Troubles and Treats (2 page)

With resignation, I pull my cell phone out of my pocket and head into the bathroom
while I scroll through the newest Erotica dot com updates.

“Where are you going?” Jenny asks softly as she watches me take my walk of shame across
the floor of our bedroom.

“To a backyard barbeque where Misty and her friend Buffy cornered their high school
Science teacher in a bathroom and asked him to explain the theory of threesome-tivity,”
I mumble sadly.

Jenny and I have been married going on…uh, something like four years.  Or is it three? 
Our daughter Veronica is three and Jenny definitely wasn’t knocked up at our wedding. 
So, three, take away the one, carry the two…eh, three years and some change sounds
about right. 

Our wedding was the shit!  It was the most romantic, perfect day ever.  Our friends
and a few family members went with us to Vegas, baby!  And the best part?  You guessed
it, we were married by Elvis.  Not the real Elvis.  Last I heard he was spotted somewhere
in Piedmont, North Dakota.  This guy was totally a fake, but he was still shitballs
good.  Jenny surprised me with a shirt to wear during the ceremony.  In big, block
letters it had the word “Groom” with a giant “X” through it.  Underneath it was written:
The Bride’s Bitch.

I had known the first moment that I met Jenny I would be her bitch, and I am perfectly
okay with that.  If I wasn’t with her, I’m pretty sure I would be in prison and belong
to the dude with the most packs of smokes.  This is way better.  The day we met she
had just finished throwing a sex toy party and sampled the merchandise a few minutes
beforehand.  I didn’t know if it was the glow from her recent orgasm or not, but she
was the hottest chick I had ever laid eyes on.  I had immediately thrown away my man-whore
card and stuck to her like glue.

Every day since that moment, I have never regretted one second I’ve spent with her. 
That makes it imperative I fix whatever problems we have as soon as possible.

“So how long HAS it been since you and Jenny had sex?” Jim asks.

The guys know all
about the sex swing incident. 
As much as it had pained me to have to relive the horror of that night last weekend,
they knew what I was planning and were expecting a full run-down of the events.  The
guys at the hardware store had a candlelight vigil for me earlier this evening.  It
really was a touching moment but it just made me all emotional and shit.  When I had
walked into work tonight and started sobbing
uncontrollably, mumbling
words like “
rocking”
and
“sleepy penis”
and
saying, “
M
y
kid is the spawn of Satan
,” they knew the night didn’t go as planned.

After telling them about my cock-blocking kid and showing them the Ziploc baggie filled
with rice that had my cell phone nestled in it, they know
it was
a banner evening at the Parritt house.

“And more importantly, why is your phone in a bag of cooked rice?” Carter questions
as he reaches across the table and fingers the contents of the bag.  I smack his hand
away and pull the bag closer to me.

We are on our lunch break at the automotive plant and seated at a corner table in
the lunch room.  The three of us still work the night shift, and there is nothing
unusual about the fact that our “lunch break” occurs at 11:30 at night.

“I dropped my phone in the toilet,” I mutter.

“Again?” Jim asks with a laugh.

“Shut up asshole.  I was trying to scroll to the next page of the story.  Fucking
touch screen phones.  And I wasn’t even jerking off this time.  I was sitting on the
edge of the tub.  It was a really good part of the story too.  Buffy just recited
the theory of threesome-tivity, and Misty was going to reward her for being so smart. 
I wanted to see if Misty was wearing the pink jean skirt and white tank top like in
the story about their senior prom.  It was a really cute outfit.”

Both men stare at me for so long I’m pretty sure their faces might be frozen.

“You seriously need to get laid.  Right the fuck now,” Carter tells me.  “And you’re
not supposed to use cooked rice, genius.  Why the hell is it brown?”

I roll my eyes at him.  The rice is obviously not the important part of this story.

“It’s Uncle Ben’s beef flavored rice.  We were out of white,” I explain.  “Can we
please focus here?  What the fuck am I supposed to do?”

“Stop diddling your twigs and berries over a body of water,” Jim deadpans.

“I don’t diddle anything.  I stroke lovingly.  I like my penis.  He’s a good guy. 
And the berries are never involved in the stroking.  Wait, do you guys play with yours?”
I ask.

Jim shrugs as he takes a bite out of his bologna sandwich. “Sometimes I do.  It’s
nice to incorporate the boys every once in a while so they don’t feel left out.”

“I agree.  A little ball fondling goes a long way.  It just depends where you are
and if you can get the right angle to get down there and bring them up to the party. 
I like to give them a good cupping when I’m alone.  Claire does this thing with her
fingers where she pushes them up so that her mouth—”

Carter stops mid sentence when he hears me whimper.

“Sorry, man,” he tells me sheepishly.

This happens a lot lately.  Carter and Jim will start to tell some awesome story about
the sex they have with their wives and then they stop when they realize I am sitting
there staring at them, hanging on every word and dry humping the table leg.

“I don’t fucking get it.  You and Claire have two kids, you’ve been married for almost
seven years, and you still have amazing sex.  What the hell am I doing wrong?” I ask,
pushing my lunch aside.

“I don’t think you’re doing anything wrong. I just think you guys are going through
a dry spell.  Everyone goes through it at some point,” Jim reassures me.

“So you and Liz went through this?” I ask, feeling a little better about my situation.

“Oh, fuck no.  W
e still bang like rabbits.  By ‘everyone’
I meant other people,” Jim states around a mouthful of chips.  “But seriously, when
was the last time you had sex?”

I sit there for a minute pretending like I am doing calculations in my head.  There
is no need for that shit.  I know exactly how long it’s been.

“Good sex, or sex-sex?” I ask.

“That’s the dumbest question I’ve ever heard.  We’re men.  All sex is good,” Jim states.

“Negative, ghost rider.  The pattern is full.  If Claire doesn’t get off, it’s not
good for me,” Carter says.

“Did you just quote
Top Gun
?” Jim asks him.

“Um, yes.  Best mother fucking movie ever.  I feel the need, the need, for speed!”
Carter shouts with a fist pump.

“Okay, Homo McFaggy.  If you think a bunch of shirtless, sweaty men playing beach
volleyball is awesome, I’m going to need you to turn in your wings, Cougar.  Your
straight-man wings,” Jim states.

“Fuck you.”

“Obviously.  I thought I caught you sneaking a peak at my F-14 the other night when
we were pissing.  Do you and Claire role play in the bedroom?  Does she call you Iceman
and you call her Maverick?” Jim asks with a laugh.

“HELLO!” I shout.  “Man with a problem here.  Can we get back to something important
please?”

“Sorry, but I do believe discussing Carter’s sexual orientation is important,” Jim
says as Carter reaches over and punches him in the arm.

“Okay, back to the original question.  How long has it been?” Carter asks.  “And I’m
not talking about the ‘just the tip’ night after Billy was born.  I’m talking full
contact, all the way home, screaming for your mommy sex.”

“If I recall correctly, the screaming for your mommy sex is only had by you, Carter,”
Jim says with a laugh.

“Fuck off!  I did NOT scream for my mommy.  I was trying to propose to Claire,” he
argues.

“Twelve months, thirteen days, nine hours, and thirty-seven minutes,” I tell them,
glancing across the room at the clock hanging on the wall.  “Sorry, thirty-five minutes.”

“Jesus Christ,” Jim mutters with a look of horror on his face.

“You know that off the top of your head?” Carter asks.

“You two assholes try NOT having sex with your wives and get back to me on whether
or not you keep track,” I complain.

“Have you tried talking to her about it, like I suggested?” Carter questions with
a smug look on his face.

“Yes, I have, so shut the fuck up.”

The loud speaker breaks into our conversation and informs us we have five minutes
left before the production line will start back up.  We all stand and gather up the
remnants of our lunches from the table and head across the cafeteria to the doors
that lead out to the plant.

“Did you talk to her like you normally talk to her or did you try doing it without
being a douche?” Jim asks as he tosses his garbage into the can.

“Shut up. I’m not a douche when it comes to my wife,” I argue.

“Really?  Because I recall you asking the Elvis impersonator at your Vegas wedding
if he could add a line to Jenny’s vows that said, ‘I promise to always give blow jobs
with a smile on my face and love in my heart,’” Jim reminds me.

“What?  That’s a legitimate wedding vow that should be a part of everyone’s wedding
ceremony,” I argue.  “Do you want a wife who gives blow jobs with a frowny face?”

We make our way across the plant to our spot on the production line, and Jim follows
us even though he is supposed to be on the other side of the plant at a foreman meeting.

“Okay, you have a few options.  One, you can actually sit down with Jenny and straight
up ask her why she never wants to have sex with you anymore.  And by talk, I mean
ask her in a loving, nice way if something is bothering her.  Always ask about her
well-being first.  If you make this all about you and your neglected Johnson, you’ll
get nowhere.  You have to make her feel like you care,” Jim explains.

“But I do care.  I care about how she’s doing and how she’s feeling.”

“Yeah, okay.  But I’m pretty sure at this point, you care more about how she’s feeling
about your penis,” Jim says.

“True story,” I agree sadly.

“So, do not use the words:
bang, anal, blow job, just the tip,
or
it makes him smile when you kiss it
,” Jim tells me.

“What the fuck am I supposed to say then?  Those are all the good ones,” I complain.

“Yes, all the good ones you used when you conned her into having sex with you six
weeks after Billy was born.  I do believe she took 'just the tip' literally and you
told her, 'If your vagina is sore after having Billy chew his way out, I’d be fine
with anal,'” Carter adds.

“I still don’t see what was wrong with that.  I was trying to be nice and make her
feel better.”

After not having sex her entire pregnancy and then having to wait another six weeks
for her floppy bits to fuse back together, I had been desperate.  Telling her about
all the nightmares
I was having
of seeing Billy crowning during the delivery probably wasn’t my finest hour.  But
she cornered me in the middle of the night when I woke up screaming from another bad
dream.  I had been half asleep and could not be held responsible for the things I
said. I knew comparing the birth of our son to the movie
Alien
when that little monster tears his way out of that dude’s stomach was a bad idea,
but I wasn’t fully awake yet!  Picture the blood, the gore, the slime, and the goo
as this little freaky thing rips someone’s stomach open to get out.  Now picture that
happening with your wife’s vagina.  The vagina you’ve touched, sucked, licked, and
worshiped for years.  It took a little time to separate the two.

Jenny had a c-section with Veronica, and I didn’t see anything that happened below
her neck.  I remembered crying tears of joy when they handed Veronica to us and the
nurse helped me put on her first onesie that read: Watch your fucking language, There’s
a goddamn baby in the room.  I stared back and forth between Jenny and our little
girl and I knew I had never been happier.

With Billy, the doctor gave her the go-ahead to try and have him naturally since her
c-section with Veronica was due to a drop in Veronica’s heart rate and not because
Jenny had any life-threatening complications.  And so Jenny decided she wanted to
experience real child birth.  And it was horrific.  It should have been beautiful
and amazing, watching the woman I love give birth to our son, but it wasn’t.  There
was screaming and crying and profanities and that was just from me.  You didn’t even
want to know what Jenny screamed when she saw I had wandered down to the foot of the
birthing table and put my face right in front of the action.  And once I got there,
I couldn’t move.  I was like a deer caught in the headlights.  Or a man caught in
the slaughter of his wife’s vagina.  I expected to turn and see her OB with a butcher
knife in his hand because of the mess down there.  There had been so many things leaking
out between her legs I didn’t know what the fuck was going on or how one vagina could
pour that much gunk out of it and still be alive.  Her vagina should have drowned.

Telling all of this to Jenny at three in the morning a few weeks after Billy was born
might be one of the reasons why we’re having problems.  Talking to her again about
something so monumental right now doesn’t seem like the best idea.