Bad Mommy
Page 41
“It’s okay,” she said.
“Where did you hear it?” Now I was just being an asshole.
Jolene turned away. Fig hopped down from the counter and took the gin bottle from me, making eye contact as she did. “Oh, you know … around.”
“Oh yeah…?” Lying bitches.
I was angry. They were fucking around, spending all day talking about another man, listening to the songs he sent. It was disgusting.
After dinner, Fig helped Jolene clean up the kitchen while accusing her of being high maintenance. When Jolene denied it, I snickered.
“Denial is strong with this one,” I said.
“We’ll just let her think she’s a walk in the park.” Fig winked at me.
Jolene shot us both an annoyed look. “Why don’t one of you assholes pour me a drink while I give my daughter a bath,” she said. She left to fetch Mercy from the television.
Don’t leave me with her! Don’t leave!
We all had a little too much to drink and then Jolene went to bed. I gave her a pleading look as she stood up, stretching her arms above her head. Her tits lifted and I could see the impressions of her nipples through the flimsy material of her T-shirt. She caught my eyes and winked. It was a game we had, who would be left alone with Fig at the end of the night. We were both hesitant to tell her to leave, so one of us would stay up until she decided to wander home. I argued that I had work in the morning, but Jolene got up with Mercy even before I did, which on most nights won her the earlier bedtime. After Jolene left, I went to the kitchen to pour myself a drink. I made one for Fig, too, and carried it to where she sat curled on the couch, her eyes unblinking as she watched me in that careful way she did.
What was nice about Fig was that she didn’t need to speak—being around another human was enough for her. I did most of the talking, which was a change of pace for me. There didn’t need to be depth the way Jolene demanded of conversations. We’d discuss the most asinine topics, making jokes and exchanging movie references in a sort of rapid-fire way only she could keep up with. I spoke about nonsense, whatever came to mind, and she sat attentively and listened. If I’d spoken such nonsense to Jolene she’d tell me to shut up, but Fig liked the sound of my voice. She liked that I had things to say to her.
One drink turned into two, and by the time we drained our third, we were both so drunk that when her hand reached out to touch my chest I didn’t stop her. It was nice, someone wanting me so much. I didn’t have to do anything to earn it—even if she wanted me because I belonged to Jolene. I wondered if she knew how deep her obsession ran, or if she made excuses for it in that endearing narcissistic way. Her hand was on me, and then we were kissing, our alcohol breath mingling, her mouth wet and willing. She was tiny. I could feel her bones as I ran my hands over her body. She climbed onto my lap without prompting and started grinding against me, and all I could think about was how tight she said she was. She was wearing shorts, so I slipped my finger past the hemline and found her wet and without panties. I leaned back so I could pull her shorts aside to see her: a tight neat, little pussy to match her tight, neat little body. I slid my finger inside her and she rode it, which almost drove me wild. I lifted her shirt and sucked on her nipples, my tongue running over the metal hoops of her piercings. Fig had pierced nipples. Who would have thought?
Jolene could walk out of the bedroom at any minute to see us grinding on the couch. The thought should have scared me, caused me to push her off my lap; instead, I yanked her shorts down and lifted her hips so they were level with my mouth. I wanted to taste her. I sucked on her while she pressed against my mouth frantically, my two fingers pushing in and out of her. She was quiet, breathing hard, her hands on the wall behind the couch as she looked down at what I was doing. There was none of the darty timidness I’d come to expect of her. She was sexual, and even as I licked, she spread her legs wider. I worked her until she came then slid down next to me on the couch and pulled up her shorts.
Neither of us said a word as she slipped on her shoes and I walked her to the door. She wouldn’t look at me and I wasn’t sure if it was because she was ashamed of what we’d just done, or if she liked it. I wasn’t sure which of those I was either. It was one thing fucking strangers, another a friend of your wife.
“Bye,” she said, stepping outside.
I lifted my hand weakly in response. That’s what I was, wasn’t I? There was no rhyme or reason for doing what I did, except I’d just wanted to. I could have walked into the bedroom I shared with my wife, rolled her over and fucked her with no complaints from her. Jolene was always willing, our sex always great. Instead I stuck my fingers inside of a woman I’d been accusing of stalking my wife, and let her come on me. I rubbed my hands across my face. I could smell her on my fingers. I was the worst piece of shit on the planet.
“You wrote me a poem? No fucking way.” Her hair was up, pulled away from her face so I could see her neck. It was a good neck, one of my favorite necks of all time.
I reached over and squeezed her knee. “I love your foul mouth.”
We were in my car; Jolene called it the boring old man car, mostly because of the color. Our destination was a restaurant in Fremont, somewhere we’d never been. We liked that sort of thing, trying new places, and it was date night. I’d gone all out to impress her—new clothes (for me), flowers (for her), and yes, I’d written her a poem. She read some of the lines out loud.
“Where did you hear it?” Now I was just being an asshole.
Jolene turned away. Fig hopped down from the counter and took the gin bottle from me, making eye contact as she did. “Oh, you know … around.”
“Oh yeah…?” Lying bitches.
I was angry. They were fucking around, spending all day talking about another man, listening to the songs he sent. It was disgusting.
After dinner, Fig helped Jolene clean up the kitchen while accusing her of being high maintenance. When Jolene denied it, I snickered.
“Denial is strong with this one,” I said.
“We’ll just let her think she’s a walk in the park.” Fig winked at me.
Jolene shot us both an annoyed look. “Why don’t one of you assholes pour me a drink while I give my daughter a bath,” she said. She left to fetch Mercy from the television.
Don’t leave me with her! Don’t leave!
We all had a little too much to drink and then Jolene went to bed. I gave her a pleading look as she stood up, stretching her arms above her head. Her tits lifted and I could see the impressions of her nipples through the flimsy material of her T-shirt. She caught my eyes and winked. It was a game we had, who would be left alone with Fig at the end of the night. We were both hesitant to tell her to leave, so one of us would stay up until she decided to wander home. I argued that I had work in the morning, but Jolene got up with Mercy even before I did, which on most nights won her the earlier bedtime. After Jolene left, I went to the kitchen to pour myself a drink. I made one for Fig, too, and carried it to where she sat curled on the couch, her eyes unblinking as she watched me in that careful way she did.
What was nice about Fig was that she didn’t need to speak—being around another human was enough for her. I did most of the talking, which was a change of pace for me. There didn’t need to be depth the way Jolene demanded of conversations. We’d discuss the most asinine topics, making jokes and exchanging movie references in a sort of rapid-fire way only she could keep up with. I spoke about nonsense, whatever came to mind, and she sat attentively and listened. If I’d spoken such nonsense to Jolene she’d tell me to shut up, but Fig liked the sound of my voice. She liked that I had things to say to her.
One drink turned into two, and by the time we drained our third, we were both so drunk that when her hand reached out to touch my chest I didn’t stop her. It was nice, someone wanting me so much. I didn’t have to do anything to earn it—even if she wanted me because I belonged to Jolene. I wondered if she knew how deep her obsession ran, or if she made excuses for it in that endearing narcissistic way. Her hand was on me, and then we were kissing, our alcohol breath mingling, her mouth wet and willing. She was tiny. I could feel her bones as I ran my hands over her body. She climbed onto my lap without prompting and started grinding against me, and all I could think about was how tight she said she was. She was wearing shorts, so I slipped my finger past the hemline and found her wet and without panties. I leaned back so I could pull her shorts aside to see her: a tight neat, little pussy to match her tight, neat little body. I slid my finger inside her and she rode it, which almost drove me wild. I lifted her shirt and sucked on her nipples, my tongue running over the metal hoops of her piercings. Fig had pierced nipples. Who would have thought?
Jolene could walk out of the bedroom at any minute to see us grinding on the couch. The thought should have scared me, caused me to push her off my lap; instead, I yanked her shorts down and lifted her hips so they were level with my mouth. I wanted to taste her. I sucked on her while she pressed against my mouth frantically, my two fingers pushing in and out of her. She was quiet, breathing hard, her hands on the wall behind the couch as she looked down at what I was doing. There was none of the darty timidness I’d come to expect of her. She was sexual, and even as I licked, she spread her legs wider. I worked her until she came then slid down next to me on the couch and pulled up her shorts.
Neither of us said a word as she slipped on her shoes and I walked her to the door. She wouldn’t look at me and I wasn’t sure if it was because she was ashamed of what we’d just done, or if she liked it. I wasn’t sure which of those I was either. It was one thing fucking strangers, another a friend of your wife.
“Bye,” she said, stepping outside.
I lifted my hand weakly in response. That’s what I was, wasn’t I? There was no rhyme or reason for doing what I did, except I’d just wanted to. I could have walked into the bedroom I shared with my wife, rolled her over and fucked her with no complaints from her. Jolene was always willing, our sex always great. Instead I stuck my fingers inside of a woman I’d been accusing of stalking my wife, and let her come on me. I rubbed my hands across my face. I could smell her on my fingers. I was the worst piece of shit on the planet.
“You wrote me a poem? No fucking way.” Her hair was up, pulled away from her face so I could see her neck. It was a good neck, one of my favorite necks of all time.
I reached over and squeezed her knee. “I love your foul mouth.”
We were in my car; Jolene called it the boring old man car, mostly because of the color. Our destination was a restaurant in Fremont, somewhere we’d never been. We liked that sort of thing, trying new places, and it was date night. I’d gone all out to impress her—new clothes (for me), flowers (for her), and yes, I’d written her a poem. She read some of the lines out loud.
