A Night on the Town

"A Night on the Town”

by c.w. cobblestone

 

  A rainbow of crisscrossing spotlights swept across her gyrating body in time with the thumping beat. The dance floor was packed but all I saw was her.

 

 It was a typical Friday night at Shooter's. I spent most of the evening alone in the booth, sipping diet cola and watching my wife dance with her two girlfriends and the occasional guy.

 

 They frolicked on the dance floor for nearly an hour before padding back to the booth in their stocking feet. Jennifer plopped into her seat, lit a cigarette, and waved her hand at me.

 

 "Freshen our drinks, Arthur."

 

 I hopped up. Sheila and Darlene giggled.

 

 As I walked away, I heard Darlene say, "What's that bumper sticker say? Every woman needs a mink on her back; a Jaguar in the driveway; a tiger in the bedroom -"

 

 "And a donkey to pay for it all," Sheila said. "You got it made, girl."

 

 My wife sniffed. "Yeah, Artie's quite the donkey, isn't he? That's about all he's good for."

 

 I bowed my head and skulked toward the bar, absorbing their laughter.

 

 After I got back with their drinks, I sat silently for 20 minutes listening to them giggle, gossip and gawk at the "hunks" who walked by.

 

 Then Jeff showed up.

 

 He nudged me to the far end of the booth and sat directly across from my Jennifer.

 

 She smiled. "Hey, cutie."

 

 "Hey, yourself."

 

 Sheila and Darlene snickered.

 

 Jeff leaned back and grinned. "What are you two laughing at?"

 

 "Nothing; you're evil," Sheila said. "Talking to her like that - Jen's a married woman."

 

 Jeff shrugged. "Yeah, it's too bad." He elbowed me in the ribs hard. "I'm just kidding around - nobody could steal this beautiful female specimen from ol' Arthur here. Huh, Artie?"

 

 I fiddled with my swizzle stick.

 

 Jen clucked. "Now, now, Artie, don't be shy. Answer the man."

 

 I gulped. "No."

 

 He smirked. "No, what?"

 

 "No, nobody could . . . um, steal her away."

 

 "That's the spirit, Artie," Jeff said. "You're a real trooper."

 

 I peeked up my wife just as she licked her lips at him. She saw me looking and smirked.

 

 "I need to go to the store for cigarettes," she said. I glanced down at the pack of Newport 100s on the table in front of her. Only a few cigarettes were missing; she didn't need to get more.

 

 She followed my gaze and chuckled, scooping up the pack with a flourish and shaking loose a Newport. Jeff lit it for her.

 

 "A girl can never have too many cigarettes," she said, holding her pack up so that everyone could see it was nearly full.

 

 She blew smoke in my face. "I'll be back. Stay here and be nice to my friends. And no alcohol - you're designated driver."

 

 Sheila snorted. "You mean designated donkey." Everyone laughed but me.

 

 Jeff stretched. "Come to think of it, I could use some smokes, too." He rose and touched my wife's shoulder. "Shall we?"

 

 I rattled the ice cubes in my glass and stared at the floor, trying to block out the giggles as they walked away.

 

 Sheila and Darlene returned to the dance floor and danced with each other and with various men for about an hour while I sat at the table nursing my soda.

 

 Everyone knew what Jen and Jeff were doing. It was an open secret, although in public they got a kick out of pretending they were pulling one over on me. I think they also were afraid if their bar friends knew that Jeff regularly came to our house to fuck Jen, often while my nose was buried in his ass, they'd think it was weird.

 

 In the twisted logic of the bar world, it's perfectly acceptable for a woman to fuck another man right under her husband's nose and make a fool of him. That sort of thing happens all the time.

 

 But if most of the patrons knew the gory details about our relationship, they'd likely call it sick and shun Jennifer and Jeff. So my wife and her lover were content to maintain a thin veneer of decorum when we're out.

 

 Jen's closest friends, Darlene and Sheila, knew the truth, too, although they also were careful not to go overboard publicly. So they hid their ridicule - barely.

 

 I was reading the bar menu for the seventh time when they returned from the dance floor.

 

 "Get drinks, Artie," Sheila said. I hopped up to fetch her screwdriver and Darlene's Long Island iced tea.

 

Darlene leaned forward, her face near mine. "They've been gone a long time, haven't they, Artie?"

 

 I hung my head. "Yes."

 

 She scoffed. "Oh, well; sometimes it takes awhile to get cigarettes.."

 

 Sheila jeered. "Yeah, especially if you want the 100s. Frankly, it's tough for a girl to find a nice, long cigarette. Did you know that, Artie? That it's tough for a girl to find a long, hard cigarette to suck on?"

 

 "N-no." I cleared my throat.

 

 After another round of giggles they changed the subject, talking about various men they'd slept with and the length of their dicks. It was beyond embarrassing; they knew how small my penis was, having laughed at it dozens of times during their drunken, drug-fueled after-parties.

 

 Another half hour passed before my wife and Jeff finally strutted back into the bar. They slid into the booth; Jeff snapped his fingers.

 

 "Fetch me a beer, Artie."

 

 My wife lit a cigarette. "I need one, too."

 

 I returned with their drinks and started to sit down, but Jennifer stopped me.

 

 "Listen, we're headed over to Jeff's condo to party after the bar closes, but he says it's a mess. So you need to run over there and spruce the place right quick. Take the car; I'll ride back with Jeff."

 

 Jeff sniffed. "Oh, and you might want to take a couple napkins with you," he said. "I think we left a bit of a wet spot on your car seat."

 

 

 

 A cum lake was stuck to the passenger seat of my car, just as Jeff had promised. It looked like he'd spl1ooged there on purpose. Typical alpha male bullshit. Typical Jeff.

 

 I fished a wet wipe from the glove box and scrubbed the leather, erasing the evidence of my wife's infidelity. Sighing, I balled up the tissue and dropped it in the trash sack. I glanced at my reflection in the rear-view mirror but quickly averted my eyes. I couldn't bear to look.

 

 Lost in self-pity, I cruised down the foggy, empty freeway until Jen's ring tone snapped me to.

 

 I gulped. "Hello?"

 

 "Jeff says stop by Spider's and pick up an eight-ball. Then go the store and get a fifth of Jack and a fifth of vodka and some cranberry juice. And OJ for Sheila. Jeff's got a half-ounce of bud in his top dresser drawer; he said to roll four or five doobs before we get there."

 

 I started to answer but she'd already hung up.

 

 Gripping the wheel, I steered toward the seedy side of town. Going to Spider's house always made me nervous. But it was for Jen, so I put my fear aside and knocked on the door.

 

 He poked his head out. "Well, hey, Artie, how's that fine wife of yours and her boyfriend?"

 

 I coughed. "F-fine. Um, Jeff wanted an eight-ball."

 

 "He already called." Spider held up a small packet. I handed him the cash and got the hell out of Dodge.

 

 Jeff's condo was a complete mess as usual. There was a lot of work to do. I fetched the bag of weed from his drawer and rolled six fat joints, then scurried around cleaning. I started with the big stuff - a cereal bowl in the living room reeking of sour milk; potato chips ground into the carpet; clothes strewn everywhere. It took nearly an hour before the place looked halfway presentable. Then I started on the secondary stuff: the dishes, laundry, scrubbing the bathroom, pausing only to remove the laundry from the dryer and throw another load in. I literally ran from one task to the other, knowing they could return at any moment.

 

 For once I had plenty of time to get the place cleaned. I set the joints neatly on the living room coffee table, along with a lighter, the coke, mirror, blade and straw. It was nearing 3:30 and they still hadn't returned, so I sat on Jeff's bedroom carpet and shined all his shoes.

 

 I was working on the second-to-last pair, his brown leather loafers, when the front door opened. I threw down my brush, set the shoe aside, and struggled to my feet.

 

 Jen, Jeff and Sheila paraded into the condo slurring giggles. Darlene apparently couldn't make it for the afterparty, which wasn't surprising; she worked Saturdays and rarely hung out late Friday nights. Darlene was by far the most responsible of the group; Sheila, like Jen and Jeff, had a decadent soul.

 

 They plopped onto the sofa, girl-boy-girl. Jeff planted his feet on the table and rested his hands on each woman's thigh.

 

 "The place looks spiffy, queer, now take these shoes off and fetch drinks."

 

 "Yes, sir."

 

 I knelt on the carpet and slipped off his shoes. He wiggled his toes. "Socks, too." One by one I pulled them off.

 

 He cracked his toes and winked at me. "I wore these puppies out on the dance floor with my two beautiful lady friends, Artie - you're gonna have to cool 'em off for me, okay?"

 

 "Yes, sir."

 

 Jen sighed. "Mine could use some cooling off, too."

 

 "Make that three," Sheila said. She kicked her pumps off. "It's good to be the king."

 

 "It's good to be the king," my wife giggled, squeezing her lover's bicep.

 

 Jeff snapped his fingers. "Drinks, fat boy."

 

 When I returned to the living room, they were hunched around the mirror doing lines. I stood there with a submissive smile, tucking my elbows into my sides to help hold the tray steady. When they were finished I hopped into action, serving my wife's vodka and cranberry juice before presenting Sheila's screwdriver. Ladies first, even at Jeff’s place.

 

 Jeff took his drink and leaned back on the couch, draping his arms over the two beautiful women flanking him. "Hand me one of them joints, Artie, and then get started on my feet."

 

 I placed the doobie between his lips and lit it for him. He took a quick toke and passed it to my wife. I turned I dashed to the kitchen, fetching a large plastic cup from the cupboard and filling it with crushed ice from the icemaker on his refrigerator.

 

 For the next half hour Jeff relaxed on the sofa, sipping Jack Daniels and fondling my wife and her friend, while I sucked his toes and licked his feet with a mouthful of ice. It was a service I provided often, although this time Jeff was seated in the middle of two girls instead of just my wife, and I was forced to arch across the coffee table. But I twisted my body and performed my chore without a peep, trying to ignore the edge of the table digging into my ribs.

 

 Jeff sighed. "Mmm, that's nice. It's good to be the king." He tilted his head toward my wife, who turned with a purr, her tongue already snaking toward his. Sheila massaged his crotch and nuzzled his chest.

 

 I closed my eyes and concentrated on my debasing chore, feeling like an insignificant lump of shit, and knowing that's exactly how they saw me. After a few minutes my mouth became numb from the cold, but I worked diligently while they explored each others' bodies, oblivious to my discomfort.

 

 They made out for a good 10 minutes before coming up for air. Actually, they came up for coke. I refilled their drinks, thankful that my jaws and frozen tongue were getting a short break. They smoked another joint while I cooled off my wife's feet - a far more pleasurable task than doing Jeff's.

 

 Using my tongue to swap the ice across Jen's big toe, I peeked up her skirt. She wasn't wearing the panties I'd ironed for her earlier.

 

 Jen took a deep toke and blew smoke at the ceiling. "That feels good, but I'm horny," she said. "What say we take this party to the bedroom?"

 

 Sheila squeezed Jeff's dick through his pants. "Sounds good to me, girlfriend."

 

 Jeff smirked down at me. "You know what, Artie? Your wife was right - it's good to be the king."