In The Washroom

Note: I hope this is understandable. The narrator is named Peter, and he is a closeted gay man. His wife is named Mona. I'm sorry if this is unsexy; once again, it's part of a longer, non-erotic story I'm writing. If, however, you do like this kind of thing (I know it's one of my weird kinks), then hooray.

*

My friend Walt, my wife Mona and I were going to Antigua, and were making last-minute preparations.

Walt gave us an hour or so to finish our packing-- he'd drop the dog off at the kennel, he said. I said no initially, but Mona said yes, and so Monster went with Walt. My heart seized for a moment, thinking of the sudden, cruel, childlike whims that Walt so often gave in to, and I shuddered. I laughed to myself uneasily about how, as usual, I was far more preoccupied with the dog's welfare than for anyone else's. Including Mona's. I noticed her shadow looming over me as I knelt on the ground, digging behind identical pairs of pants for my white slacks, an island staple, I told myself. I felt her body warmth, tickling my skin. I twisted my head around to look up at her. She had changed her outfit, and was wearing a brown and light blue peasant skirt. She had a little smile on her face.

Oh God, no. I knew my wife and I knew that smile. My already soft penis cowered between my legs. I cleared my throat and said, "I need to pack. I've hardly started."

"I think you have some clean clothes in the laundry room," Mona said, her eyes flickering back to normal, and I heaved a sigh of relief, convincing myself that I had misread her look, that it was okay, everything. I stood up, brushing against her, and kissed my wife on the cheek. She followed me to the laundry room. The washer was on. Some people like to have sex on top of a laundry washer, because of the grinding and ululations of the machine. I looked through a basket of clothes that Mona had sloppily folded, feeling her presence behind me, wondering what kind of devilry she was up to this time, although I had a fairly good idea. She touched the back of my neck with her lips, and she rubbed my bottom, roughly, like she was kneading dough. Her finger traced the cleft. I tried to step away, but of course the laundry room scarcely had enough room for a washer-drier, never mind two people.

"I've got you," Mona giggled, still holding my ass.

"Look, Mona," I said, crinkling my brow and looking at her over my shoulder, ignoring the ache in my neck as I did so, for some things are more important than momentary comfort. Some things are worth more than momentary comfort, like a happy wife. No, I reasoned; no, she wouldn't be feeling any postcoital oxytocin. It was true that Mona was generally snappy and sour after we had sex, and I had to tiptoe around her and cater to her whims in order to make things okay again. I wondered why she kept trying to seduce me, when it so obviously never ended well. The woman was hard-wired for disappointment, I supposed. Maybe she's like me, a masochist. That made sense, perhaps.

Mona lifted her skirt to reveal that she wasn't wearing panties. Her thick pubic bush obfuscated any glimpse that might have been afforded. My stomach lurched involuntarily in response to this show of feminine grotesquerie. She smiled at me, ingratiatingly, and swooped in and stuck her tongue in my mouth, biting my lip so that I drew back.

"Make it hard for me," she breathed, and I rubbed my dick through my pants. "Take off all your clothes," Mona said. I did. I felt silly. She was still clothed. Maybe she was self-conscious about her lack of breasts. If she only knew how little I cared for breasts, I thought. Mona hoisted herself on top of the washing machine and rubbed my penis up and down her slit, and rolled her eyes when I failed to become erect.

"I'm sorry," I said.

Mona kissed my nose, holding my ears between each index finger and thumb. "You don't have to worry about the size thing," she said sweetly. Ouch. That wasn't what I was apologizing about. Mona pulled down on my ears suddenly, a devious smile lighting her bland features, and I suddenly understood in a wretched moment what she was doing.

"Are you sure you want--" I began, allowing Mona to pull me down further, already feeling sickness at being so close to her hairy snatch.

"Yes, Peter, lick me," she said, petting my hair reassuringly. Like a dog. Like a dog. My nose was meshed in her wiry dark hair, my chin vibrating with the movement of the washing machine, and my tongue tentatively emerged from my puckered lips, glancing across her clit. It tasted like sweat, and I wished it was just sweat, and not her cream that I was lapping up. Mona pushed my head closer, so that her pubic bone fairly stabbed my face, and clenched her thighs on my head, seemingly unaware of my flailing arms. She made pleased noises. I clawed at her fingers, feeling nauseous, so disgusted, her sopping wet folds squelching against my face like a pink jellyfish. I managed to pull back, despite the daunting strength of her thighs, and gasp: "Jesus Christ, Mona, I couldn't breathe!" I was gagging for air, and was on the verge of crying.

"What, I do it to you whenever you want," Mona said, and in my head I added in addendum: By which you mean never. "Are you hard?"

I covered myself with my hand and stalked out of the room. "Not particularly," I spat. I hate you, I wanted to say.

I wiped Mona's juices from my face, extremely unsettled. This had happened before, but not in so long that I had managed to forget, managed to pretend that it was just an overreaction, a plausible story that had become a cautionary tall tale in the time since. Was this some sort of strange revenge for something I did? Impossible, I decided. Mona must just be really delusional. I wondered why she fooled herself. It was so sad. How could an intelligent woman like my wife convince herself that I had feelings for her beyond platonic and roommate? Perhaps I'm too doting, I thought.