WriteAwayHoney
Really Experienced
- Joined
- Feb 10, 2011
- Posts
- 111
She's bawling again. I have never seen a woman cry so much in my entire life. I pull her closer to me, embrace her, comfort her with a few kind words -- which, under the incessant rambling, she can't hear, so why bother? I wonder for a moment, if I bottle all the tears she cries over the next forty years ...
Forty years of this. I'm thirty-two years old now, thirty-two plus forty, seventy-two years old then ... at least. You're a pretty healthy guy, and she's ten years younger than you. That could mean ... fifty years of tears. Hey that would make a good song title, "Fifty Years of Tears".
A sudden cry tears me from my reverie, a cry immediately followed by yet another fit of incoherent ramblings, about the cake and the hosts and the dress and ... and ... and ...
Forty years, man. Wait, we decided fifty. Fifty years of this woman's tears. It's a damn good thing you love this woman! And, of course, I do: Viv is my, oh, maybe thirtieth lover, the fifteenth or so that I considered a girl friend, and my first fiancee; she was the first woman I ever desired to present a ring to, and lucky for me, she said yes. I don' know how I would have reacted had she said no.
Again, a huge sob pulls me back; and again my sick little mind is thinking about the tears and whether forty, no, fifty years of them would float my new fishing boat here in the hotel room we are in while she closes a New York account, her last bit of work before we disappear for eight weeks of sun and sand.
Fifty years of tears ...
Fifty years of this woman's tears ...
Fifty years of ... this woman.
My stomach turns over; fifty years of this woman ... only this woman. I remind myself that I have forgotten to cheat on Viv, and I'm running out of time.
Suddenly she's on her feet, stomping her way across the room where she suddenly spins and accuses, "You're not even listening to me!"
I'm oblivious. "What?"
"You didn't answer me!"
I suddenly realize I hadn't even heard a question. Not good, Robert.
"You haven't heard a word I've said!" she spits out, attempting to hold back the sobs while she chastises me for ... what ever.
"I've heard every word you've said, Viv." And then, like the idiot I am, I say before thinking, "I just haven't understood a single one of them."
She immediately burst out in tears, spins, and is gone, disappearing into the hotel's bathroom and slamming the door behind her.
Nice going, dick. Nice.
Dick. Yeah, about the cheating thing. You need to get working on that; you get married in two days.
I feel like Doc Holliday playing cards in a dusty saloon, watching the door for some murderous cowboy aiming to put a bullet in my back. I'm sitting on the hotel suite's balcony in a lounger, with my back in the corner; in my Old West mind, I see Viv stepping into view, quick drawing a six shooter, and putting a bullet through the smart phone -- the modern black book -- that I'm hiding within one of her "Bride" magazine.
I open one of the organizational app's and chose the file titled "Improving your golf swing"; you never know when your lover may go to use your phone and decide to let her fingers take a walk through your still private affairs. I select "Sort by Rating", and peruse.
I get through over two dozen names before it occurs to me, Man, you haven't updated this in a while ... a long while. Viv and I have been together for ... yeah, sixteen months, and the last full year of that -- since I started shopping for rings -- I've been faithful to her, and very happily so.
Which begs the question: Why the fuck are you now, two days before the wedding, looking to get fucked! That's simple: she told you to. Okay, so, maybe not in those many words, but ...
Let's see, it went something like ...
"Are you going to be faithful to me"
"Of course I am. I love you."
"Are you sure?"
"Am I sure I love you."
"No! Are you sure you can be faithful?"
Avoiding hesitation, "Of course I am!"
"You haven't cheated on me?"
Not needing to avoid hesitation, "Of course not!"
"You better not. If you cheat on me after we're married ... my father--"
"I'm not going to cheat on you after we're married, Viv."
"Good ... 'cause if you do--"
Laughing, "What if I cheat on you before we're married."
Laughing, but not nearly as amused, "Well, that wouldn't be nearly as bad."
"Why not?"
"Because if it's before we get married, then that implies that we still get married .. right?"
Now laughing hysterically, "Yes, we still get married."
"And once married, you won't cheat on me ..."
Again laughing, "Are you sure?"
"You just told me you wouldn't cheat after we were married."
"Oh. I did, didn't I?"
"Yes you did. So if you cheat before, yet still want to marry me after..."
She dropped her robe, revealing her nakedness to me.
"...then I must really be the one ... right?
"Of course," followed by my dropping of my own robe.
She threw her nude body atop mine, "Then go for it, buddy, cheat if you feel the need ..."
She lowered her smiling face toward my groin, "... 'cause you're not going to find anyone who can do this ... the way ... that I do..."
So ... that's permission ... isn't it?
I've spend two hours combing through the list; I've sorted by performance rating, by locale, by looks -- both body and face -- even by the married-yet-still-fucking-with-danger-of-getting-shot sort function. No one; either I can't get to them in the day and a half I have, or I'm already aware that their available status had changed to not, or I'm simply not interested in expending my Hall Pass on them. I consider a hooker, but that's just not the same; the task here, as I see it, is to see if any other woman tickles my fancy enough to make me not want to spend the next forty -- fifty -- years pailing buckets of tears out of my bedroom.
"Where's my Bride magazine?" Viv hollers from the other room, "January issue."
I look to the magazine's cover: January. "Here, Sweetie!"
I press close on my phone and rip it out from inside the magazine just in time for her to come to the balcony. She glances at the magazine I am feigning deep interest in, then gives me a questioning look. "Oh-kay..." She strides forth to retrieve it, spins to leave, then stops. She looks back to me and says, "Listen ... sorry about earlier. I know I'm ... I'm a mess."
"Viv, it's--"
She tosses a hand up in that oh-so-recently-familiar Let Me Finish gesture and says, "Please. Don't tell me it's okay. It's not okay. But ... it will be. If you'll help me."
I stand and move to her. "Of course, anything, sweetie."
I try to snuggle up next to her, but she gives me that other familiar gesture -- the one that usually signals I'll be beating off in the shower that night -- and tells me just what I didn't want to hear -- and did!
"I just got off the phone with my mother, and she says there's a red eye that she can catch to go home early to help with the wedding prep's if she doesn't have to fly alone. So ... will you fly with her?"
It says something about Vivien's mother that my very first thought of flying cross country with her in the middle of the night was sexual. There's an overused line when a man is first introduced to his new girl friend's mother: "I thought I was meeting your mother, not your sister."
In Viv's case, that line wasn't too far off from the truth. Her mother, hovering somewhere around 40, 42, is one of the most beautiful woman I've ever met. You'll notice I don't say one of the most beautiful OLDER women. The first night we all sat down for dinner, Viv, myself, and her parents, I had to fight from ogling the woman all night long; and later, to my own disbelief, I found myself masturbating to the idea of that woman's full, painted lips being wrapped around Little Bobby.
Suddenly, as I grip my smart phone tightly in one hand and imagine gripping myself in the other, my mind is racing with possibilities. No way. Her mother? Vivien's mother? That's just not right. Her mother?
"I'm sorry," she apologizes, cutting into my argument with myself. "I shouldn't have asked."
"No! I'll do it!" I realize by her reaction that I've used a bit too much emphasis. I smile quickly, and lay my hands upon her arms, caressing her; she doesn't pull back this time. "I'll do it, I'll escort your mother home, if you think she can help you ... if you think it will relieve some of the stress."
She smiles broadly and throws herself into my arms. We embrace for a long moment, and then she suddenly pulls her face back, cocks her head, and says, "Robert, you're swelling."
I realize she's right, a fact made even more obvious by the lack of underwear below my pajama bottoms.
"Wedding planning is suddenly getting you horny ...?" she questions me sarcastically. "Or ... is there something else making you--"
I'm quick at the draw -- almost as quick as I am at swelling to the idea of fucking her mother -- and, turning her toward the room, and the bed -- answer in a put-out tone, "Viv ... I am more than happy ... to take a red eye ... and escort your mother half ... way ... across the country ... to help you with your wedding ..."
At the bed, I turn her to face me -- she's already wearing that you-horny-bastard expression -- and begin unbuttoning her blouse. "Of course, I'm sort of hoping that you will be more than happy to do something for me as well."
We exchange smiles, then laugh, then strip ... and for more than two hours, make sweet love ... while the whole time I'm picturing Viv's mother below me, atop me, on her knees between my thighs, laid out across a reception hall table, her naked body smothered in wedding cake frosting ... mmm, lemony. And, my more immediate fantasy, pressed up against the wall of the rear bathroom of the Red Eye flight to Seattle.
Forty years of this. I'm thirty-two years old now, thirty-two plus forty, seventy-two years old then ... at least. You're a pretty healthy guy, and she's ten years younger than you. That could mean ... fifty years of tears. Hey that would make a good song title, "Fifty Years of Tears".
A sudden cry tears me from my reverie, a cry immediately followed by yet another fit of incoherent ramblings, about the cake and the hosts and the dress and ... and ... and ...
Forty years, man. Wait, we decided fifty. Fifty years of this woman's tears. It's a damn good thing you love this woman! And, of course, I do: Viv is my, oh, maybe thirtieth lover, the fifteenth or so that I considered a girl friend, and my first fiancee; she was the first woman I ever desired to present a ring to, and lucky for me, she said yes. I don' know how I would have reacted had she said no.
Again, a huge sob pulls me back; and again my sick little mind is thinking about the tears and whether forty, no, fifty years of them would float my new fishing boat here in the hotel room we are in while she closes a New York account, her last bit of work before we disappear for eight weeks of sun and sand.
Fifty years of tears ...
Fifty years of this woman's tears ...
Fifty years of ... this woman.
My stomach turns over; fifty years of this woman ... only this woman. I remind myself that I have forgotten to cheat on Viv, and I'm running out of time.
Suddenly she's on her feet, stomping her way across the room where she suddenly spins and accuses, "You're not even listening to me!"
I'm oblivious. "What?"
"You didn't answer me!"
I suddenly realize I hadn't even heard a question. Not good, Robert.
"You haven't heard a word I've said!" she spits out, attempting to hold back the sobs while she chastises me for ... what ever.
"I've heard every word you've said, Viv." And then, like the idiot I am, I say before thinking, "I just haven't understood a single one of them."
She immediately burst out in tears, spins, and is gone, disappearing into the hotel's bathroom and slamming the door behind her.
Nice going, dick. Nice.
Dick. Yeah, about the cheating thing. You need to get working on that; you get married in two days.
I feel like Doc Holliday playing cards in a dusty saloon, watching the door for some murderous cowboy aiming to put a bullet in my back. I'm sitting on the hotel suite's balcony in a lounger, with my back in the corner; in my Old West mind, I see Viv stepping into view, quick drawing a six shooter, and putting a bullet through the smart phone -- the modern black book -- that I'm hiding within one of her "Bride" magazine.
I open one of the organizational app's and chose the file titled "Improving your golf swing"; you never know when your lover may go to use your phone and decide to let her fingers take a walk through your still private affairs. I select "Sort by Rating", and peruse.
I get through over two dozen names before it occurs to me, Man, you haven't updated this in a while ... a long while. Viv and I have been together for ... yeah, sixteen months, and the last full year of that -- since I started shopping for rings -- I've been faithful to her, and very happily so.
Which begs the question: Why the fuck are you now, two days before the wedding, looking to get fucked! That's simple: she told you to. Okay, so, maybe not in those many words, but ...
Let's see, it went something like ...
"Are you going to be faithful to me"
"Of course I am. I love you."
"Are you sure?"
"Am I sure I love you."
"No! Are you sure you can be faithful?"
Avoiding hesitation, "Of course I am!"
"You haven't cheated on me?"
Not needing to avoid hesitation, "Of course not!"
"You better not. If you cheat on me after we're married ... my father--"
"I'm not going to cheat on you after we're married, Viv."
"Good ... 'cause if you do--"
Laughing, "What if I cheat on you before we're married."
Laughing, but not nearly as amused, "Well, that wouldn't be nearly as bad."
"Why not?"
"Because if it's before we get married, then that implies that we still get married .. right?"
Now laughing hysterically, "Yes, we still get married."
"And once married, you won't cheat on me ..."
Again laughing, "Are you sure?"
"You just told me you wouldn't cheat after we were married."
"Oh. I did, didn't I?"
"Yes you did. So if you cheat before, yet still want to marry me after..."
She dropped her robe, revealing her nakedness to me.
"...then I must really be the one ... right?
"Of course," followed by my dropping of my own robe.
She threw her nude body atop mine, "Then go for it, buddy, cheat if you feel the need ..."
She lowered her smiling face toward my groin, "... 'cause you're not going to find anyone who can do this ... the way ... that I do..."
So ... that's permission ... isn't it?
I've spend two hours combing through the list; I've sorted by performance rating, by locale, by looks -- both body and face -- even by the married-yet-still-fucking-with-danger-of-getting-shot sort function. No one; either I can't get to them in the day and a half I have, or I'm already aware that their available status had changed to not, or I'm simply not interested in expending my Hall Pass on them. I consider a hooker, but that's just not the same; the task here, as I see it, is to see if any other woman tickles my fancy enough to make me not want to spend the next forty -- fifty -- years pailing buckets of tears out of my bedroom.
"Where's my Bride magazine?" Viv hollers from the other room, "January issue."
I look to the magazine's cover: January. "Here, Sweetie!"
I press close on my phone and rip it out from inside the magazine just in time for her to come to the balcony. She glances at the magazine I am feigning deep interest in, then gives me a questioning look. "Oh-kay..." She strides forth to retrieve it, spins to leave, then stops. She looks back to me and says, "Listen ... sorry about earlier. I know I'm ... I'm a mess."
"Viv, it's--"
She tosses a hand up in that oh-so-recently-familiar Let Me Finish gesture and says, "Please. Don't tell me it's okay. It's not okay. But ... it will be. If you'll help me."
I stand and move to her. "Of course, anything, sweetie."
I try to snuggle up next to her, but she gives me that other familiar gesture -- the one that usually signals I'll be beating off in the shower that night -- and tells me just what I didn't want to hear -- and did!
"I just got off the phone with my mother, and she says there's a red eye that she can catch to go home early to help with the wedding prep's if she doesn't have to fly alone. So ... will you fly with her?"
It says something about Vivien's mother that my very first thought of flying cross country with her in the middle of the night was sexual. There's an overused line when a man is first introduced to his new girl friend's mother: "I thought I was meeting your mother, not your sister."
In Viv's case, that line wasn't too far off from the truth. Her mother, hovering somewhere around 40, 42, is one of the most beautiful woman I've ever met. You'll notice I don't say one of the most beautiful OLDER women. The first night we all sat down for dinner, Viv, myself, and her parents, I had to fight from ogling the woman all night long; and later, to my own disbelief, I found myself masturbating to the idea of that woman's full, painted lips being wrapped around Little Bobby.
Suddenly, as I grip my smart phone tightly in one hand and imagine gripping myself in the other, my mind is racing with possibilities. No way. Her mother? Vivien's mother? That's just not right. Her mother?
"I'm sorry," she apologizes, cutting into my argument with myself. "I shouldn't have asked."
"No! I'll do it!" I realize by her reaction that I've used a bit too much emphasis. I smile quickly, and lay my hands upon her arms, caressing her; she doesn't pull back this time. "I'll do it, I'll escort your mother home, if you think she can help you ... if you think it will relieve some of the stress."
She smiles broadly and throws herself into my arms. We embrace for a long moment, and then she suddenly pulls her face back, cocks her head, and says, "Robert, you're swelling."
I realize she's right, a fact made even more obvious by the lack of underwear below my pajama bottoms.
"Wedding planning is suddenly getting you horny ...?" she questions me sarcastically. "Or ... is there something else making you--"
I'm quick at the draw -- almost as quick as I am at swelling to the idea of fucking her mother -- and, turning her toward the room, and the bed -- answer in a put-out tone, "Viv ... I am more than happy ... to take a red eye ... and escort your mother half ... way ... across the country ... to help you with your wedding ..."
At the bed, I turn her to face me -- she's already wearing that you-horny-bastard expression -- and begin unbuttoning her blouse. "Of course, I'm sort of hoping that you will be more than happy to do something for me as well."
We exchange smiles, then laugh, then strip ... and for more than two hours, make sweet love ... while the whole time I'm picturing Viv's mother below me, atop me, on her knees between my thighs, laid out across a reception hall table, her naked body smothered in wedding cake frosting ... mmm, lemony. And, my more immediate fantasy, pressed up against the wall of the rear bathroom of the Red Eye flight to Seattle.
