Cliché - a phrase, opinion, or circumstance in this case that is overused and betrays a lack of original thought.
There are probably a few of them in here but I wrote this not for the Cliques Against Numbing Clichés but because I wanted to play at something different even if it was a chestnut. I had fun between 3-4PM this week in any event.
Flash Burnt Orange
"7819 Pinson Drive, please" I said to the man driving the cab as we pulled away from the curb.
"Yes, Ma'am" was his curt reply as he punched the street numbers into his navigator.
The afternoon had not gone as planned to say the least. Curt and I left the office right before lunch and I followed him to his downtown apartment in the new Challenger SRT 392 Charlie bought for me a couple months ago. I had been pestering him for weeks ever since I saw the first one drive past us; a burnt orange rumbling flash. He gave in eventually and surprised me one afternoon after work. We didn't come up for air for the entire weekend.
Curt on the other hand never buys me anything except lunch occasionally but then I get everything I'm looking for from him in other more delectable ways. He started working at the office about six months ago. I started working on him about 6 hours after he started.
I know people can be judgmental about these things but Curt really is all about short, intense bursts of pure lust; no love whatsoever. I don't fuck him because I want a life with him. No, he is a man who owns me by the hour, pro gratis. When he is done and I'm satisfied we each return to our spouses where innocence reigns and bliss screens our little indiscretions.
Yet, the guilt has been wearing on me for the past month or so. Oh I can hide it easily enough but it's still there like a cold sore waiting to pop up on the lip. I thought I had the best way to keep it subdued; I'd fuck Charlie into next week and make him feel like a king. It works all right. He's as happy as a man can be and I get to keep on chasing lust in the afternoons.
The problem is it doesn't work. The guilt is eating me. Every time Curt empties his nut in what should be Charlie's exclusive playground or when he has me suck his cock like a cheap whore on the front seat of his Mercedes I have to buttress the resolve to go home as if everything was as Charlie thinks it is.
This afternoon I told Curt it was over; to give me one last royal fuck to remember him by and then I'd have to get right with Charlie in my own mind. He did just that. He churned me into frothing butter giving me more orgasms throughout the afternoon than I could count. I could still taste his sperm even though I had brushed and rinsed a couple of times since. I still had the odor of his cock in my nostrils even though I knew it was imaginary.
When I turned to leave out the door I thought 'Maybe one more time later this week won't hurt". That's when the kicks in the ass began.
"Where in hell is my car?" I shouted out to nobody. Every Tuesday and Thursday afternoons for the past six months I had parked in the very same spot on the curb in front of the apartment.
A kid was sitting on the step next door. "A man in a Triple-A flat bed hauled it away a couple hours ago... said it was parked illegally." He pointed to the white and red no parking sign on the green post a couple spaces down.
I pulled out my new phone that Charlie got me last week when he upgraded our plan but it had gone dead which was odd since I always kept it charging in the SRT when I drove. Finally after I fidgeted around with it for several moments I got it to boot up only to discover it wanted a password to continue.
I must have rang his doorbell for 10 minutes before Curt finally answered and let me in to use his phone. He was in the shower apparently. Well the police didn't know anything about my car being towed and if I wanted them to start looking for it I needed to come down to the station and fill out the paper work.
Curt was no help.
"I need to pick up Julia in 20 minutes, Baby. I can't run over to the Crosstown. Wait a minute and I'll call a cab... on me."
So 30 minutes after Curt left to pick up his wife and head out into his suburban paradise I was still waiting for the cab to show up to take me to the station. He showed up 15 minutes later.
"I'm sorry, Ma'am. There was a bad one down on State and Main and the Po 'po kept us locked down for several minutes trying to get through it." He said trying to soothe my obvious irritation.
I should have just gone home. All the police did was take a statement and tell me they'd call when they knew something. A good looking sergeant at the front desk called me another cab when I was ready to go. By then it was 6PM and I knew Charlie would already be arriving home. He was going to crap grapes when he heard about the SRT.
The taxi showed up 10 minutes later and we were soon off to the refuge of home. I knew then I wasn't going to do this anymore no matter how good Curt is as a lover. Charlie was just going to have to practice more and I'm sure I can manage to fit more sex with my husband in the schedule to accomplish that.
"Ma'am, this sure is pretty country out here. I remember when this was all cow pasture." The driver was making small talk as we went along. I wasn't in the mood.
He was right though. Charlie bought up a tract of land at the end of a development he was putting in out on the edge of the city. Our place sat at the end of a cul-de-sac on 10 acres of what used to be farmland. He built our house with his own crew saving a hell of a lot of money and went all out too. It's a showcase.
That's the thing about Charlie; he's spoiled me rotten giving me everything I ask of him and I crap all over him by fucking around on him. Well that has to change.
The driver pulled onto Pinson and started driving down the row of large beautiful homes with their manicured lawns. Charlie manicured the front of our place but kept the rest of it rustic even though I pestered him about it sometimes. It made him feel like he was back on the farm I guess.
"7819 Pinson, Ma'am. You sure we at the right place?"
I stepped out of the cab and looked at what was in front of me... nothing, well nothing but a mailbox next to the curb and a trailer in a field.
"Ma'am...ma'am, is this right? If it is I got to go. That'll be $28.50... You OK, Ma'am?"
7819 Pinson was the right address but in a different universe. It had been reverted back to a field in the space of 10 hours with nothing but a small white trailer sitting in the middle of a couple acres of hay chaff spread around as seed. As the cab drove away from a lack of response, a folded note fluttered in the breeze while stuck in the doorjamb of the mailbox.
Enclosed with the note were two keys. I read it standing in the drive stunned.
"Fuck you and your belongings. They are in unit 218 down on Park Street. The trailer's utilities' paid up to the end of the month.
"Oh and did I say 'fuck you' yet? Let me say it again. 'Fuck you' Fuck Curt, fuck your job, fuck your mother, your sister and especially fuck your father. Fuck all y'all.
"Oh wait; I traded your SRT in for a moped. It's parked behind the trailer. Well, I didn't really trade it in. I titled it to Julia. You know her? Curt's wife. Oh she fucking loves it especially those Napa leather Alcantara seats you had to have... fucking beautiful and she looks good in it too!
"Well, I guess it's time to say fuck you again!
"Charlie"
