Chapter 2—Sex . . . . Crying . . . . and a Hot Shower
My line of work allows me to see a whole lot of messed up things. One day I will be treating somebody for a blade wound and the next George and I will be carrying out a balding man on a gurney, while his dog is literally stuck to his zipper. I would go into more detail, but I really don’t want to piss off the dog lovers out there. Poor Ibaka, I would never let that happen to you!
To help get these terrible, fucked up things out of my head I used to depend on wine and a steady dose of easy women. Luckily for me, this business is full of drinkers and I get to meet a lot of women willing to show me how grateful they are that I saved their life or their skin from scarring.
About a year ago, I was called out to a middle class neighborhood where I had the sublime pleasure of meeting Kate. She’s blond, 6 ft. tall and has legs that should be illegal in at least 20 states. Oh yeah, she’s also married to some overweight banker and I saved her kid’s life. Blah, blah, and blah!
I know what you’re thinking. I shouldn’t have been sleeping with somebody’s wife. I should respect the sanctity of marriage. You do have every right to hate me, but I told myself I was performing a valuable service for Kate. Her husband hadn’t been able to see his own dick in a decade, she has two kids that run around the house like morons on a Cinnamon Toast Crunch high, and she was just really in need of somebody who cares. She needed somebody who listens to her. She needed somebody who can respect how sexy her body really was despite the grubby kids. I was that somebody for her. The fact that we fucked like rabbits in and around her house is merely a fringe benefit. I really am a giver!
On one particular night, my sexy distraction was free because her husband was out of town on some business trip. Kate always ripped on her husband, because he had to buy two seats when he flew. I once asked why she stayed with the fat fuck, I mean her husband, and that resulted in a month of no distractions at her place. I’m a quick learner, so I didn't broach that subject again!
It was 10 p.m., so her two kids were sound asleep. She would always leave the back door unlocked, so I could let myself in and have a seat in her kitchen. Now, never tell a MILF that you are hungry, because they always feel the need to feed you. Kate is no different. Every time I was over at her place there were always a sandwich and a bowl of soup waiting for me. She’s fond of saying I need my strength after a long day of saving lives. Yet, I was never actually given the time to eat before the main event began.
That night was no different. Within moments of sitting down at the kitchen table, Kate appeared in a fluffy green robe decorated with turtles.
“Follow me,” she said, gesturing for me to follow her into the laundry room.
“A robe,” I said, with a disappointed look on my face.
“Shut up!” She replied, smiling like she had just robbed a bank and got away with it. “I have a surprise for you.”
I do very much like surprises, so I followed her into the laundry room and closed the door behind me. Kate turned on the dryer and proceeded to disrobe, showcasing a delectable and sexy black and red corset underneath.
“Do you approve?” she asked, self-assured at what my answer would be.
Readers, I know watching a sex scene on a dryer looks 12 kinds of hot in the movies, but in real life the logistics just suck. It’s all about the height and weight factor of both people involved. Basically, you find yourself doing the math in your head, which seriously challenges the blood in your body from going down South. This can be a problem, especially for you older men out there.
Anyways, I’m not a big fan of chit chatting during play time, so I showed my positive reinforcement by going over to her, bending her over and . . . .
“Mommy!” Her child screamed, from the other side of the house. “Where are you, Mommy?”
“Hold on,” Kate said, before putting her robe back on and going out to check on her kid.
Now, I’m a big fan of MILFs and what they stand for, but the whole kid thing can really throw you right back into reality. It was time for a cigarette and I had the perfect place. Kate’s chubby hubby had recently built a pretty sweet shed in the back yard. She told me this is the only locked place for them to fool around. I know thinking about Kate fucking her hubby is just wrong. I really don’t want to think about how that whole mess worked.
After about 20 minutes, Kate joined me out in the shed. I had been distracting Kate from the horror of having sex with her husband for a while, so I knew she needed a moment to get out of mommy mode and back into “I want your cock inside of me right now!” So, I had a cigarette waiting for her and as usual, it did the trick nicely.
“Are you ready to try this again?” She asked, her sexy smile had returned to her face and she began to take her robe back off.
“Come over here,” I exclaimed, while staring at her corset like I was about to unwrap a present on Christmas day.
Kate is excellent and very talented when it comes to pleasing a man. Still, there are rules you have to play by when performing with a married woman. Luckily, you have me to share the juicy details. First, never ever leave marks. This really becomes important when the husband is ugly or out of shape and has no self-esteem. These husbands have a tendency to check their wives’ bodies like a hawk for bruises, hickeys and other love making reminders. Second, do not say anything that will remind the woman that they are cheating on their husband. I know this sounds odd, but a quick reminder of reality can halt steamy play time faster than a teenage boy who is about to lose his virginity to a girl way out of his league. Last and possibly most important, make sure you have your entire basis covered when it comes to birth control. If you get her pregnant, you might as well start practicing your bitch slapping for that lovely appearance you’ll be making on ‘Jerry Springer.’
In addition to the major rules, most married women bring their own rules to the table and Kate was no different. She felt that traditional vaginal sex should be saved for her husband. So, she’s only interested in having anal sex. I guess this helps Kate convince herself she’s not really cheating. For me, I had the added convenience of knowing she couldn't get pregnant (See rule 3).
So, for the next couple of hours that night, Kate and I took turns exploring each other’s bodies. She felt so good and it was a lovely, sexy, dirty way to end the evening. Oh, I almost forgot something really, really important. If you’re a dude and want the debauchery to be an ongoing thing, make sure she gets off at least three times. Trust me, anything less and you’re replaceable. Anything more and she might fall in love with you and then you have a whole new set of problems.
Upon finishing the dirty deed, I stuck around for a few minutes to catch my breath and pondered what was next on my schedule. Kate is a hugger after sex and that is a major no, no when it comes to fucking another dude’s woman. Men, if you find yourself in this situation, make sure you have excuses you can put in play at any time. Stay away from the early work day excuse. For me, my job was the built in excuse. If you were to ask Kate, she would tell you I get called out to a scene just about every night. Generally, or luckily in her opinion, I don’t get work calls until 10 or 15 minutes after we get done having sex. Kate is so sexy and so very gullible when it comes to my excuses. I love it! If you don’t have a nifty excuse like me, keep it simple. I will demonstrate for you rookies out there.
“I really have to take a piss,” I said, cutely performing the pee pee dance in front of Kate.
“We can go back inside the house if you want,” Kate said quietly, trying not to fall asleep in her shed from my earlier performance of awesomeness.
“That’s okay sexy, you stay here and rest,” I replied.
Upon uttering those words, I got up, found my clothes and made my escape for the evening. I really did have to pee.
I returned home that evening after a quick stop off at Wing Run for some food, beer and a potty break. As usual, my Boxer dog, Ibaka, was at the door waiting for me. I found him without a tag or a chip on the side of the road. He was dirty, but in great health. Ever since then, he’s been a great pal and an excellent listener. Plus, he almost never bitches back; unless I forget to feed him. Ibaka can be a complete diva when he hasn’t been fed.
I’m stalling right now because I don’t know how to broach this subject with my readers, without losing some of my coolness factor. I’m in my earlier 30s, pretty damn sexy and have a sweet pad in a nice part of town. My life is pretty fucking good, or at least it should be, right? Well, my life's ups and downs have been as dramatic as Lady Gaga's costume changes.
I guess the best place to start is by telling you that I’m a big fucking hypocrite. On the outside I’m a complete Ashton Kutcher look alike. Okay, would it be easier to believe if I said I’m a young Mandy Patinkin look alike?
“You killed my father, prepare to die,” I said, pretending to duel with my confused puppy.
Anyways, I’m getting off point. On the outside, I can pretty much fool anybody into believing I’m a self-confident guy. I had years of practice and money to make sure my teeth and self-esteem would end up in top notch condition by adulthood. But then May 1st happened and that all went away with just one phone call.
The next day was May 1st. To honor this momentous occasion every year, my brain overrides my body and I’m a hot mess. Actually, I would be more precise if I called myself a wet mess. You see it was that day, three year ago, my phone started blowing up while I was in the shower. My girlfriend at the time liked to call and text me a lot, so I would always bring my phone into the bathroom with me just to avoid the where were you questions if I didn’t happen to answer the phone. I’m such an asshole. To be fair, I wasn’t as big of a jerk back then. I needed more seasoning and life gave me that in spades on that particular Friday. There is nothing I wouldn't give to go back to that day. I could have done so many things differently. Look at me. I'm a mess from just thinking about what happened. I'm crying like Kate's child after a nightmare. Maybe because it's my own personal nightmare that I can never ever wake up from. I could have been a better boyfriend. I should have been there. I should have said so much more. I could have saved . . . . I don't ever deserve to wake up from this nightmare.
Again, I’m getting off point and I apologize. So, I was in the shower and my cell started to blow up. I stopped humming to whatever Foo Fighters song was playing in the background, opened the shower curtain, and grabbed my phone. Why was I fucking listening to the Foo Fighters at that moment? I never fucking listen to music while I’m in the shower. That day was different. That fucking day was going to be special. My favorite band was getting me pumped up and I had already picked out the wardrobe I was going to wear that evening. I was going to look good. I had been planning this for a really long time and everything was going to be perfect.
I have no idea if I have any readers out there. If you are reading this, just know I have given my heart to two women and Julie was my first. In both situations, my heart has been smashed. It's apparently very dangerous to love me.
Anyways, when I answered the phone the first time all I heard was screaming. I figured it was one of my jerk friends playing a prank on me because they knew this was going to be a big, huge day. So, I hung up and started belting out more words to a Foo Fighters song. For the life of me, I truly can’t remember which song. At that time, I knew every word to every fucking song in their catalog and I can’t remember the fucking name to one Goddamn song!
My phone quickly rang again. This time I could make out what the person was saying on the other end. It was Julie's dad. I had just spoken with the man two days earlier. But this conversation was very different. Mr. Johnson sounded so sad. I could tell he was choosing his words carefully. I wanted to interrupt him and tell him I was kind of indisposed at the moment, but when he started to weep on the phone my mind started to race. He said there had been an accident. Mr. Johnson said I needed to get over to their house as quickly as possible. He said. The fucker said. Excuse me for a second. Okay. He said Julie was gone.
I suppose I should have been better at taking the news. After all, I had just become an EMS worker a year earlier and the grief training and multiple exams were still fresh in my mind at that point. Yeah, I’m not sure anybody can truly be trained to handle their own grief.
I only remember tidbits about what happened after I received the call. I remember dropping the phone on the floor. My legs felt really fucking heavy, so I sat down in my tub. Was it “Times Like These?” No, that doesn’t sound right. I can’t remember that fucking song. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck! Jesus, why can’t I remember that song? I do remember turning the shower faucet to extremely hot, but I felt nothing. I just sat there in the shower thinking about everything and nothing all at the same time. I was sure this wasn't really happening. Julie wasn't really dead. She couldn't be. There is no way somebody so perfect . . . . What was I supposed to do without her? Who am I without her in my life? She was my muse. She gave me the ability to breath and at the same time could take my breath away with just one touch.
“Ian, where are you?” A male voice said, it was muffled by the sound of the shower.
The voice kept calling out to me, but I couldn’t answer. It was like I didn’t know how. Every time I would have a thought, it was erased by a steady flow of sobbing and the realization that if I allowed myself to calm down, reality would sink in and Julie would be dead. Finally, my friend Robert peeked his head into the bathroom. I remember wanting to ask him for help. I’m pretty sure I did a couple of times in my head.
“Ian, I'm so, so sorry,” he said.