www.RayGregory.com

 

 

 

 

 

The Cocktail Waitress

 

by Ray Gregory

 

 

Jack stretched and yawned, then swung his legs over the side of his big, round bed. He dug his toes deep into the plush carpet and glided up, all blond, tanned, six-foot-four of him standing fully erect now — fully.

     “Look out, ladies, it’s a new day,” he said, staring at his mirrored wall, at the image of “Big Jack” swaying majestically before his flat, rock-hard abs. Mind of his own, Jack thought. Up every morning even before his master. Altitude and attitude!

     Jack turned for the side view. Look at the guns, he thought, flexing biceps and triceps. Loaded for babes! And lats like wings of steel! “Ripped-fucking-tacular!” He’d been pumping iron since ninth grade. And now at thirty, eight years out of college, six since his MBA, and he was The — Fucking — Man. And what a go-getter too! Jack Armstrong. Was there ever a better alpha male name?

     The drapes hiding his floor-to-ceiling view of the city glowed with warm summer morning sunlight. Jack checked the clock: eight a.m., all right. Saturday. He never needed an alarm to get moving — even after a night like last night.

     He glanced back at Mary all tucked-in comfy, sheet pulled to her chin, eyes closed. What an angelic image, so little-girl chaste. Even her name, even the shoulder-length honey-brown hair that haloed her face. Funny, he thought, the little minx had performed like a pro last night. But after all, it had been a big one, her first overnighter in his tony, three-floor, downtown condo. Partaying wild at Jack’s place. All the new toys, the mirrors, his big, round bed. And don't forget the sling, his favorite toy of all. It was still hanging there from his mirror-tiled ceiling. Her first time in the slingwas always a world-rocking event in any tender young thing’s life.

     As he contemplated Mary’s stellar performance — the flexible little overachiever! — he only got more ideas, and the itch to try them. She rated an encore and then some. He’d even keep her on after his upcoming marriage. She’d come in handy on some of his shorter business trips. He was always having to smooth things over with the distributors, and the little hottie could certainly liven up a lonely hotel room.

     Sweet little Mary, what a find! The cocktail waitress with all her accoutrements. Cocktail, Jack thought. Hah! Two rollicking staples of vulgarity, cornerstones of rutting, humping lust, cohabiting in one perfectly respectable word. And served up on a silver platter even: Your cock-tail, sir. Teamed with pliant, lacy-cleavaged, black-stockinged waitress — priceless!

     And to think, he’d met her in the bookstore — the bookstore! — right around the corner from his building. The literate little nymph. As he’d browsed for a sports trivia book to spice up his backslapping chats with the distributors, suddenly there she’d been, Mary in the rough, loitering in baggy jogging sweats, not even made up, pushed up, or gartered. Did Jack Armstrong have an eye for the hidden talent or what? — not to mention the wherewithal to unleash it. He’d pegged her in an instant: poor little Mary, waif in the big city, escapee from some boring, generic Hicksville. And chock-full of pent-up yearnings and energies. Come to find out, as he soon had, the damaged little beauty had only had one real boyfriend in her life, her high-school sweetheart, and that bastard! — but, of course — had dumped on her terribly. Barely a month had gone by after he’d taken off to college out of state before he’d stopped answering her calls and letters. Word had leaked back he’d been shacking up with a redheaded, sophomore lit major. Horrible stuff. Boo-blubbering-hoo! Jack would have eased into his violin-playing gesture if he hadn’t had such heartfelt concern — for Big Jack’s excellent prospects.

     Mary had been leafing through a paperback among the ferns in a rear corner of the bookstore when he’d first spotted her. He realized now she was always reading something in her spare time, more for escape than to improve herself, Jack figured. He hadn’t caught the title of that first book he’d seen her with, but he had glimpsed the picture on its cover: a sultry woman pressing her cheek against some beefy stud’s bare pecs. Such steamy fare in the hands of a starry-eyed ingénue always had to be a promising sign. Then Mary had looked up, and oh, her longing eyes! She’d obviously seen something she’d liked too. After all, Jack had been tailored and styled to perfection, certainly professional and successful beyond anything the little wench could ever have dreamed of meeting outside of one of those books. And in fact, just ten minutes into their first conversation — over cappuccino in the bookstore’s coffee bar — twenty-one-year-old Mary had admitted, as she’d glanced down blushing, to a thing for older men. At her age, Jack had consoled himself, practically everyone was older.

     So now he’d known her for barely a week and a half, and already she seemed bent on proving beyond a doubt, every chance she got, how wild she was about him. Even he was impressed by her speed — as well as his own irresistibility. And boy, could the little bookworm wriggle in the sack!

     But first, Jack told himself, the bread and butter, the future. He picked up his cell phone. But on the way out, he paused and snickered. He reached up and flipped the toggle switch on the neon sign over his bedroom door. When he’d spotted that old sign on eBay, he hadn’t been able to pass it up. What a great gag! His buddies loved it too. Jack’s Body Shop flickered on, in big, glowing, red script. He snorted. Yes, he’d be back to the bodywork soon enough.

     Jack crept downstairs all the way to the kitchen before he turned on his cell phone. After a couple of close calls before, he made damned sure now the squawky little digital wonder was off whenever he was “home alone” getting some much-needed “sleep.” As he always said — with his trademark sly grin — the most important thing for a high-performance guy like him was “quality time in bed.”

 

#

 

Mary was naked except for the fishnet stockings and garter belt she’d fallen asleep in. But she wasn’t nearly as asleep as Jack had thought. She slid out of bed. When she passed under Jack’s glowing neon sign, her eyes rolled. He had to turn that thing on every time? She slinked catlike to the top of the stairs, then stepped lightly down a couple of treads and crouched to eavesdrop. Who was he calling so early on a Saturday morning? — as if she didn’t know.

 

#

 

Jack’s voice was low, and steeped in just the right amount of well-practiced tiredness, yet as smooth and sincere as ever too: “Hey, babe — Yeah, got in late last night, two-forty something. Sorry. — Nope, no sleeping on that plane. Turbulence up the yin-yang. After we landed it was all I could do to make it home. Barely got my pants off before I passed out. — Hope you had a better one. — Good, great! Just wanted to let you know I made it — Look, I’m still like a zombie here. I need maybe two, three more hours in the sack. How about the club later? Eleven? Tennis, lunch? — All right! Great! — Luvya too, babe. Can’t wait! Next Saturday’s the ‘Big Day.’ — Seeya.” Then he made a kissing sound.

     Well, Jack figured, he had indeed “missed some sleep,” while “flying” too, and he’d “made it,” all right. And he did plan to get more quality time in the sack. God, he loved the seamless, smooth way his mind worked! But how could it work any other way? He’d started from scratch as Cracker Jack, the baddest, glibbest little prick on the playground. In high school he’d been Jammin’ Jack, varsity letters in three sports, class wit, most likely to succeed and marry a super model. College had seen Smooth Jack, president of Delta Pi and its top scorer — more scoring than he ever did on a basketball court! Now he was Fast-track Jack, regional sales manager already, wanted in eight states and counting — and that was just by the women. One week from today he’d be putting his brand on Susan Abernathy, Winston Abernathy’s only daughter. What a marriage of convenience too, the Armstrong-Abernathy merger. He’d be a part of the family then. Ol’ Winnie Abernathy, the company’s founder and chairman, would get the son he’d always wanted — and the lucky, stylish bride wouldn’t even have to have her monograms reembroidered.

     The sky would be the limit after that: corporate headquarters, grooming for the highest echelons, the whole frigging oyster. With the Abernathy prestige, money, and connections behind him… why not Washington? He’d capture the hearts of the voters as fast as he’d captured Susan’s, and so many others, even as fast as he’d snagged little Mary’s. Congressman Armstrong? Senator Jack Armstrong? And maybe more! He was on the roll of his life, all right — his life was a roll — and the reason, the constant, the one thing that carried him through every time? Pure charm. Jack grinned. No, he beamed.

     Jack headed for the first-floor bathroom and his morning dump and wakeup shower. No need to rouse Mary yet with the sound of running water. Let her rest. He’d be putting her through her paces again soon enough.

 

#

 

When Mary heard him close the bathroom door, then heard his long, muffled fart, she scampered down to the kitchen. She found his cell phone on the counter. The streamlined little thing was the size and shape of a two-thirds-used-up bar of hand soap.

     Jack flushed the toilet, then turned on the shower. Mary realized he wouldn’t hear a thing now. She redialed the number he’d just called. Oh, she knew who it was, all right! She’d seen the society pages in the local paper. Of course, she herself had never had the pleasure of meeting the celebrated socialite Susan Abernathy — yet.

     “Jack, Jack, Jack,” Susan purred seductively when she answered. “What’s ‘up,’ big boy? — as if I can’t guess. Decide you need someone to come over and help you play with your toys after all? I was just about to….”

     “Oh, Jack! Oh! Omygod!” Mary launched full tilt into the most intense, fake multiple orgasm of her life, with all the nymphomaniacal trimmings, every sultry sigh and moan and pant she could conjure: “Oh, Jack! Oh, yeah, yeah! Yes! Oh, you beast! Stop it! Stop! Omygod! Oh, Jack, you animal!” — that ridiculous romance novel she ‘d been thumbing through when she’d met Jack had made quite an impression — “Jack, you’re killing me! Faster! Deeper! Ooooh, yes! You devil! You devil! Yes! No! Yes! Stop! More! More! No! Oh, oh, oh, oh! Ah, aah, aaah!”

     Silence now, nothing. Then rustling sounds. Finally Mary panted, “Oh, okay. No, no, sure, you go, baby. Go ahead. I can wait to pee.” She called out, “Yeah, you better put that thing under some cold water now.” She tramped her feet on the floor like old-timey radio show sound effects — Jack heading for the bathroom. Then, musing to herself, she added, “Stupid phone. So that’s what fell.” She jostled the little cell phone in her hands, then banged it against the counter a couple of times for good measure.

     “What is this? Who are you? Where’s Jack, goddammit? Put him on the phone — now!” The shrill voice from the tiny phone obviously belonged to someone who was used to giving orders, and “now” that someone’ was mad as a hornet at the help.

     “Huh? Who’s there?” Mary said dimwittedly.

     “Who are you?” the voice screamed even louder. “Where’s Jack? You put him on the phone this minute, you — you retardate.”

     “Jack?” Mary said. “You sure you got the right number? This is Jack’s Body Shop.”

     “You…! You put Jack Armstrong on the phone now.” Susan’s voice was even louder.

     “Oh! — that Jack. He’s in the little boys’ room,” Mary said. Then, not to be outdone, she screeched back, “Who are you? — bitch!”

     “You fucking little shit! I’m Susan Abernathy, Jack Armstrong’s fiancée.” Her indignation spurted like steaming venom from the tiny phone. Mary held it at arm’s length to avoid permanent disfigurement.

     “Omygod! Susan — uh, whatever. I know that name,” Mary squealed, her voice brimming now with awe. “Yes, I remember,” she said with respect, even subservience, creeping into her tone. “Yes! Jack told me. Wait, wait, what was it now? Oh! Omygod, yes! Susan Abernathy! Jack said you’re his — no, wait, wait, don’t tell me. What was it now? Oh yes, Susan Abernathy. He said you’re his high-society… wait, what was it? Oh yes, his high-society ass wipe.” Mary clicked the phone off — no more interruptions! — then flung it back on the kitchen counter. “Me-ow! The f-word, huh? Fi-an-cée, my hiney!”

     Mary folded her arms. She pursed her lips, rolled her eyes. Now what would a snitty little girl like her do? She thought so hard she didn’t realize Jack had turned off the shower, then opened the bathroom door. She froze when he suddenly walked through the kitchen with a towel around his waist, headed back upstairs. But he walked right past her, not noticing her crouching in the corner by the counter where she’d found his cell phone.

     When Jack was halfway up the stairs, Mary spotted her handbag. It and the rest of her clothes were scattered about the downstairs, casualties of the impromptu striptease she’d done for Jack last night after she’d followed him home in her car from her cocktail waitress job. Jack had drunk late into the night at the lounge with a bunch of his buddies. The sweaty-fingered titty tippers! They’d plunged their soggy bills deeper down her cleavage with every round. Jack had just been showing her off, she’d figured, giving each of them a sniff. Yuck!

     She scoured her handbag. First she found one of those joke business cards Jack had passed out to his buddies last night. He’d thought they were so clever, he’d even given her one: “Give her only the best.” Jack Armstrong, Surrogate Stud. Then she found the trusty little gold tube she was looking for. She applied more of the glossy, cherry-flavored Tarty Scarlett lipstick Jack liked so much, applied it thick. She rubbed some on her nipples too, another of his favorite turn-ons. Then she hurried up the stairs. She caught up to him just as he walked back into the bedroom and started glancing about for her.    

     “Hey!” she shouted at his back. When Jack turned, startled, she streaked around the other side, plucking his towel loose in passing. When he turned back after her, the towel slid to the floor.

     “Slippery little minx! I’m gonna have to put your tight little ass in a sling — again.” He grabbed at her hips, but she squirmed away, then taunted him with a little shimmy. He licked his lips as her cherry-flavored Tarty Scarlett nipples bobbed before his eyes.

     “Not my hiney, Mr. Tough Guy. How about yours?” Mary’s eyes danced as she pointed at the sling. It wasn’t much to look at when not in use, just a limp jumble of black nylon straps and velcro and netting still dangled from the ceiling over his big, round bed, a leftover from last night’s erotic adventures. It hung at just the right height for Jack to stand on the bed and have “full versatile access” to whoever was strapped in it.

     “Me? In that?” he snorted.

     “Why not? You gotta try it, Jack. It’s great, like totally helpless, but free, like a kid on the playground, like…. That’s it, like a kid again, but with adult equipment.” She winked. “You gotta try it, Jack. C’mon, cut loose, give your inner little boy a thrill.”

      Jack chuckled nervously. This sounded too much like a dare for his tastes. He shook his head. “I’m a swing-er, not a swing-ee. I’m not into helpless.” He reached for her again.

     Mary backed off farther. She rolled her eyes, hoisted her hands to her hips. “You don’t really get the bondage thing, do you, Jack? There’s freedom in yielding. You just have to let go, let someone else take control. Let them be responsible for your pleasure. It’s like a paradox: tied up but free, opposites together, hot and cold at the same time, like a hot-fudge sundae — with a cherry on top.” She drew a finger around one of her cherry-flavored Tarty Scarlett nipples. “It’s a real turn-on too, if you just let yourself get into it. I know,” she said proudly. “So stop being the daddy all the time, Jack. Give that inner little boy a break. Didn’t you ever play on the swings when you were a kid? C’mon now, let me be the mommy. Let me swing you, baby.”

     “Paradox, huh? Nope, not me.” As for that inner-little-boy foolishness, Jack didn’t even want to acknowledge that kind of pop-psychology drivel. Mary and her nutty reading!

     “Look, I trusted you, Jack. I trusted you to be in control.” She pouted, teetering between peeved and hurt. “Why don’t you trust me? You know how much I love you.” She sided up to him and spiraled a fingertip around one of his nipples. “Jack,” her voice was suddenly sultry again, “I’ve been thinking, now that we know each other, I mean really know each other….” Her voice suddenly turned little-girl tentative. “I mean, you know I trust you, right? So maybe, like if you don’t wanna use a condom….” But then, just as suddenly, she backed off. Her mouth dropped open. Her eyes were wide with terror. “You do love me — don’t you?”

     What? Jack wondered. Was she bipolar now? This was something new. What was with the crazy mood swings? But then Jack remembered how head over heels she was for him. She was awestruck. Naturally she felt unworthy, insecure. She was only twenty-one, just a cocktail waitress, a little tip grubber, for Christ’s sake! And now here she was in Jack Armstrong’s bedroom, with a shot at the big leagues. He had that effect on all of them. Even the top-of-the-line sophisticates fell hard for his charms. After all, Mary was even too embarrassed to show him the shabby little apartment or trailer park or wherever it was she lived. And that bit just now about trusting him without a condom? The transparent little hayseed! What, was she going for broke already?

     “Of course, I love you,” Jack said. He gave her his proven, how-could-you-even-think-about-doubting-me? stare. “I love you,” he said even more earnestly. And sure enough, he could see her little pupils widen, inviting him in, body and soul. He stared back into them even deeper now, giving Mary her fill.

     Women, Jack thought, so predictable. He smirked, shook his head, rolled his eyes — but only in his mind. He’d just been laughing about love last night with his buddies — love, the word, that is. It was every woman’s real turn-on, all right, a hot button far hotter than their clits. So just as Jack had told his buddies, press away, without hesitation. After all, with everything riding on it — the quality of their performance, even the likelihood of a performance — a man had to say what he had to say. A guy hopped up to the flash point on high-octane testosterone and the systematic allures of a determined woman was under duress, plain and simple. Any woman who expected him to pay for a moment’s pleasure with a lifetime commitment was delusional, if not a full-blown extortionist.

     As Jack had explained it to his buddies, men were the true romantics. Their love was driven by passion, fueled by the fire of their libidos. But women were the calculating, plotting bean counters of love, motivated ultimately by money and security. And why not? Those were their priorities, just as men had their special needs. It wasn’t like love was some kind of high-faluting ethics issue. Men, the passionate romantics, could fall in love in an instant — hell, they were unable not to! — and their love was strong, as strong a feeling as any they could have. But it was just that, a feeling, and even a feeling as strong as love was fleeting, an in-the-moment thing, something a guy could fall out of as fast and readily as he’d fallen in.

     Women could keep their money-grubbing, security-conscious love going at a constant simmer indefinitely, but a man’s love was a fitful flame, darting here and there and everywhere. Its intensity couldn’t be maintained forever. The thing women didn’t understand was that men never lied about love. They simply loved! They might have been shortsighted or confused about the permanence of their feelings — the heat of passion could do that, especially when stoked by the irrational needs of an insecure woman — but men were always true to their feelings. And love was just that, a feeling, not a promise, nothing permanent, and certainly not a lifetime commitment. As Jack had reminded his drinking buddies, a hard-on was the ultimate monument to a man’s love, just as sure and upright a monument as any ancient obelisk — only hard-ons weren’t made of stone.

    “Of course, babe, of course I love you. How can you doubt it?” He reached around Mary’s waist and drew her to him for an endless kiss. He was pleased, triumphant, when she melted in his arms now. That magic word, and his flawless delivery, had always served him well. And afterward…? His glib tongue could always talk its way out of anything it had got him into.

      “Oops, the hot ‘n gooey!” Mary blurted, straightening up. She slipped away before Jack could get a firm lip lock. Hot ‘n gooey was what Mary called Jack’s special flavored and scented body oil/personal lubricant. He kept a quart bottle of it in an electric warmer next to his bed. “Mama be cookin’ up sumpin’ real special for Jacky’s inner little boy today. Gonna need me some o’ da hot ‘n gooey sauce, ” she said with a sly wink. She scurried around the bed now to fetch it. “So you better get airborne, Jack. Pronto,” she snapped like a budding dominatrix.

     Jack hadn’t seen this side of Mary before. He was thinking he wanted to see more. He studied the sling now, trying to see it anew, as if he’d never seen it before. It was indeed a marvel of versatility and ease. The things you could do with it! — or rather with whoever was strapped in it. Jack grasped the black nylon. He yanked down on it, testing it. Of course it was strong enough. The thing could probably hoist a horse. The sturdy eye screw in the ceiling it was attached to was as thick as his thumb. He’d just never thought about himself in it. But he had to admit, he was tempted by Mary’s enthusiasm, as well as her kinky imagination. He tried to imagine it: Suspended, dangling, swinging, “helpless but free.” Yeah, right! Him?

     But Jack did remember the swings when he was a kid, how he’d soared in those tall swings on the elementary school playground. At the end of the arc, when he’d hang there motionless in midair for that glorious instant, he’d be weightless like an astronaut.

     He nudged the sling. He watched it sway. Well? Why not? Why not like when he was a kid, only now with that hot little vixen’s tongue and lips polishing his tingling knob to a slick, shiny luster — his tingling, condomless knob! And oh my God, what else would she think of?!

    When Mary turned back with the bottle of hot ’n gooey, Jack had already climbed into the sling. She was quick to help him with the straps. Then she doused his lap with the hot ‘n gooey. She rolled his whole package in her cupped hands, thoroughly soaking it in the warm, fragrant oil.

     “All right!” Jack sayid. “Ooh! Aaah!”

     “You just sit back and enjoy, baby. Mama’s in charge now.” She arched her back, jut her breasts into his face. “Now don’t let your inner little titty sucker get any ideas while Mama’s busy now either,” she said.

     When Jack himself immediately got the idea and craned to catch one of her cherry-flavored Tarty Scarlett nipples in his lips, Mary lurched backward, offended. Her hands flew to her hips. She shook her head like a stern nanny. “What am I gonna do with you? I said no nipularies! Mama gotta concentrate. This just ain’t gonna work without the cuffs.”

     “The cuffs? Sure, fine,” Jack said impatiently. “Just hurry up.” His testicles longed for more of the soothing, super-lubed tumbling. Mother Mary in full-dominatrix mode was a surprising turn-on. When he’d used the handcuffs on her last night, she’d really got into it. Seeing her lord and master cuffed now would hype her even more, he figured. She was already a proven pleaser, one who got off best when she saw him getting off to the max.

     Mary hopped off the bed. She snatched Jack’s gleaming, chromed handcuffs from the dresser. She tucked the key lying next to them into her garter belt. Back on the bed, she spun Jack around in the sling and cuffed his wrists behind his back. She made sure the little chain attaching the cuffs went over the back cross strap of the sling so his hands were snuggly secured almost halfway up his spine. She worked quickly before he could change his mind.

     She knew just what to do now, and how to do it, from the on-the-job training Jack had given her last night. “I know — what’ll take — your mind — off those chafey — ol’ — handcuffs,” she purred as she kissed big, smudged Tarty Scarlett lip Os on the back of Jack’s neck. Then she filled her cupped hand with the hot ‘n gooey. “Okay, Jack-Be-Nimble, Mama be getting’ down to da siryus bidness now,” she whispered in his ear.

 

#

 

“Uhh! Uhhhh!” Jack moaned and strained. He panted, he grunted, he shuddered. More and more. And the more Mary worked — one hand reaching around to rev his rod, the other behind him — the more she was amazed at how loose, how relaxed — how big! — he got. No, not “Big Jack” up front —  but Jack himself, bringing up the rear. Huge!

     Was this even normal? she wondered. Would any — could any — asshole do this? Or did it take practice, maybe lots of it? And who’d ever have thought Jack would be so into rear action? But then he had gone on last night — way more than she'd really cared to hear — about how the prostate gland was the male equivalent of a woman’s G-spot. Though as much as Mary had tried, she’d never quite managed to pinpoint that ellusive little hotspot in herself. But that wasn’t to say Jack didn’t know squat about what he was talking about, because in no time at all she had two of her slender, writhing fingers in all the way. No wait, make that three! Oops, four! She figured Jack’s prostate must have been plenty used to this kind of stimulation. She’d heard of fisting — well, she’d read about it anyway. That bizarre practice was starting to look a lot more believable to her now. If even a guy could stretch like this, she figured, who knows? Maybe childbirth wasn’t so scary after all.

     Mary continued her dirty work as Jack moaned and grunted. Then she remembered something from last night, something he’d really been nuts about. “Your chillers!” she blurted. Then another idea popped into her head, a variation on the theme, but a real, blinding lightbulb-popper of an idea. She snapped her fingers — well, more like swished them. Her hands were impossibly slippery with the hot n’ gooey. “Right back,” and she bolted from the bed.

     “No, wait! Don’t stop,” Jack yelled after her, but she was already out the door. “Hurry up, goddammit!” he screamed, squirming, but hopelessly snared in the sling and handcuffs. “Jesus! You left me in the lurch here, Mary.”

 

#

 

Mary opened the freezer side of Jack’s huge, luxury, stainless-steel fridge. She found the little blue plastic mold he used to make his chillers. It was like a small ice tray, but with a lid. Inside were several cavities for the precious, little, football-shaped ice suppositories. She shook her head and giggled. She’d never heard of such a thing before last night, but Jack had claimed one of those little chillers next to his prostate took his breath away, made him come like a stallion. He’d assured her those rigid boneheads who thought any kind of anal enjoyment was gay didn’t have a clue what they were talking about — or what they were missing.

     “There’s some prime nerve-ending real estate in there,” Jack had said last night, “and it’s zoned erogenous too, and I don’t see a ‘fags only’ sign.”

     Well, at least it was his own butt hole he was so concerned about enjoying, Mary thought. She had to draw the line on the NO! side of ice — or anything  else! — up her own hiney. “Okay,” she said to herself, “an iced ass — for the Jack-ass.” On the way back, she grabbed something else too, what she’d really come down for, her blazing wonder of an idea.

 

#

 

“O-kay, Jack Frost!” she said, waltzing back into the bedroom. “Time to chill.” She set the ice suppository mold down on the bed, then climbed back up on it behind Jack. She slathered him with more of the hot ‘n gooey and continued where she’d left off. She worked him like a seasoned pro, inserting one finger, then another and another without a break in the rhythmic in and out. Jack panted and moaned again, and in no time at all, he was ready.

     Then Mary reached with her free hand, but not for one of the chillers, not yet. First she grabbed what she’d concealed under the mold. She carefully slid it up into the palm of her other hand, the one doing all the work, the one thick and slippery with the hot ‘n gooey. She slid it through her fingers, ever so gently. And Jack — the expression “loose as a goose” popped into her mind — seemed none the wiser.

     Then her fingers slid out and away as her little surprise replaced them. With all that slimy hot ‘n gooey, and just a little more rhythmic coaxing, it disappeared completely. For good measure, she crammed in a few of Jack’s chillers right behind it, making no pretense now at gentleness.

     “Aaagh! What are you doing? What the fuck?!” Jack squirmed and gasped as the chill riose. “Christ, Mary! I told you just one, goddammit!” But Mary had finished now and was no longer interested. She hopped off the bed, kicking over the bottle of hot ‘n gooey on Jack’s plush carpet. Then she laughed and rushed to the adjacent master bath to scrub her hands. “Yuck!”

     When she was finished, she headed for Jack’s floor-to-ceiling bedroom windows overlooking the street. She dried her hands on Jack’s expensive drapes, then flung them open, flooding the room with bright, summer sunlight.

     “Goddammit, Mary, what’s wrong with you? I’m freezing my ass off here,” Jack yelled.

     “Oh, uh, Jack,” she said now, turning back to him. Then in her best Susan Abernathy imitation, she said, “Did I mention your fi-an-cée called? I think that tennis thing today’s looking a bit iffy.” She turned back to the windows, admiring the splendid view.

 

#

 

“Bu… wha’….” Jack was speechless. He’d definitely wanted to break the news about Susan Abernathy — her very existence, not to mention the engagement — to Mary himself, and under better circumstances. Being trussed up like a plucked turkey now and feeling more vulnerable than he’d ever felt in his life didn’t help. But even as he squirmed, he told himself Jack Armstrong thrived on challenges. Mary was just a hurt, jealous, pissed-off little girl right now. He’d dealt with female tantrums before. Soon enough, with a little effort and his patented charm, this pissed little vixen would be eating out of his hand again too. She’d be his adoring girlfriend/soulmate once more, or whatever other sappy nonsense floated her boat. But not before he taught her who was the boss. And right now he was thinking very seriously about giving her a sound ass kicking to boot to make sure she remembered. But patience first, he told himself. She did have him in a bind. He was freezing his ass off.

 

#

 

Mary stared out the window, admiring Jack’s awesome view of the city again. She casually glanced one way, then the other, as Jack babbled in his defense, as he went on and on about how she was unlike any woman he’d ever known: so funny, so playful, so much his type, and how that frigid Susan Abernathy and her dour family had him by the balls — no, that would be moi holding the vise grips, Mary thought. He claimed his marriage to Susan would be a sham, a show marriage, and all just for Susan’s benefit. He’d still see Mary, of course, his true love, and regularly too — no, make that all the time! He’d take her with him on all his frequent business trips, steal weekends with her, even set her up in a tony place downtown where they could hang out away from Susan. That was what would really made him happy. He swore it.

     Just then Mary looked down. She saw a gleaming-white sports car with gold trim screech to a halt in front of Jack’s building. Out stepped a tall, slender, preppy young woman in pleated slacks, with a cashmere sweater tied around her shoulders. She slammed the car door hard, then looked up with her hands on her hips. Then she raised a hand to shield her eyes from the glare of the sun. She craned her neck. She squinted. Suddenly her mouth dropped open. Mary craned too, looking down, her bare breasts pressed against the window glass, her nipples leaving bright red Tarty Scarlett smudges. Down on the street Jack’s fiancée gasped. She ripped her cell phone from her purse and marched toward the building.

     “Oops! Gotta run,” Mary said. “Don’t trouble yourself, Jack. I’ll just let myself out” — she figured the back way might be most convenient. As she bolted for the bedroom door, she hesitated long enough to press the panic button on Jack’s security system control pad. It was the button with the little embossed police badge icon, the one that silently called the cops to let them know there was trouble and they needed to check it out pronto. It seemed spare patrol cars were always roaming the downtown streets near Jack’s ritzy building.

     “Goddammit, Mary! This isn’t funny anymore. I’m freezing my butt off here,” Jack screamed — just as she ran out the door under the Jack’s Body Shop sign, still glowing as bright as ever. Jack jerked at the handcuffs. “Shit, girl! Get the fuck ba….” Then he suddenly shuddered. What?! He heard something. No, wait, he felt it. He felt/heard it! It was — it was inside him, Susan’s ringtone on his cell phone! It was that sappy/sweet little ditty from way back when that she’d picked out, “the perfect expression” of what he meant to her. He felt the tinny, droll rendition of “You Light Up My Life.” He felt it to his chilled bones!

     Yes, Mary had remembered to turn his cell phone back on before it’d disappeared into the darkness.

 

#

 

Downstairs, Mary snatched up her purse and scattered clothes, all but her lacy black pushup bra and black thong. She’d leave them for Susan. Maybe black was a bit “off-color” for a wedding gift, but hey, she was in a hurry. Susan would surely understand, even if they didn’t come from the ultraposh store she was surely registered at. Then she remembered something else. She fished in her purse and pulled out that joke card of Jack’s, the one that read, “Give her only the best.” Jack Armstrong, Surrogate Stud. She carefully positioned it atop the neat little stack she made of the bra and thong. Then she unlocked the front door, just in case Susan didn’t have a key.

     Mary beat it out the back door just as she heard Susan bound through the front door screaming, “Goddamit, Jack! Where are you? Why haven’t you answered my calls?”

     Then Mary scurried down the fire stairs, dressing as she went. She sat in her car down the street long enough to watch three police cars careen up to Jack’s building. Six cops rushed through the glass front doors. The doorman waved them on while jabbering excitedly into his cell phone. Mary wondered if this would be known in the annals of police lore as the Raid on Jack’s Body Shop — or was that “anals” of police lore? When she stopped giggling, she started her little red convertible and drove off. The key to Jack’s handcuffs clinked on the pavement.

 

#

 

Back at her motel room, most of Mary’s things were already packed, or rather, still not unpacked. She took a long, hot shower — she needed one — then she loaded everything into her car, including all her books as she sniffed at the thought of Jack mocking her passion for reading. Then she tied a scarf around her head like a 1950s movie starlet — she envisioned Audrey Hepburn — then slid on a pair of oversized sunglasses.

     Her latest little foray into poetic justice had turned into quite a tragicomic gem, she thought. And could she possibly have come up with a better ending? She wondered though about the title. “The Asshole” was catchy, and to the point, but maybe a tad too literal. And not exactly the cleverest of double entendres.

     On the highway again, she stretched her arms over her head, luxuriating in the warm breeze streaming past the windshield. Summer break was still young, and there was always a shining new city — and another new play — just down the road. As her bushy-eyebrowed old drama professor, her favorite mentor, always said, “Live before you act. Do both before you write.”

 

Copyright 2009 Ray Gregory

 

www.RayGregory.com