Notes from the Upper West Side. A novel by Dan Wrench. Chapter 12. Let that be a lesson to ya.
Okay, so the wife said you can go fuck yourself anyway and then she just hung there looking at me. For some reason looking back on it, I don't think her arms were folded across her bulbous tits but in my memory of the event, that's where I have them. Arms folded like a mommy. It riled me a little bit she could just say, fuck yourself to me and then look me in the eye.
Then she didn't scurry off like somebody who knew she was being spoiled and bratty about a fight she lost, fair and square. I should've just let it go. I knew it at the time. But you know what it's like sometimes when you've won and you know you've won but still it didn't end right so you just keep talking.
I wanted her to appreciate first hand that I was right. On the merits. And not because I was bullheaded and she was tired or more revolved or something. You know, when I think about it, I said, I didn't have to do this much tap dancing for my parents when I told them I was moving to New York forever to be an actor.
Who knew I was gonna end up being a career bartender begging his fucking wife for one stinking day to live my dream in? I was a pussy. Yeah, I shouted. I whimpered.
I pled. I'm sure my eyes were all wide the way the boys eyes get when they shout and whimper and plead. It took a few sessions in therapy but I finally figured out with Jessica's help that I'm scared of my wife. Maybe it was more like a few dozen sessions.
At first I really resented Jessica for even suggesting that I might be scared of a junior. I resented her so much that for a while I stopped fucking her in my fantasies. I walked down the street talking to myself and I smoked way more than I should have and I tried to act all manly in front of the wife. You know, lay down the law.
Prove I wasn't scared of her. But she'd throw her brow and I shout and whimper and plead some more. Finally I threw in the towel and admitted it to myself. Then me and Jessica started working on getting me unscared.
Jessica started appearing in my sex fantasies again. It was great. In real life Jessica was trying to get me to be a little more open and honest and blunt with the wife. But in my fantasies she was a little more hmm hands on with junior.
In one version of my fantasy where Jessica's blowing me on the bedroll she tells me not to worry because she'll find the wife and beat the shit out of her for me. And then a second later we're not on the bedroll anymore but in the garage of the house I used to live in when I was in grade school. It was great because there was this little workshop in it with a loft and the loft had a sofa and a TV. In this extended version of the bedroll fantasy Jessica pounds the crap out of the wife with her bare fists and the wife is blubbering and pleading on the garage floor and Jessica stands over her wearing nothing but a black fong and says, let that be a lesson to you, chasm snatch.
It's the best sex fantasy I ever had. Anyway, back on the day we had the argument and I just finished shouting and whimpering and pleading. Junior stood there and stared for a few seconds and then said, well do you think you can at least tell me what you're shooting Paul? That was a good sign.
I was so relieved I over-explained. Not only did I tell her about Little Round's Jewish hat but I also told her what colored t-shirt park was wearing that afternoon. That guy is such an asshole. I get cackled.
It was all good. At least I thought so at the time. The wife ended up drifting down to the bedroom, leaving me alone. With my thoughts.
I quickly put on some Dylan and my big padded headphones. I looked around and smiled. Yeah, it was good. 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 2014. Friday and Rush.