The Hobby Job: A Romantic Wife-Watching Novel

by Arnica Butler

  I mean, they weren't even thoughts. No – if they had been actual thoughts they would have been smarter. I was having something more like a fever, shivering beneath my skin whenever I felt his presence was near.

  I ended up having to re-do all my sidework, rolling silverware into napkins while listening to the dishwasher and cook – both Serbs – yell at each other over my head. I assumed they were fighting over soccer. It felt like old times, back when I waited tables through school. It gave me a little rush, feeling like part of a crowd from a different time in my life.

  I smiled to myself.

  Nate came whipping through the kitchen, whistling or spinning dishes on his fingers while he waited for an order. I kept my eyes on my silverware. I knew he wanted me to look at him, and believe me, I wanted to look at him.

  I'll confess that I consoled my uneasy conscience (which was definitely taking a beating for feeling things stir way, way low in my abdomen) by telling myself I was ignoring him because I was being virtuous. I was a married woman, and I wasn't going to be flirting with some young kid at a job I just started.

  There was a darker truth there, though, and that was that I knew my ignoring him was getting under his skin.

  And I wanted to be under his skin.

  I rolled the last bit of silverware, and tried to get myself out as quickly as possible. This restaurant was...completely crazy. I needed to get home and think in the shower or something.

  Unfortunately, Lorraine wanted to talk. She waved me in to her dingy office to have a chat about my first day.

  As she fired questions at me about how things had gone, I smiled and shrugged and said “Good, oh, great,” over and over, but my mind was on Nate.

  I tried to rein it in. Okay? I reminded myself I was married. I told myself I was being a desperate middle-aged woman. I tried thinking of my kids.

  But I always ended up back on Nate. This fucking guy who I had just met.

  The shocking thing, to me, anyway, is that I wasn't just thinking about Nate while I was sitting in Lorraine's office on my first day of work at the hobby job my thoughtful, wonderful husband had been kind enough to arrange for me. Not about how he was cute, how I might like to go on a date with him and ruffle his black curly hair. How maybe he was secretly into film noir or something.

  No.

  I was, whether I wanted to admit it outright to myself or not, thinking about how much he weighed, and how that would feel on top of me.

  What it would be like to have a different cock in my hand. Inside of me. A different shape, a different size...

  How much more enthusiastic a younger man might be. About everything.

  Lorraine was looking at me, suddenly. Blinking, as though waiting for an answer.

  “Yeah...” I murmured. “No, yeah, all fine.”

  A brief wave of confusion crossed Lorraine's face, but it was just as quickly wiped away. I clearly hadn't answered her question, but she also didn't care. “Great. Okay. See you Thursday then.”

  I hurried out to the car, half-laughing at myself. The laughter was mingled with admonishment – I mean, even just by having thoughts like this I was being a real shit to Conrad. He would never know, but I did.

  As soon as I had stepped out into the night air, the strange trance the restaurant had been having on me had dissipated and I felt like a fool.

  “God,” I said aloud, sticking my keys in the lock, since the remote had been broken, along with everything else I owned, by my kids. I shook my head. It was all so...tawdry. And stupid.

  And then:

  “Hey...new girl!”

  Was I happy to hear his voice?

  I felt excitement ripple through me. I felt all the false things I was telling myself hit me in the face and also blow away. I felt like being bad, and I felt like getting into my car and going home.

  I turned to see Nate skipping across the parking lot. Hands in pockets, easy, athletic movements taking him across the pavement. “Hey,” he said. A light wind picked up his black hair. “Me and Chris are going to Ziggy's for a beer. Come with us.”

  He cocked his head in the direction, I supposed, of Ziggy's. The two-lane highway headed out of the little village and toward the city.

  I should have said: “It's too late.” Or, “I have to get home.” Or, “Yeah right, Benjamin Braddock-”

  No, see, because he wouldn't even get that, idiot.

  Instead I felt my mouth forming one of those “maybe” smiles. The one where your face is saying, “oh, I can't quite believe you're asking me this,” and you're smiling and everyone already knows you'll get talked into it.

  The expression, in other words, of a twenty-year old bimbo.

  What the fuck was I doing? I could feel this happening on my face, but I couldn't stop it.

  “It's tradition,” Nate stated, his demeanor suddenly – sexily – quite serious.

  Sexily, Laura? Get in your fucking car!

  “You can't say no,” he stated, again with a weighted, serious tone. A confident tone.

  Arrogant. Arrogant tone. He's probably twenty-one. He's just a little shit who knows he's cute and you're a batty old housewife. Open door. Get in car. Explain you have kids to kiss goodnight.

  “Well,” I heard my mouth saying. “Is it far?”

  I liked the way Nate was edging closer to me. He still had his hands in his pockets. A pleased smile was turning his mouth up again, the smile of making progress but not quite winning.

  And his eyes were flickering with interest. I think that's what it was, really, in the end.

  Nate was looking right at me. And not like, I was another person in the room he needed to step to the side of to get to the door or the trash bin.

  At me. Trying to get me to give in, go for a drink. He was interested in something. It had been such a long time since anyone had looked at me like that.

  “Just up the road,” Nate said, after a pause that was much too long. Much too interested.

  This is all so wrong.

  “Come on. We know you're married. It's part of the job.”

  Say, “Maybe next week,” Laura. Act your age.

  “I'll follow you,” my mouth said. “Give me a second to text home.”

  And my body got in the car. And my eyes followed the old mustang they got into.

  I sat down.

  You're making a mistake here. Starting down some path of temptation you shouldn't go down. Just go home.

  But wasn't this the idea? Go out, have fun? Meet some new people and write about them?

  Nothing had even happened yet.

  It was probably all in my mind.

  It was just one fracking beer.

  I typed.

  [Me]: Hey. Just going out for a beer at some place called Ziggy's? Crew says it's tradition. Can't get out of it.

  And then:

  [Me]: Love you. Don't wait up. I'm too tired for this myself.

  I looked up. The Mustang was in front of my car, the window down, Nate's arm hanging out the side. He was staring at me. When I looked up he raised his hand and gave me a thumbs-up, as a question.

  I returned the gesture.

  And we were off.

  T URNED ON

  CONRAD

  It was much more annoying than I had anticipated getting home early, making dinner, and putting the kids to bed. Whenever Laura had made a comment about how she was exhausted at the end of day, or that I could just “once” put the kids to bed, I had felt irritation slide over me like a cheese grater getting dragged across my face. Now, I hated to admit that they were a huge pain in the ass and I was tired. And that the lame efforts I had made at “helping,” - like getting some pajamas, or watching them splash water all over the bathroom until Laura came and took over, were probably less helpful than not.

  So I was feeling pretty good about myself after they went to bed and I had a beer and checked off my “good husband” and “better dad” boxes. I was helping out for real, I was being sympathetic to my wife, I was bathi
ng children, I had made some food and cleaned everything up.

  There was always the chance, also, that Laura's better mood from yesterday would continue. I wouldn't mind another romp, even a quieter one in our own bed.

  I settled in to watch some TV.

  My mind was nowhere in the realm of television, though. I was instead remembering the car, indulging my fantasies about Laura thinking of another man while we had sex, or imagining Laura right now flirting with Mac as she swung by the bar to pick up some beers for her tables. Batting her eyes. Smiling her smile.

  It was all just a fantasy, though. A fun thing to think about, to get my blood moving. In reality, I was looking forward to Laura coming home, us sharing a beer, her telling me about her first day at work. I liked to hear Laura tell stories. She had a wicked sense of humor, and she painted everyone with it.

  And then, maybe, we could keep our rekindled romance going upstairs...

  I heard the phone buzzing and ignored it. I figured it was work. The second one came in, and then I ignored it a little longer, until it slowly made its way around my brain that it was text and not an email alert.

  I swiped at the phone and felt my heart lift at the sight of Laura's profile, and then fall as I scanned to the second, third, fourth words of the sentence.

  [Laura]: Hey. Just going out for a beer at some place called Ziggy's? Crew says it's tradition. Can't get out of it.

  [Laura]: Love you. Don't wait up. I'm too tired for this myself.

  I read it. I re-read it.

  I read it over and over.

  I made myself lift my eyes and turn on the TV. I flipped through channels, but nothing I was reading from the menu was reaching my mind. My mind was filled up with circular thoughts.

  There was disappointment.

  And then there was the other thing. The feeling of paranoia, of jealousy. It was painful but it was also pleasant to slip into. I started brooding. Fantasizing. Imagining. In about fifteen minutes I was wired. I stood up and paced.

  When I realized what I was doing I tried to stop myself.

  First of all: I was being fucking ridiculous. Letting my heart start beating faster. My chest tightening up. For what? Why?

  Second of all: I was being fucking ridiculous.

  I imagined the crew from The Pied Piper, circa Wednesday night. A motley crew. A big fat man, a strung-out looking girl with stringy hair, and Mac.

  But Laura had been stringing him on deliberately, and he was a pretty rough character. Not attractive. She wouldn't go there.

  And Ziggy's. That place was a known dump.

  Laura was probably miserable and trying to make the best out of a lame situation. Or cooking up more meat for her article on white-trash waiters.

  But that thing, the thing that licked with a cool tongue at my heart, wouldn't dislodge itself. The jealous-lusty feeling.

  It was too late to write her back now.

  And say what, anyway?

  Okay?

  I typed it in, and my thumb hovered over Send.

  I put the phone away.

  For some reason, I decided to just pretend I had gone to sleep. Maybe I wanted to convey that I was such a cool guy that I didn't even think about what she was doing, and I had gone to sleep early. Or hadn't thought to look at my phone.

  Oh, I imagined myself saying tomorrow morning, picking up the phone. My tone surprised. A message. Oh. It's from you…

  Juvenile, I realized.

  But I was still going to do it.

  Without really being able to tell myself why.

  I went to bed, queasy with these strange feelings I was having.

  At one-fifteen I heard her come home, and I rolled on my side, willing my breathing to slow so I could pretend to be asleep.

  Laura crashed around in the kitchen, and then there was a strange quiet. I heard water humming through the pipes, and I wondered what on earth she was doing. The realization hit me hard: she was taking a shower in the downstairs bathroom.

  Why?

  Where else can your mind go, if your wife comes home late and does that? What did she need to get off of herself so badly? And why did she so it downstairs?

  Conrad. She's probably just trying not to wake you up. She probably smells like haggis and wants a shower.

  Still...

  Then I heard her plod upstairs. She closed herself in our bathroom without turning on the light, but then flipped on the fan. I heard her hiss at it: “Shhhh!” and then laugh at herself. She turned it off. I smiled in spite of myself. I loved the way she talked to inanimate objects. She apologized to the refrigerator if she bumped into it.

  She stumbled around some more in the bathroom, and a quiet rage started building up inside of me again.

  Except, I knew I was also being a huge dick.

  And then there was the fact that I sort of liked the idea of Mac the bartender taking Laura to Ziggy's. Winking at her across the table. Asking why her husband let her stay out so late…

  Laura slid into bed next to me and settled down like an elephant tamping down its bed. I almost laughed again.

  Then all was quiet.

  I had decided not to confront her that night because I didn't want to say anything stupid, and I was feeling and acting like an ass.

  I closed my eyes and repeated my resolve to myself. But her antics in the bathroom suddenly rose up in my mind and I had an uncontrollable urge to laugh.

  I hid it as an obnoxious snore, which she would believe.

  I heard her stifle a laugh.

  I closed my eyes and tried to steady my mind, and my breathing.

  But then I felt Laura's body turn toward me. She was hot for some reason. I could feel the sandbag weight of her breasts against my back, and her nipples, two little stones, in the center of them.

  Why was she so excited?

  Her hand moved over my hip, and down to where my crotch was.

  Where she found my half-hard cock, and purred a little before closing her hand on it through the fabric of my boxers.

  I felt my dick twitching, rapidly rising to the occasion.

  God. Why didn't we do this every night? How had we ended up the way we had, sleeping next to each other without so much as touching? The heat built up between us so quickly. Why didn't we let it boil over more often?

  I could no longer pretend to be asleep, and I rolled onto my back, feigning sleepiness. My intention was to pull her to me and then keep rolling, roll on top of her. Dip into her heated wetness...

  But she surprised me again slid down my torso, taking the top half of my boxers with her, peeling it away to let my hard cock spring loose.

  Suspicion slithered around inside of me. There was a thing about Laura, that she had shared once upon a moon. She had confided it to me after she had given me the greatest blowjob of my life, and it was that she didn't care all that much for giving head ordinarily. But if she had enough booze and she was feeling really horny, it became one of her favorite things to do.

  She wasted no time, after freeing my cock, in placing her lips around my head. Her mouth was wet and warm, and she moved her tongue in a circle around me. Then she grasped my shaft and pushed it forward so that she could get to the underside of my cock and lick me from the base to the tip, her tongue flat against my shaft. She licked and licked, finishing off with a swirl over the tender bell of my glans.

  But this was just her, teasing.

  She reached the base again and turned her head slightly sideways. I felt her lips close around the flesh of my scrotum, right near the base. She sucked up some of the skin into her mouth and rubbed it between her lips. I gasped audibly. Her tongue made delicious circles over my balls, while her hand lazily pumped my cock.

  I was rigid with desire, my head lifted to try and see what she was up to, but all I could see was her bobbing, glossy hair.

  Her tongue made its way back to the head of my cock, dripping wet with spit. Now she gave a shake of her head, and tossed her hair back to look at me. Her saliva h
ad caught up a few thick strands of her hair, giving her a messy, mouth-fucked appearance that drove me even wilder.

  My cock was aching for her mouth, for another one of her rare and beautiful blow jobs.

  But she pulled her legs underneath her, and I watched in confusion as she resettled herself. I saw now that she had no underwear on, just a silky nightshirt that was sliding off her shoulder. She scooted toward me, and spread her legs.

  I was still unsure of where she was headed with this. I propped myself up, thinking she wanted to sit on top of me, but she pushed me back against he pillows and left her ass on the bed between my legs.

  Then she reached with her hand, and guided my cock toward her.

  I watched her use her right hand to pull her lips open. Her sex unfolded, petal after petal of dripping wet flesh. I propped myself up on my elbow to get a better look.

  She guided my cock toward her, and I was trying to figure out the physics of whatever she was up to, when she pressed the tip of my cock against her clit. My head was kissed by her hot juices, and a few feathery touches from her soaked lips. But mostly, only the very tip of me was heated by her flesh as she rubbed my cock against her clit. Up and down. She closed her eyes and moaned as she used my cock to stroke herself to orgasm. Her body tensed, and her mouth went slack. Her eyes fluttered and rolled in her head, and she began to stroke faster and faster. The movement of my cock against her clit made her lips squelch with her juices, and she started to rock her hips as she grew closer and closer. Meanwhile my cock throbbed in agony, just the head of it hot, as I watched my wife masturbate with my cock.

  When she came she opened her eyes again, and her mouth spread wide as she gasped.

  I sat, panting, as she enjoyed her orgasm, almost as though I weren't there in the room. My cock was so hard now I felt like it might rip open.

  Then, she very neatly folded herself back up and under, and opened her mouth over the head of my cock. She teased me for a moment, her breath steaming my head, which was wet with precum. And then she swallowed me whole, her lips sliding down the length of me.

  Her cheeks hollowed as she sucked me hard, and I gasped as my orgasm quickly built up inside of me.