The wife.
“I’m good, honey. How ‘bout you? How’re the girls?”
I slid off the other side of the bed. I wiped down with toilet paper and took a long, hot shower.
We wrapped up the tour at IU in Bloomington to a sold-out crowd. It was one of those times. My voice filled the auditorium; my guitar raged. It’s not something you control.
I sang “Third Shift” and “The River,” of course. I sang that song about Lillie and Billy from Nacogdoches, don’t you know. I told the story about the fellow from Waco who bought my first CD online and how I took it to him in person only to have his wife meet me at the door with a shotgun. She told me I’d have to come through her first. Now, that was a true story.
After I got the crowd warmed up, the band took the stage.
Bobby’s gravelly voice rocked them and they sang along and danced in the aisles. When he and I did our “Blue Bonnet Highway” duet, those college kids went wild. While I sang harmony on “Beef Brisket Breakdown,” a girl in the front row threw herself onto the stage. Bobby let her touch his Luccheses before the ushers dragged her away.
I spied Alec and his friends, five rows back. I pointed them out to Bobby and he made a big deal, telling the crowd about how these boys from Ohio had been shadowing us all week.
They received a standing ovation for their loyalty and dedication.
When I took my final bow, following the band’s second encore (an unbelievable new version of one of Bobby’s earliest hits, “Pistols on the Table,” complete with electric guitar riffs and a drum solo), Alec pointed at me, signaling he wanted talk.
Bobby and the boys were off to a party at a local DJ’s house and didn’t even notice when I slipped away.
I met Alec on the square outside the Hilton Garden Inn, higher than the Texas sky on post-concert adrenaline.
“You guys were great tonight,” he said.
I offered him a tug of my Dickel’s, which he turned down because he didn’t drink.
“Some nights are better than others,” I said.
He took my hand. “You ever been on this campus?”
“Nossir.”
“It’s pretty. Let’s take a walk.”
I tossed the Dickel’s into a trash can.
The warm, spring air settled over us like a blanket. The dogwoods and cherry trees were in bloom. The daffodils and tulips pushed through the heavy Midwestern loam, their fragrance filling the air. We passed through Dunn Meadow and wandered out back where huge old maples and oaks reached toward the star-filled sky. This late on a week night, even the students had deserted the brick walkways.
“My cousin went to school here,” Alec explained. “I used to visit. It’s a pretty campus. I wish you could see it in daylight.”
“This is the furthest north I’ve ever been,” I confessed.
“How do you like it?”
“This is nice enough, but I miss Texas.”
We walked in front of what a sign identified as the Chemistry Building. He guided me across the street.
“I prayed for your soul today,” Alec said.
I could hear the bubble of a stream. We descended a stairway. “I’ll take all the help I can get.”
“Over here,” he said.
A small limestone building surrounded by an old cemetery loomed before us. “What’s this?”
“This is the chapel. This is where I came to pray for you.”
He tried the door. It opened and we stepped inside. Rows of hardwood pews lined both sides of a narrow aisle. Up front was a stage and lectern. Behind and above the lectern, an icon of Christ our Savior on the cross was illuminated by a dim light.
“It’s pretty,” I said.
We sat in the front pew. It seemed a little less worn than the others. Alec slipped one arm across my shoulders and placed a hand on my knee. He stared into my eyes, the most earnest look I’d ever seen playing across his face.
“Can you feel the presence of the Lord?” he asked.
I sighed deeply. “Not so much.”
“He’s here with us, Shana.”
“If you say so.”
“He’ll forgive you for your sins. All you have to do is accept him in your heart.”
“Look, Alec, you’re a real sweet guy, but you’re over your head here.”
He clasped my hand in his. “Shana, you have a gift for music and you write songs that lift people’s hearts. I know God loves you.”
I stood and took a step away. I straightened my skirt with the “Snowin’ on Raton” lyrics embroidered on it. “Do you have a girlfriend, Alec?”
“What?”
“You heard me. Do you have a girlfriend?”
“No one special.”
“Well, that explains it. You need a girlfriend.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’ve got a crush on me and the only way you know how to express it is by trying to save me.”
He looked like he’d been run over by a truck. “I’m just concerned about your soul. My daddy says eternity is a long time to burn.”
I couldn’t escape those eyes. I reached out and touched his cheek. I brushed a lock of hair off his forehead. Then I leaned forward and pulled his face into my bosom. “You’ve never been with girl, have you?”
He hugged me to him. “No, ma’am. We believe in abstinence until marriage.”
My mouth went suddenly dry. I held his face, his beautiful, unblemished face, in my hands. “You sweet boy.”
He licked his lips. “We should probably go.”
I brought his hand up under my skirt and pressed it between my legs. “We’re not going anywhere.”
Years before, there’d been a rodeo cowboy up Amarillo way. He rode bulls and wrestled steers. For five days, we locked ourselves away in a room at the Highway 87 Motor Inn. We lived on Cheetos and Diet Coke—and love, sweet love. When we finally stepped out into that bright Texas sun, we had no idea that good-bye kiss was forever. He went north and I went south and we never saw each other again.
That hard Amarillo highway ran the entire length of Texas.
I hadn’t felt what I was feeling for Alec since that cowboy.
I pushed Alec down on the carpet in the aisle between the pews.
I stood over him, removed my blouse and bra, my boots and skirt, and my panties. I folded everything neatly and placed the pile on the lectern beneath that icon of Jesus of Bethlehem. Alec watched every move.
I knelt next to him and unbuttoned his shirt.
“Shana, please,” he said.
I ran my fingertips over his hairless chest. I pinched a nipple. “Please, what?”
“I can’t do this.”
I stroked his cock through stiff denim. “Honey, this is what a man and a woman do.”
He swallowed hard. “But we’re not married.”
I unloosed his belt, unzipped him, and pulled his jeans off his skinny hips. I kissed his lips, our tongues dueling. He was slippery, long and hard in my hand. I stroked him slowly, my eyes locked on his.
“This is right and good, Alec. Can’t you feel it?”
He had an iron will, but I meant to break it. “I don’t know. I just don’t know.”
“Yes you do.” I guided his hand to my breast. He squeezed, tentatively. I lowered a nipple to his mouth. He licked and suckled like a babe.
His resistance was weakening. “You’re so beautiful,” he said.
I returned the favor, taking him into my mouth. When I withdrew, a gossamer string of pre-cum stretched from his cockhead to my lips. “And so are you.”
I sat across his flat belly, his abs like a washboard. He stared up at me, his lower lip trembling. “What will God think?”
“If he’s the God you think he is, he won’t bat an eye at this.”
I squatted, lowered myself, and felt him enter me.
“Oh my God,” he gasped.
“I got this. Just go with it.” I began to rock. Oh, yeah, it had been a while.
B
ut no sooner had I found a rhythm than he gushed. I squeezed him inside and kissed him gently.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“I’m not, baby.”
I knew there was more where that came from. I stayed put, kissing him, feeling his hands on my thighs and backside. After a while, I began to rock again. Angels sang on high. Cherubs floated in the air, strumming harps. Somewhere, not far away, the Beast grunted, snorted fire, but I paid that son of a bitch no mind.
I came, belly clenching, thighs shuddering, eyes locked on that crucifix.
As Alec spurted for the second time that night, I silently mouthed the words, “Thank you, Jesus.”
He closed his eyes. “Amen,” he whispered.
The next morning, I packed up while Bobby slept off the whisky and the tour. I could probably have stayed on, hung with the band, and got invited for the next one, but I had other things on my mind.
I grabbed a cup of coffee at Starbucks and used a public computer in the Union to run an Internet search. I turned up five guys named Rowdy Yates. Only one of them lived in Texas. I found a newspaper article about him through Google. He wasn’t riding bulls or wrestling steers anymore, but he still worked the rodeo. He’d become a highly sought after rodeo clown.
I got his number from information in San Marcos. I recognized the voice on the machine right away. There wasn’t any mention of a wife or girlfriend, so I left a message. I said he should call back if he ever thought about that Highway 87 Motor Inn in Amarillo and the girl he’d been with there, so long ago.
I caught a ride from a trucker headed south, my guitar on my back, my bag in my hand, and my nose to the wind. I figured to make Texas by nightfall the next day.
While me and that trucker listened to the radio and sang those good old country tunes, I jotted out a note to Bobby. I wrote, “Thanks and good luck.” I advised him to spend more time with his wife and family. I said to go easy on the dope and the booze. I told him what no one else would—he wasn’t getting any younger.
I even said a silent prayer for Alec, not that he needed it, and not that I thought anyone was listening. It just seemed like the right thing to do.
About the time we reached Louisville, my cell phone rang. It was that cowboy down San Marcos way.
FRIDAYS WITHOUT
It began as a joke. They were at Starbucks on one of those heavy, summer mornings in North Carolina for Charis, Mary, and Renee’s “Mommy’s Morning Out,” drinking lattes and talking about their plans for the upcoming weekend. Kate, the only single in the crowd, was always amazed to hear how busy these married women were—in-laws to manage, gardens and husbands to tend, and soccer matches and softball games to cheer at. For her part, Kate used the weekends to recharge from her job at the public library. It surprised everyone when Charis, the daughter of a southern Baptist preacher, blurted out that what she hoped for most over the weekend was the chance to spend a little “cootchy-coo” time with her hubby, Todd.
“Why, Charis, bless your heart,” Renee, the raven-haired vamp of the group, drawled. “Todd not taking proper care of you?”
“Well, he works most of the time, and when he is home, there’s grass to cut and the kids and the dogs. Why, it’s been at least a month since . . .” Here Charis’s voice trailed off.
Kate made a little “eek” face, but didn’t say that it had been at least a year since she’d even been on a date. It wasn’t as easy to meet guys out in the “real world” as it was in college.
Mary patted Charis’s hand and said, “I know how it is. The last time Patrick and I tried to get it on, our three-year-old walked in on us. I swear, my legs were in the air and Patrick was just hitting his stride.”
“Don’t talk it about it,” Charis said. “That just makes it worse.”
Renee leaned in. All about them, people cut business deals and juiced up on caffeine. “Sugar, if I want my man’s attention, I wear a short skirt and lose my underpants. In fact, I do it every Friday.”
Charis gasped. “You mean . . .”
“That’s right,” Renee said. “No panties. When Ray comes home, I get him a cold one and we park the kids in front of the TV. While he enjoys his beer on the deck, I cross and uncross my legs. While I make dinner, I reach high into the cabinet or bend over to the refrigerator. I give him a little show and by bedtime, I guarantee he’s not thinking about sleeping.”
Kate had to cover her smile. It wasn’t all that hard to get Ray’s attention. She’d caught him staring at her breasts on more than one occasion, and at the last block party, he’d asked if she’d ever been with an older, married man.
She pushed her glasses up on her nose. “So, right now, you’re not . . .”
“No, ma’am,” Renee answered. “I always go without on Fridays.”
Kate, Mary, and Charis stared at each other for a moment, then broke out laughing.
“Well,” Mary said. “I’d be willing to give it a try. I’m not exactly getting as much of Dave’s attention as I’d like.”
“It would certainly give Todd something to think about,” Charis said. “It would be cooler, too, on these hot summer days.”
“We should all do this,” Renee said. “We should go without on Fridays.”
Mary nodded. “I guess it couldn’t hurt.”
Charis’s eyes were far away. “It might even be fun.”
Kate felt a red burn on her cheeks. The idea of running around without panties both embarrassed and intrigued her. “And would we wear short skirts?”
“What’s the point if you don’t?” Renee replied.
“I mean, at a library, I don’t know . . .”
Charis put an arm around Kate’s shoulder. “Don’t be so shy, sugar. Maybe you’ll meet a gentleman.”
The women giggled. They liked having fun at Kate’s expense, especially when it came to teasing her about her shyness. And men.
Kate’s blush deepened. “Okay, I guess, I mean, I suppose I could do it.”
Renee extended her hand. “C’mon, are we in or aren’t we? Fridays without!”
Mary, Charis, and Kate placed their hands on Renee’s. A group shake. “Fridays without,” they said in unison.
That had been ten years ago. In the interim, Charis and Todd had divorced, Renee and Ray had joined a swingers’ club, Mary and Dave had gone on to have two more kids, and Kate had finished her master’s and taken a job in Washington, DC. In a quiet government building not far from the White House, she stood sentry over dusty classics and national treasures. She remained single and stayed in touch with her old friends by phone and e-mail. After all this time, it still came up now and then.
The women liked to joke about the time in their lives when they’d gone without on Fridays. Kate remained silent, refusing to confess that she, alone among her old friends, continued the practice. She couldn’t say why, other than she enjoyed the cool freedom beneath a dress or skirt.
And there was something else, something her shyness made difficult to admit even to herself. Going without was a little—well, a little exciting. The secret knowledge that only a thin veneer of fabric prevented exposure of her most private parts to strangers often left her moist by the end of the day.
Summers in DC were usually languid and slow, except for the tourists, who were rarely interested in Kate’s little library, anyway. But with a presidential election and an economic meltdown underway, this summer was anything but slow. Congressmen and lobbyists cluttered the National Mall, reporters clogged the White House gates, and more than a few academic types descended on Kate’s space to research parallels to what many considered a historic moment.
She’d overheard them talking. The current economic crisis was comparable to the Great Depression. The potential for the election of the country’s first black president had its roots in the 1960s.
Most of the visitors to her library were frumpy old professors with balding heads, frayed collars, and elbow patches. But one man drew Kate’s attention. He was tall and dark, early to
mid-fifties—fifteen years older than her, she guessed. Unlike the others, he was fit and lean and wore his shirts outside his jeans. He sported a goatee and a diamond earring, and pulled his longish hair into a ponytail.
Kate caught him looking on more than one occasion.
Once, she dropped to a squat to retrieve a sheaf of dusty papers from a lower shelf. From a nearby carrel, Mr. Goatee peered unabashedly at the dark V between her knees. She stood, pressed her skirt down, and went about her business.
Another time, she was leaning over her computer, engaged in a Google search, when he appeared at the counter with a question about Lincoln’s first inaugural address. Although the blouse she wore was modest enough, her top had opened to offer a glimpse of cleavage. Mr. Tight Jeans’s eyes found the offering in an instant and Kate had to resist the urge to close the blouse about her throat. Instead, she met his mahogany eyes square on and answered his inquiry in her most professional manner.
But the time that stood out the most occurred late on a Friday afternoon. She teetered high on a ladder to restore a volume about the 1880’s bank crisis to its rightful place. As she stretched for position, she sensed movement below. Directly below her and looking up with a bemused grin was Mr. Brown Eyes.
“I thought you might like to put this one away too,” he said. “I mean, while you’re up there.”
Kate felt that familiar flush. Because it was Friday, she wore no panties, not even nylons under her floral-pattern dress. She was fully exposed and had little doubt the man had seen it all.
“Well,” she said.
He continued to gaze steadily as he handed her the book in question. “I can hold the ladder, if that will help.”
“No, thank you,” she replied in a measured tone. “I can manage just fine.”
The next week, Kate’s life followed its usual routine. Over the weekend, she dashed about, cleaning her apartment and checking errands off her list.
Tight Women in Hard Places Page 4