The Turf King

BBUUUUZZZZZUZUZZZZZUZUZZZZ

My slick fingers hum as they manuver the purple stick in, out, and around my dulled nerves. I squeeze my eyes tighter, playing roulette with all of the fantasies that had previously gotten me to that place.

I see the my tits bouncing in the reflection of his mirrored shades as he's fucking me in the cab of his F-150. Shell casings roll around, soundtracking every thrust as we get closer and closer. His face is flushed red with the heat he's sending through us. My head falls back on the pile of realtree camo threads that I'm using as a makeshift pillow, as the faint scent of Malboros hits me as his breathing becomes more intense.

I try to place a face behind the Oakley shades. Maybe Officer Mackey who lives down the street. Or possibly the firefighter who does practice evacuations at Kayleigh's school every few months. Or the Ford-tough built, army-vet Lucas Hoggerty, who works with my husband...

Fuck! No! Not my husband!

My mind recoils back towards last week and the Budwiser-stench fuming from Roger's mouth as he was begging me to get naughty since Kayleigh was at a sleepover for the weekend.

Our cocker spaniel, Amber, watched unenthusiastically from the corner as the muted tv lit up the room. Rog squeezed his eyes shut, heavily grunting as I lay on my back. Behind him, Tucker Carlson is mouthing off the dangers that woke culture is having on our men. As the delayed subtitles popped up, I can see him discussing how younger men are weaker and less aggressive. Amber began licking herself.

Rog cowered over me, blocking my view. The prickly grays on his beard scratched my chin as he kissed me sloppily. I layed stiff. If I move even an inch, the cock is out of the hole. Once the groove is lost, there's no guarantee it would be found again, and depending on how drunk he was, that could end up somehow being my fault.

Amber got bored and left the room. Rog began to grunt heavier and yelped "Jesus Christ," before spasming on top of me. When he collapsed on me and Tucker Carlson popped back up in my eyesight, the black box at the bottom of the screen read, "Women are becoming increasingly disappointed in men."

And those goddamn liberals have the nerve to say Fox News is all lies.

The vibrator in my hand starts spurting as the juice in the batteries begin running low. All is well. I wasn't going to manipulate an orgasm today anyway. It became increasingly tougher for me to imagine that Officer Mackey or the firefighter or Lucas Hoggerty were some types of sex stallions, built with porncocks dedicated towards pleasuring a woman's intense desire. Chances are they left things to be desired just like every other alpha, chest thumping, smug 'man of God' that I've fucked in my lifetime.

I clean the strawberry lube off of my hand with the wet washcloth laying beside me and then circle the length of the vibrator with it. Twisting the bottom, the batteries fall out and I shake them and put them back in the remote control.

It was still lost on me how an anniversary party gag gift from Rog's white trash sister has become my greatest companion. I threw it in a shoebox with my old Jessica Simpson clogs and curiously cautioned my way around it until the Devil tempted me after a long night of drinking, arguing, and realizations.

The realization that I gave up pleasure for security. That sex was more mental than physical for a long time. That it was to be accepted. I was to spend every Sunday morning of my life thanking the Lord for the health he's blessed me with and every Sunday afternoon tattooed to the chair at some greasy, Golden Corral getting my money's worth.

And lastly, that I was stuck here, because the last thing I'd want is to be living off of alimony alone in some shaggy, lower middle-class haven, tending to a harem of cats because I made a rash decision about a man.

But overall, Rog wasn't a bad guy. A lousy lay, yes, but a great provider and a meddling-to-decent father.

"You're not oppressed, sweetheart," he exclaims later that night while sitting at the dinner table. He's still in his dirty work clothes and clutching a can of Budwiser, speaking to our daughter, Kayleigh, while blankly staring at the TV screen, which is always anchored on Fox News.

"Those women with the"--he limply waves a finger around his face--"what are those Muslim thingamajiggy's called?"

I place a plate of spaghetti in front of him and Kayleigh.

"Burkas, niqabs, and chadors," she shoots off, while quickly adding, "but there's no need to add arbitrary rankings to our collective struggles as women."

"Jesus Christ, Misty," he says, turning his neck to look at me. "Do you hear what they're teaching thirteen-year-olds nowadays?"

I down the remnants of my wine glass and refill it.

"She can be oppressed if she wants," I say absently, not really paying attention to the conversation.

"See, this is why we need somebody like DeSantis in the White House. That goddamn CRT or whatever in the classrooms is fucking up our kid's head." He's seething now. "How did this kind of talk end up in our household?"

I roll my mind's eye.

"She is not oppressed. She's a kid, she's a girl, she's white, she's petite, she's pretty, and not to mention, pretty well off."

He grabs his tall boy, raises it to himself and takes a sip, then looks back at Kayleigh.

"I've literally worked my entire life to provide an environment where you didn't have to grow up disadvantaged and poor like I did, so it's a little insulting when you try to create these... fake struggles. Please, let's just talk about something else."

I struggle myself to try to shift the conversation before the beer really starts pickling his brain and makes his dissatisfaction more aggressive, and then I remember--

"I got a call from Turf Kings today. They said they're coming to service the yard tomorrow."

Rog spirals the spaghetti into a clump and forks it in his mouth.

"Well, you tell that incel nerd Bradley that the zoysia in the back isn't choking out those weeds like he said they..." He begins coughing out his food. "Jesus Christ, woman! What the hell did you put in here?"

"I only added a little paprika."

He takes a long pull from his can of beer until it's hollow.

"Feels like the Devil just jizzed down my throat," he whines, inhaling sharply. "Why'd you go and do that? What's wrong with how you usually make it?"

"I... I just wanted to try something different," I say. "I was looking on Instagram and..."

"You and Instagram and her and that Tik-Tok shit," Rog says, pointing his empty can at our daughter. "Ruining this entire family."

He grabs the bottle of ketchup from the middle of the table and drowns the spaghetti in it.

"I work hard all goddamn day long and just wanna come home to a good meal and Chef Boyardee here wants to experiment. Nothing was wrong with my mom's recipe."

He cautions another bite in and spits it back out.

"Still hotter than a darkie's trigger finger. Forget it. I'll go grab a chili dog from the gas station."

He gets up and drunkenly staggers towards the door, slamming it shut behind him. Me and Kayleigh look at each other.

"That's your father," I say.

"You married him," she shoots back.

*****

BZZZUZZZZZUUUUUZUZZZZZ

My mind goes absolutely blank.

I scratched the itch until a wound began to form and now I'm just fingering tendon and sinew.

My fantasies are now disappointments.

I try to shift positions, hoping to catch a new sensation, but nothing suffices. The scent of the strawberry lube whiffs around me.

BUUZZZUZZZ

This one comes from my phone, accompanied by the chime from my Ring camera by the door.

I exhale a defeated sigh and pull the vibrator out. Not expecting anybody, I reach over to check it but the lube on my hand is leaving a streaky mess on the screen.

The doorbell chimes strikes now.

I finally manage to input my phone password and the Ring app pops up. On the screen is a black man wearing a Turf King uniform. Shit. I forgot.

"Hello?" I say through the phone, which startles him on the other side of the screen.

"Hey," he replies. "This is Trent from Turf Kings. I was just alerting you that I was here to service your yard."

"What happened to Bradley?" I ask. "He's the one who usually does our yard."

"Bradley is... uh... no longer with the company. They sent me until they can find a permanent replacement for this route."

I sigh.

"Go ahead, I guess," I say, adding, "they should've let us know this ahead of time."

He gives off a nervous chuckle. "Ok then. I'll start in the back. Is the gate unlocked?"

Shit. I forgot to do that too. I plop my head down on the bed, my hand still slick with lube.

"I'll be out in a minute."

When I pull the back gate open, Trent is already on the other side waiting. He was a lot taller than the camera and my dissapaiting hormones made him out to be. Slightly older, with a few grays popping through, but the clearest skin I've ever seen on a man. Even through his baggy uniform, I can see the bulk of his build.

"I'm so sorry about that," I say. "How are you?"

"Can't complain, can't complain," he responds.

He's dragging a long hose over his shoulder that's connected to the reel on the truck carrying the liquid fertilizer. The veins in his forearms are pronounced and loaded. Small, unique signs of masculinity is a thing of mine.

"I need to bother you real quick before you get started. It's about these weeds over here."

"No bother," he replies, dropping the hose. "That's what I'm here for."

"Now Bradley has been telling my husband that as the zoysia got stronger and healthier back here, that it would begin to overpower these weeds that keep popping up."

I point to this section where some stringy weeds are standing up about half a foot higher than the grass.

"Those are nutsedge," Trent replies. He inspects the area closer. "You see these little dents you have in the ground right here?"

I nod, only now noticing them.

"What happens is, when it rains or when you water your grass, the water sits in those dents, that's where the weeds grow from."

Makes sense, I guess.

"Unfortunately, as long as those dents are there, you will alway have this problem."

I sigh. "Rog is gonna love to hear that."

"Your husband?" he asks.

"Yeah. He's been bitching about these weeds for the past few months. Personally, I don't care. Nobody comes back here and it's such a small area."

He takes a step back. In my peripherals, I can see him staring me down as I survey the weeds.

"I'll tell you what," he begins. "A little top secret information. We use this product called Prosedge. You can buy it on Amazon. Put about two scoops in a hand pump and if it starts getting ugly between services, you can take care of this problem yourself. Won't burn the grass or anything."

Impressed. Thankful.

"Bradley never gave us any of this kind of information," I say. "What happened to him, by the way?"

He chuckles.

"Another secret. This one would really get me fired, so you gotta promise to keep it."

I nod.

"He got fired for ghosting yards."

"Ghosting?"

"Yeah. He'd pull up to people's houses, put the invoice on their door, and then just drive away."

"That little bitch!"

"Yeah. Mr. Employee of the Month. Everybody in the office always busting my nuts about his numbers and how I need to be more like him. I've never in my life done anything like that."

"Well, wait until Rog hears about this. He's going to--"

"NAH-AH-AH," Trent cuts me off. "Top secret. Remember?"

I can see through his nervous smile that he's reeling in on if he's made a big mistake by letting this information out. I decide that this isn't the situation that calls for a 'Karen moment' and let it go.

"You know what, the grass looks fine. It's ok," I surrender. "The only problem we have are the weeds."

"About those," he says, backing up. "I'll go grab the bottle so you can take a picture of it and show you how to apply it, if you're interested in going that route."

"That's fine."

He scurries off behind the gate. His buttocks bounces with each step he takes. Most men think women don't like that. Most men have no idea what women like.

My phone begins to ring. I pull it out of the pocket on my tracksuit. Still slick and smeared with lube, I see Rog's face. A selfie he took on a boy's trip to Tallahassee. Sunburnt, raccoon eyes, pupils wet with intoxication. He looked horrible, but liked the picture so much, he made it his Facebook profile and forced me and Kayleigh to suffer every time he called us.

I already know why he's calling.

"Who in the fuck is that!" he silently screams before I can even greet him. He has access to the Ring cam too. I can hear construction work going off in the background.

"It's Trent. He's here from Turf Kings."

"What the fuck happened to Bradley."

"Bradley... doesn't work there anymore. He quit, I think."

"Well he's not servicing our yard."

"He's being very helpful, Rog. He's given me a lot of..."

"I don't care," he interrupts. "You don't know these people. You're not around them like I am. They half-ass everything. I wouldn't be surprised if he just ended up ghosting our yard."

I sigh the deepest sigh.

"You know the camera in the back doesn't work," he reminds me.

"Yes, I know." I'm the one who told him. "He's already started. I'll keep an eye on him."

"Just lock the door and grab your Taurus in case he tries to bust in."

"Gosh Rog, you're really overreacting. He's really..."

Trent comes back through the gate with a hand pump in one hand and a white bottle maraca-ing in the other.

"I've gotta go now, I'll call you when we're finished."

I still hear him arguing as I pull the phone away from my face and press the red button.

"Husband?" Trent asks, walking up. A line of sweat has began running down his temple.

"He thanks you so much for helping us out like this," I lie, sweetly.

He goes through the routine of prepping his work. Scooping, measuring, shaking, bending, squating, flexing, demonstrating, showing off. Sweat begins trickling down my leg until my track pants wicks it up.

"Hot out," I chime in.

"Yeah," he agrees. "I tried to get out here before the sun really started smiling, but it's such a long drive from our office and there was a bad accident on 85."

"Well, I definitely appreciate that it was you that they sent out. I don't think I would've gotten this level of service from anybody else."

He squints at me with the sun in his eyes and smiles.

"Well, I should let you get to it," I say. "I don't want to keep you out here any longer than you need to be."

"Well, I'm here if you have any more questions."

I walk back towards the back patio and I can feel his eyes following me until I shut the door behind me. A sharp exhale escapes from my lips as I fall back on the door behind me. My twat twitches. There were pistons firing off inside of me.

I caution one of the slats of the wood blinds open and see him fill the hand pump up with other chemicals. He begins walking around the yard, spot treating it. Every step, another bounce. The sun reflects off his wet, dark skin.

I reach down and play with myself through my nylon pants. My dulled nerves are aching now. He walks slowly. Inspecting every inch. Both of us. His boots are like boats.

My phone buzzes and with one of my hands, I reach down into the jacket pocket of my track suit and pull it out.

A text.

Rog: Are you keeping your eyes on him?

When I look back through the open slat, Trent is looking at me, looking at him.

I immediately pull my finger back, letting the slat fall quickly, but accidentally hit another one with force, which causes the entire blinds to wave.

Eyes squeezed shut. Shit. Now I'm the creepy, white bitch.

My brain goes into southern homemaker mode. Team mom mode. I power walk to the kitchen and open the refrigerator door to see which options I have. Store brand bottled water, mini Gatorades, canned Mountain Dew, a gallon of Publix lemonade, and sweet tea.

I pour a cup of lemonade and sweet tea and place it on a tray, along with the bottled water and Gatorade, and power walk it back out through the back door.

Trent looks up and smiles when he sees me

"You know what?" I begin. "I was looking out the window and thought, gosh, he must be burning up out there."

I place the tray on the patio table.

"I didn't know what you fancied, so I brought you a few options."

He drops the hand pump on the lawn and walks over, towering over me.

"You must've been reading my mind," he says, looking over cups and sweating bottles. "Did you make this?"

"The lemonade? Well... yeah," I lie, for some reason. "Family recipe."

He grabs the cup and starts downing it, his pronounced Adam's apple doing jumping jacks with every gulp.

"Tastes just like Publix's," he says, licking the moisture off of his top lip.

"I'll... take that as a compliment."

He smiles, knowingly. We stand for a second looking into each other's eyes.

"Would you like another one?" I ask, finally figuring out how to break the silence.

"Definitely," he responds. "Would you mind if I got a little shade inside while I wait?" He holds his hands up. "Promise I won't try anything fresh."

"Sure thing," I say quickly, politely, not really accessing the situation.

"I'll grab this."

He picks up the tray and I open the door to let him in. I direct him towards the dinner table and tell him to have a seat, reaching over him to pick up the empty cup.

"You smell good," he says. "Like strawberries."

I blush.

"I think my ex used the same lotion."

"Ex?" I question, shifting the topic. "What happened there, if you don't mind me asking?"

"Same ol', same ol'," he sighs. "First few months are great. It's all butterflies and fuzzy feelings and... amazing sex. And then, that voice you used to find so sexy, becomes a siren when she's yelling at you about everything."

I'm refilling his cup behind the refrigerator door, trying not to give myself away, as he continues.

"Nothing was ever enough. No matter how good I took care of her, she always wanted more."

My phone buzzes again.

Rog:???

"Well," I begin, walking the cup over to Trent. "Sometimes what a woman wants and what a man thinks a woman wants are two completely different things."

I respond to the text: Yes, I have a close eye on him. He's doing a good job on the weeds. Followed by: Are you doing any work?

"What a woman wants changes depending on the week," Trent continues, after a long sip, wiping the excess off his mustache. "Directness goes a long way. If something is an issue, address it immediately instead of pretending that things are all good, and then exploding months later."

"Well sometimes it takes time for us to gather up the energy to hurt your feelings, because we know how fragile you men can be despite your every effort to appear the opposite."

"Fragile!?" he exclaims, with a chuckle. "Any minor, innocent comment I made could turn my apartment into a warzone, but she's allowed to set off an atomic bomb over the smallest infractions."

I shrug. I know how we can be.

"You know what," he says, waving his hands. "No point in getting into the double standards of things. These conversations never work in men's favor."

"Conversations working in your favor is the only time you're interested in having them."

He smiles intensely. Amber limps into the room and stops, her eyes swaying between me and the stranger, the look of confusion and distrust written in her pupils.

"So I'm guessing there's problems with the husband," Trent says, adding, "if you don't mind me asking?"

I sit down next to him and take a sip of the iced tea.

"Same ol', same ol'. First few years are great. Have a kid. Put up with a lot of shit because because of the kid. And now I'm here talking to you about it."