By S.D. Craig
“What, honey? You’re going fishing again? When is that? Oh, tonight? Wow.” A pout replaces her former frown.
“Yeah, me and the boys heard about some trout-filled streams up in Cuyamaca. Gonna go catch some of that good stuff for you to cook up. Be gone the weekend. Then I’ll come back and we can cook up some good lovin’, okay, babe?” Hank smiles real big.
She bites her tongue. He bites her neck and does what he thinks is a sexy growl, then packs a duffel bag while she hovers. She whines, he persists.
The beat-up old truck pulls out of the drive and the gravel crunches loud enough to wake the birds. She fires up her computer and finds a search engine with a speed that would’ve surprised her old man.
Oh, what’s this? A phone sex site? 1-900-SexWithYourHusband? Whoa.
She nervously dials it up. Static meets her ears.
“Hell, hell-o?”
“1-900-SexWithYourHusband. How can I help you?” A professional voice answers with just a hint of pity. Or was that scorn?
Silence.
“Hello. Are you there?”
Silence.
“Ma’am. It’s okay to speak. Can I help you with something? Perhaps a special that we’re running? What’s your name?”
“Um, er, yeah. Karen.”
The 900 employee continues. “We’re running a special, like I mentioned, and –”
“Okay.” She gulps and sips her Miller Lite.
“Alright Karen, let’s get started.” A pause. “Here we have the husband, on our first special, telling you he has to work late. That runs ten bucks.”
“No, er, no, I don’t think so.” Another sip. “Go on,” she says in a timid voice.
“Yes, well, then we have, for fifteen bucks, a grope in the kitchen from your husband. Does that interest you, Karen?” the 900 person asks.
“No, I get those all the time. What else?” She chokes on the next chug of beer. “Sorry.”
“Okay, that’s okay. We can move up to the twenty dollar fee for Wall sex.” She now realizes the 900 employee is not a woman with a husky voice but a male. She listens in horror as he clears his throat.
“Wall sex? I, ah, –”
“Yes, that is when your husband presses you against the wall, both of you fully-dressed, as he grunts and fumbles and passes gas accidentally.”
Karen hesitates, then, “Wouldn’t that get me a smaller fee? The gas?”
“No, I’m afraid not. You can go up to twenty-five bucks and get the Wall Sex Plus. Your husband is in a stained undershirt and his boxers as he wraps your legs around his waist against the wall,” the employee offers.
“Does he still have gas though?”
“Oh. That. Yes, but for thirty we do something different. It’s called Real Married Sex. Does that seem like a good choice, Karen?”
“That sounds more like it. Tell me.” She notices her beer’s about empty and tucks the phone under her chin as she opens the fridge for another.
“Real Married Sex starts out with the husband actually showering, brushing his teeth and talking to you with toothpaste all over his face as he proceeds to make a mess all over the bathroom –”
“A mess? And I’m paying for this?” she asks, appalled.
The 900 guy coughs. “Ah, yes. Wait, there’s more. He comes out scratching his balls, asks you if you’d like to fool around. You change into something slinky and he’s asleep when you return.”
“Wow, and I pay for this?” Karen chugs some more of the golden fluid that seems better than sex by now.
Karen is asked to wait on hold. The music playing is about some guy being too sexy for his shirt. She starts to dance around, feeling surprisingly perky.
“I’m back and I apologize for the delay. It’s apparent you need the more expensive specials. We have two left. For forty bucks, we’ve got the Wanna See My Tool deal.”
Karen chokes on her beer. “Uh, what?”
“Yes, the husband flashes his wife as she’s doing laundry in the garage. While she strips to have garage sex on the truck seat with him, he asks her where he left his screwdriver, by the way.” The 900 man pauses again.
“Hell, he asks me that all the time. I’m still waiting for the screw.” Karen hiccups and waits.
“I understand completely.”
“How could you, you son-of-a-bitch, you’re a man!” Karen realizes that she hollered and apologizes. “I’m so sorry. Guess I’m a little tense.”
“Karen, that’s alright. Just hang in there with me. We’ll find you something. Perhaps the My Husband’s a Hunk deal will work out for you,” he says. “This is fifty bucks but well worth it.”
“Oh yes. What’s that?” Karen polishes off the rest of her beer and grabs another as she twists around in the phone cord. “Oh wait, ah, hold on -”
“Karen? Is everything okay?” The 900 guy sounds concerned and she laughs.
“Yeah, I just frickin’ got caught up in the phone cord. It’s okay. Go on.”
“Let’s proceed then. Our most popular special is the Hunk one. I’m sure it’s just your ticket.” The 900 man speaks in a tight voice.
“Don’t be mad, I’m not used to things taking so long, ya know?” Karen burps.
“Oh, sure. The, hello? Karen? You there?” Sounds like the 900 man is getting ticked.
“Sorry again. Fell over the kitchen chair trying to get to the Doritos. Talkin’ about sex makes me hungry. Keep going.” Karen crunches a chip loudly.
“Fifty dollars gets you laid, finally.”
Karen hears him breathe louder. “Oh really? For how long?” She burps again. “What does he look like?”
“He’s a hunk, and now his tools are all found, his gas has passed, he knows where his keys are and even cleans up the bathroom after he’s done.” He waits.
“Wow. Really?” Karen is in shock.
“Yes.”
Karen shoves some more Doritos in her mouth, chews and thinks. “Hey, are you a husband?”
“Yes, yes, I am.”
Did she hear fear in his voice? “Uh huh. Does your wife call in here?”
He stutters. “Uh, no, she’d better not. Back to the special, after all this, the hunk husband fires up the barbecue and cooks for the wife.”
“Damn. He hasn’t fired up my barbecue in months. In fact, why is that? Is he being a 1-900-husband on these calls? What the F is going on down there? I want to see a list of your husband’s names that you keep on file,” Karen said, now at a shout.
“Karen, please, don’t yell. It’s not polite -”
“Polite? You dumb shit, polite? Who wants polite? I called up here for a hot, fast and long ride with some stud that’s pretending to be my husband and you talk polite? What the hell kind of business is this? Let me talk to your manager. Now.”
“Karen, don’t get upset. We’ll get this all settled to your satisfac -”
“God dammit. Bring me a man. Now. And while you’re at it, grab another beer. I’m feeling horny and thirsty.” Karen hiccups loudly.
“Now Miss Karen -”
“Don’t patronize me, you god-damned idiot. Get me a man, naked, body honed to a perfect V, with no gas and a convertible. Send him over.”
“Huh?” the 900 man says.
“Oh yeah, and don’t forget. This is a secret from my husband. You sure he’s not an employee there? Maybe there ain’t no camping trip after all…”
“Wait, honey.”
Karen stops and stares at the receiver.
“Hank? Is that you?”
About the writer:
SD Craig is a freelance writer and editor of LovingYourCurves.com and was given the nickname “Chatterbox” by fellow writers. At age fifty, Craigs Southern flair and sense of humor give her plenty to write about with a rapier wit and a wacky outlook. Her articles on body image (her biggest passion), marriage/divorce and relationships, family, friends, career issues, computers, the Internet, horses, baseball, movie reviews and writing tips remind one of Erma Bombeck or Dave Barry. A freelance writer who once juggled five columns then got real, Craig welcomes your e-mails and feedback on her articles. Drop her a hello at sdcraig922@yahoo.com or stop by www.lovingyourcurves.com.
