Crazy Gina

Is there anything worse than having to sit and listen while your wife complains about her work friends? The ones you barely know? The ones whose problems are entirely work-related, and therefore of no importance to you? The ones your wife is always complaining about anyway, usually while you're trying to watch the game?

"I mean, it's the same every year." She was fuming. "I never would have agreed to set this shit up if Gina hadn't agreed to help, and now she's bailing."

I sympathized, largely because my own life was about to get more stressful. My wife had agreed to help Crazy Gina with their school's "Spring Fling," some sort of variety show/talent competition the junior class ran every year. Gina was the class advisor, but she was on enough antianxiety meds to control a small town. So, already unstable, she wasn't good with added stress. Like the stress of taking on the production of a talent show. I shook my head. "I'll never understand why she became the class advisor." I wasn't really paying attention to the conversation, but that was usually a safe thing to say when Gina's name came up.

"I know, right? She's unstable, she's got two wild kids, and she's on her period right now anyway. Did I tell you she was mad at you the other day?"

"What's this now?" My ears perked up. I'd met Gina a few times, mostly at my wife's school functions. Though there had been that one time they'd had us over for dinner. I hadn't the faintest clue why Gina should be angry with me.

"She blamed me for having a husband who's good with the kids. Apparently Mike isn't, and she's pissed about it."

"Then she needs to handle Mike. It's not me she's pissed at." Most of what I knew about Gina came from my wife's stories. In person, Gina was a vivacious and very direct sparkplug of a woman: petite, even tiny, she was a strong believer in proper diet and exercise. She had a great deal of nervous energy and did not believe in beating around the bush or being subtle. Her face was long and lean, her eyes light green; normally I wasn't attracted to light eyes, but on her they were intriguing. Her long, wavy brown hair fell to her shoulder blades. She was one of those women who is more sexy than she is attractive; you'd never really call her "beautiful," but she radiated a sex appeal that was undeniable.

But she had severe OCD and ADHD, and she was a pain to be around a lot of the time. She was also my wife's best friend, so that meant I heard all the stories. According to my wife, Gina was most famous around their school for saying highly inappropriate things during lunch; she was direct enough that I could believe it. The other day, she'd apparently gone around the table asking their coworkers which of them had done anal. Earlier that week, she'd told a lively story about a threesome she'd once had in Aruba.

I was always careful, when the subject of Gina's inappropriate statements came up, to show extreme disinterest. It's wise, when hearing about the sex lives of your wife's friends or sisters, to pretend not to be interested. For instance, I didn't ask whether Gina had done anal herself, nor did I know whether her threesome had been two women or two men. Those were questions best not asked.

But I certainly did think about them.

"Yeah, well. I don't think she chose him for his father qualities, which may have been a mistake." No. Gina had clearly chosen her husband for his looks, to which even my wife wasn't quite immune, and his income. She was brooding now, furiously texting her sister, and I knew the conversation was over for now. She'd started out by declaring that she was "breaking up" with Gina, which made no sense; the two had been friends since Gina had started working there some six years ago. They had the same sense of humor, they both had kids similar ages, and they both liked to gossip.

But they were very different, too. Gina, after all, was the sort of woman who felt no qualms about asking her coworkers' preferences about anal sex. And my wife? Well, let's just say I knew what her answer to that question was. My wife was as down-to-earth and unadventurous as they came. Case in point: she'd started working at Seaborne Memorial and had never, ever thought of moving on for more money at some other school; Gina had resumes out all the time. I knew my wife would be inconsolable if Gina left, which left her constantly on edge about it. Particularly in the spring, when new teacher hires usually took place.

Sighing, I went back to the book I'd been reading. It was about the the history of the Texas Rangers, but it couldn't hold my interest. Instead, my mind was daydreaming about Gina Torrey. With a dick in her tiny, pert ass.

* * *

The trouble continued the next day, with Gina giving my wife Audrey the silent treatment. This really bothered my wife, though I couldn't figure out why: anytime an unstable and obnoxious person is not talking to me, I call it a win. But then, Gina wasn't my friend. This all put my wife in a very bad mood when she came home.

I knew this would blow over. It always did in Audrey's work stories. She seemed to have a pretty weird workplace, with a lot of secrets and a shitload of gossip even on a good day. Add in Gina's volatile nature, and it was a recipe for swirling disasters which, nevertheless, always blew over quickly.

And I was the guy who had to sit on the couch and hear the stories. There was a new one daily for the next week, and then Gina magically seemed to come around. "She apologized and said she'd be there."

"Wha?" I said. I'd been paying about 30% attention. "Be where?"

"At the Spring Fling. The whole problem is that she was going to help me do setup, but then that she had some kind of issue with her kid and couldn't make the actual show. Now she says she can."

"Ah." I went back to my book. "Mike's stepping up and babysitting for the evening?"

"Oh God no. No, she still bitches about him hourly."

I shook my head. "Why those two don't just get a divorce is beyond me. I mean, talk about incompatible." Michael Torrey was in real estate, a steady and solid workaholic with none of his wife's mental issues. "Obviously there are kids in the mix, and that makes things harder, but still." I frowned. "I've always been amazed that they ever got together in the first place."

She idly checked for texts. "Gina says she married him for the size of his dick. I've always thought she was just joking, but lately?" She spread her hands and shrugged.

I couldn't help myself. "She's a size queen, your Gina?"

"Who knows?" My wife found the text she was looking for and started doing a reply. "To hear her tell it, she's had all kinds. She's not exactly shy about talking about herself. Hell, you've met her. She's not shy about anything."

This was certainly true. Gina had an attitude of absolute confidence and self-assurance when she was properly medicated. She was very good at using what she had; as I said, she wasn't gorgeous. But her sex appeal was very high. I didn't doubt she'd seen plenty of dick. "Weird. To say the least, you guys talk about different things at work than we do."

"Well, you work with a bunch of computer geeks," she pointed out. "Of course penis size isn't likely to be a major topic. Still, you're not wrong: Gina's a little obscene even by teacher-lunchroom standards. Like, the other day she was talking about students she wanted to screw."

My mouth went dry. "Really."

"Yeah. I mean, every teacher notices attractive students," she went on dismissively, "but I don't think most of them have, like, extensive fantasy lives about them. Gina apparently does." She was back into the phone now, texting one of her sisters. Again, I couldn't help myself.

"How extensive?" I tried to sound lighthearted, and I was fully ready to dismiss the whole discussion if she got annoyed with me. But she seemed oblivious.

"Completely. Like, she says she'll think about finding them in the locker room or barging into the boys' bathroom. She says she even kept a kid after school one time just because she liked looking at him. She says she likes making the boys hard in class, and that that's part of why she dresses like she does."

"Uh." I swallowed. "How does she dress? Like, in school; I've only seen her in jeans."

"Yeah," she replied dryly. "The tightest possible jeans, with thongs. No, at school she's known for her skirts. Like, minis. She gets away with it because she's so short, and claims that showing leg makes her look taller. But she's told me that in reality, she just wants the boys to try to see up her skirt." She shook her head. "She gets away with it because the principal's totally intimidated by her."

"How does that work?" Their principal, Mr Oliver, was at the end of nearly forty years in education, and tired. To hear my wife's stories, he seemed to give few fucks about anything; I wouldn't have thought he cared enough to be intimidated.

"He'll enforce the dress code on male teachers, but he's not about to pick a fight with Gina. He just doesn't want the hassle."

"Probably likes trying to see up her skirt himself," I ventured with a laugh. My wife frowned at the mental image of old, fat Mr Oliver trying to outmaneuver Gina Torrey sexually. She couldn't make it work.

"Probably. Gina probably wouldn't mind that either. She's such a flirt. She weighs all of 90 pounds, and not much of that is boob or ass. She says she had to become aggressive in college, to compensate." She put the phone down.

"She doesn't need to at school," I pointed out. "Teenage boys will fantasize about every teacher they have under the age of sixty." I poked her in the side. "They probably whack it thinking about you, too, even though you're the guidance counselor."

"Stop it." My wife is very pretty, but she's nowhere near as sexy as Gina. "That's disgusting. I don't want anyone jerking off thinking about me, even you."

"That's not fair," I teased. "Who else am I supposed to think about? Gina?" Oh, sweet holy shit. Had I said that out loud? My eyes went wide as I realized I had, but Audrey just laughed.

"Hell, bud, you do what you want. As long as I get dick when I need it, I don't particularly care what else you do." She was interested now, eyeing me boldly, and I was getting hard.

Thinking about Gina.

Still, I was able to ignore that and service my wife that night just as capably as I always did. After all, I loved her and we always enjoyed fucking. But I'd be lying if I didn't confess that, as I gripped her ass and shot my cum into her, a big part of my brain was wondering what Gina would feel like underneath me.

* * *

A couple weeks later I showed up at Seaborne Memorial to pick up my wife. She had Parents' Night that evening, and usually when that happened I'd bring the kids over to meet her for an early dinner together, then I'd leave her to talk to her students' parents and head on back to put the kids down. We'd been doing things that way for years, and I was excited: she had a new Mexican place she wanted to check out. I got there early, then turned the kids loose on the playground while I went inside to let Audreyknow I was here.

The office lady, harassed and irritated at having to clean up for the parents, impatiently buzzed me in and told me just to go to my wife's guidance office next to the math wing. I'd already texted her I was coming, so I was surprised when I arrived to an empty office. The lights were on and her purse was still on the shelf, though, so I assumed she must be in the bathroom. I sat behind the desk to wait.

"Why, Mrs Temple!" came a high, mocking voice from the hallway. "How you've changed! You look more male."

I glanced over and saw Crazy Gina laughing at me. "Uh, no, I think she's in the bathroom." I had difficulty saying more, for I hadn't ever seen Gina in work clothes and my wife had been right: low-cut on top, high-cut down below, the woman was leaning casually against the doorjamb with her hip cocked, her arms crossed beneath her tiny breasts. Her hair was down past the shoulderblades now; I hadn't seen her in months. There was a smirk on her thin lips.

"And there you sit, waiting patiently." She strode slowly across the room, her heels clicking on the floor. "Haven't seen you in awhile, Andy. You're looking good." Her eyes narrowed. "Been working out?"

"No, not really," I said. I looked her up and down, just once. Even her walk was sexy. "Nice to see you too." The short legs were toned and firm as she got to the little work table in the corner and hopped up onto it, kicking her shoes off and swinging her feet.

"I'll entertain you until she comes back; my room's next door, and I'd hate to be a bad hostess." She grinned at me, those crazy green eyes wide alongside her sharp, long wedge of a nose. I was trying desperately to avoid trying to look up her skirt, now at eye level for me as I sat in the office chair. "She and I had a rough patch recently; I'm sure she told you all about it."

"She might have," I replied slowly, leaning forward onto the desk. I was slowly regaining my cool. "She says you were freaking out about that show you guys are doing next month."

"Yeah, the Spring Fling." Her legs kept swinging carelessly. "She's right. I can be a total bitch. Sometimes." She looked away for a second or two. "Did she tell you I apologized and made nicey-nicey?"

"Sure. Made her a lot happier."

"Great." She looked back at me and leaned in slightly. "She tells you everything we talk about at school, doesn't she? All the shocking gossipy stuff?"

"Well, a lot of it." I pretended to fiddle with something on my wife's desk. "To tell you the truth, I don't listen very much."

"Of course not," she came right back. "You're a husband." Her throaty laugh was low and playful. "I don't tell my husband shit. He wouldn't be interested. Like, I don't tell him about how great your wife says you are." There was a twinkle in her eye now.

"Sorry?"

"She's always telling us about you. How you do all the dishes and change all the diapers. How you're great with the kids and always willing to help out around the house." Her eyes narrowed. "You're making the rest of us look bad, Andy. Like we can't make our men do what you do."

This was making me nervous. "Well," I stalled, "I just do my best." Thing is, my wife had told me all this already. She said she enjoyed talking me up, especially since most of it was true.

"Sure, but it makes some of us wonder what Aud's got that we don't." That was Gina, painfully direct. "I've got to tell you, Andy, that if there was a husband championship sweepstakes around here, then according to what we're told, you'd win without any trouble."

"I'm flattered." I mean, what do you say to that? Her short legs were still swinging, and I was becoming more conscious of the gap between her legs, the shadowed triangle of her skirt.

"Well, I don't want to make you uncomfortable," she lied. "No doubt you hear a bunch of embarrassing stuff about me, what with my big mouth."

"Aw, y'know, she leaves most of it out." I began to wonder what was keeping my wife.

"Yeah, or you don't listen," she put in with a grin. She had a quick smile, her thin lips parting to reveal dazzling white teeth. "I get it. Guys don't talk the way girls do; like, about sex and shit. Girls talk about fucking the way guys talk about hockey." She laughed loudly.

"I guess." I was trying not to feel titillated, but hearing profanity out of her was a weird turn-on. I found myself wanting her to say more. "Like what?"

"Well," she said indulgently, leaning back on the desk with her arms propping her up from behind, "like the other day, I confessed I had fantasies about my students." Her mosquito-bite tits were pointing straight up in the air as she leaned. "For what it's worth, your darling wifey agreed with me, but between you and me I'm not sure she thought I was serious." She gazed at me now, her eyes lit up. "I was totally serious."

"Huh." I felt an unwelcome twinge down below as my penis stirred.

"Yeah. Like, there are days after my period that all I can think about are all the dicks in my room." She laughed again, very amused, seeming not to notice my discomfort. "Even some of the girls are hot, though my door doesn't really swing that way. I can still admire a decent body. What's that they say? You always want what you can't have?" She chuckled as she looked down at her chest. "I mean, there are days when the girls around here wear shit that makes me wish I had a nice set of boobs, too."

"Hey," I shrugged raggedly, not sure where this was going. "Different strokes, different folks. Your husband seems happy with yours, so what's the problem?" I was hoping mentioning Mike would make her change the subject, but she just laughed again.

"Please. Mike would love me to have bigger tits. Hell, if I gave him half a chance he'd go after the girls here himself." She arched an eyebrow. "He's not like you. At least, not like what your wife says about you. Loyal, loving, kind..." She glanced slowly down at my crotch; I was certain they'd discussed penis sizes at some point, and I wondered what my wife had said about me. Gina just looked speculatively down there for a few moments before bringing those crazy eyes back up to my face. "I guess you just never know. Anyway," she added in a strangely offhand way, "it's kind of cool that you know I fantasize about the boys here."

"Huh? Why?"

"I don't know," she admitted. "It just seems like such a dirty little secret for you to know. Does that make sense?"

No. "Gina, why should you and I have dirty little secrets?" The flashing red light in the corner of my brain told me we were already on dangerous territory. The shadowy opening between her thighs had spread open slightly; when had that happened? It was aimed at me like a crossbow.

She laughed a little too abruptly, arching her flexible back as she did so. "Oh, Andy, relax!" she urged. "I'm exaggerating. Didn't your Mrs Temple tell you I told her about my illicit daydreams? Yes or no?"

"Yes."

"Well then. What kind of a secret can we have if your own wife is the one who revealed it?" She shrugged, her whole tight body twitching as she did. "I figure, with married couples, that if you tell one, you've told both. Most married couples, anyway." She looked off to the side, apparently bored, her legs swinging with greater vigor. I took a chance and, in keeping with the universal law that states that all men, even happily married ones, MUST attempt a look up the skirt if it's on offer, flickered my glance low to focus on that dark, mysterious skirted canyon.

I'm not sure what I was expecting to see. The skirt was short, yes, but the fluorescent lighting wasn't likely to show anything short of shiny white silk. And Gina Torrey wasn't a white-silk kind of woman. If I'd thought about it at all, I'd have pegged her for something in a black or red, probably satin with contrasting lace: a thong, of course, fitting over a tidy rectangle or triangle of well-tended pubic hair.

So I was expecting precisely nothing. And I wasn't disappointed: the shadow down there remained dark, unfortunately. But I must have stared longer than was proper, for when I shot my eyes back up to her face, she was staring back at me with a knowing look that told me she was privy to exactly what I'd been up to. I stared back, numb. It's not good to get caught creeping on your wife's heavily medicated best friend, and I figured I was about to find out just how bad it was.

But her green eyes just wrinkled at the corners, grinning along with her widely curved little mouth as she gave me a very, very intimate sort of smile, the sort you only give to your lover.

"Well. Maybe not quite the perfect husband after all," she murmured with a wink. "Maybe," she added, dropping her voice toward a whisper, "the kind of perfect husband who doesn't want anyone to know he's not perfect." I had to lean in to hear her now, and her grin grew as her voice sank. "The kind of perfect husband who thinks about his wife's best friend fucking people, at least after today." She giggled, and I looked at her helplessly with a vague, pathetic smile.