Notes. From the Upper West Side. A Novel by Dan Wrench. Chapter 44.
Juniors, anal virtues. For breakfast on the morning of the day of the inaugural ball, Saturday, Junior made me some fluffy waffles soaked in butter and maple syrup the way I like, so when I bite down on each lovely morsel, it's like eating oozy sugar sponges. And she was cheerful. Out of the blue, wait for the other shoe to drop.
Cheerful. She was wearing dark blue jeans with a butt seam that curved into her gape, and sneakers with lifts that molded her ass into the international symbol for... Insert, penis, here. I gigcackled loud and she looked over and grinned.
What's up? She asked. Just thinking about the international situation, I said slyly. She went back to rinsing like she couldn't care less what I was thinking about the international situation.
My eyes reacquired her ass like laser sights and addenhole balls he began struggling against my inseam. How ironic is that? For months going on years, the wife's ass offered no temptations. It was wife ass.
Period. And now, on the morning of the day of the inaugural ball when I'm about to go out that very night and fuck the brains out of a 33 or 34 year old empowered to grab cock modern female, on that morning the wife's ass decides to get back in the running. Nice ass. I said out loud.
I gigcackled. She just kept rinsing. Nice ass, I repeated. I heard you.
She said. I started to hum sort of load to myself. See, I know what the billion or so women who will eventually read this book want me to say right now. You want me to say there was a part of me that felt like a bore.
A rat. A cat. For plotting to betray my lovely wife who was making me breakfast and whose pueden to my could have lawfully and lovingly reamed. If only I'd applied myself to a task involving only a small amount of floor kissing and high pitched whimpering.
But mainly what I was thinking about that morning was how much I didn't feel like a bore. A rat. Or a cat. Not even a little.
Right then I was pretty convinced that if the wife had shown any special interest in adenro balls or any special interest at all, a poke, a stroke, a touch, a bite, I would have brought all my hardons home to the hearth. I mean three nights before after we left the diner, Parp walked me to the corner outside my building and asked me if I'd changed my mind about giving Kimmy the room job she craved. And if you know anything about me after 43 chapters it's that I generally draw the line at tasting the ladies' rectum. But I told him, hey, if Kimmy puts out just right, I might easily do the unthinkable.
That's what the wife had driven me to. So no, I didn't feel ashamed for thinking about how I was passing over Junior's anal virtues for the cot-centric fantasies of a theater slut. As a matter of fact, I felt like I was getting back some of what the wife owed me. And look, if you're still out there tearing your blouse over my emotional retardation, you have only one person to blame.
Parp. You know, believe me? This is what Jessica said when I told her about my wife's proof libido. You can't go about your normal routine when you have friends like Tony Parp encouraging obsession.
That's the opinion of a professional therapist, licensed by the state of New York. So you can condescend all you want, it's a free country. But you should know that I have the scientific consensus on my side. If Parp had promised to lend me his hotel discount for an occasion card and also promised to give me an alibi, and if he hadn't turned a simple side screw into some bizarro testimony in my humanity, I would have been gleefully bawling my wife that Saturday morning.
Instead, I just watched her ass waving at me and marveled at the temptation bouncing off my stelian difference. Notes from the Upper West Side is a work of fiction. The people depicted in this work do not exist. Notes from the Upper West Side, copyright 2013 to 2016 by Dan Wrench.