She pushed it until I snapped on the third date.

"You don't like being treated like a lady, fine. But if you date me, expect me to treat you this way. If you want to be treated like an object, go back to the rednecks."

Her eyes flew wide, but she waited demurely for me to open the car door when we left, staying quiet on the way home. She actually apologized when I walked her to the door. I explained as best I could.

"Look, it was the way I was raised. My grandfather was old fashioned. Treat them like a lady in public, a partner in private, and a... well the rest was about the bedroom."

Her eyes seemed to glow in the moonlight. "If I was your woman, how would you treat me in the bedroom?"

"I'd treat you like the hot little piece I think you are, and fuck your brains out. Not for power, not for domination, but because I'd want to be the best lover you ever had, to always keep you satisfied. I don't think we're there yet, though."

"You know what your biggest fault is, honey? You think too fucking much." She was saying that as she shoved me through the door. We were late picking up the boys the next morning. Her mom looked at us and just grinned.

Eight months later, when we had them sitting at the table explaining that in four months I was going to be their new dad, they were very happy. We'd developed an easy, teasing relationship, and I told the oldest he was going to be the ring bearer. The youngest wanted to know what his part was.

"Well, we'll need a flower girl..."

"Mom! Dad wants me to be a flower girl!"

"Well, honey, I bet you'd look really cute in a dress."

He looked like he was about to cry, when I picked him up and put him on my lap. "You know we're just being meanies, son. How about this, you can be the ring bearer, and your brother can be the best man. How's that?"

That suited them just fine, and that's what we did. Ten years later, I loved to hear them complain when I made them take their little sisters to dance practice, and Girl Scouts.

I never saw Sherry again. My older brother told me she'd gotten remarried, but it didn't last. After that divorce she sort of just disappeared. Too bad for her second they didn't live in my state.

We were at a party right after we married, and one of her friends told her what I'd done. On the way home she was quiet, and after we got in bed she asked me how much I thought she was worth.

"Honey, there is more value in you when you just give me a peck on the cheek than there would be if my ex lived to be a million and we lived in bed. There hasn't been a unit of measurement invented to describe your value to me. Factor in our boys, and you couldn't put enough zeros behind it."

"Good answer," she said through surprising tears. as she slid her body on top of mine, "but I expect you to show how much you value me often. Real often."

And that's how the girls came to be. Twins. I'll never get out of debt.

*****

There you go. Don't take it too seriously.

2016 has been a really rough year for me so far. My brother passed, the youngest of seven. He was forty-nine, a diabetic like me, and he basically abused himself to death. My youngest sister has been in and out of the hospital and rehab since December, but appears to be on the mend. My mother, in her mid eighties, is showing the stress.

Then I went to the dermatologist, about a spot on my nose. She did a biopsy. Cancer. "It'll be fine," she said, "We'll cut, biopsy to make sure we got it all, then over to the partners in plastic surgery. You'll get a small skin graft, be good to go in three or four days."

She finally got it all after six procedures taking over seven hours. Of course, by then sixty per cent of my nose was gone, including all the cartilage all the way to the bone. Four and a half hours in the operating room the next day, and I got a slab of meat that looks like a big fat worm where my nose used to be, and a hundred and six stitches in my face and ear, where they 'borrowed' the cartilage to rebuild my nose. I look like Frankenstein on a bay day.

In three weeks they do the final operation, and three weeks after that I'm supposed to be fine.

The good news is I'm out of work for at least six weeks, so I can maybe finish up a lot of stuff I've left dangling because I haven't had the time.

The really good news is I have two prescriptions for oxy, and I'm sure it'll reap rewards, creatively.

So, back to the story. I hope you enjoyed it. Comment if you like, vote if you want, and look for more. Thanks.

Q