“Honey, empty the dishwasher before you leave,” Heather
said to her husband, Gerald, as she was busily nursing their
twins.
“Sure thing, sweetie pie. Love of my life,” he answered, tickling the tops of her breasts. His two sons, tucked like footballs, one under each of her arms, sucked noisily on her nipples. It was a sweet spot, he recalled fondly, bending low to kiss each boy on the head. “My little guzzlers,” he said, winking at his wife and blowing her a kiss as he turned on his heel. “I’d like to knock their noggins aside and get in there for a swig myself,” he called to her, leaving quickly through the kitchen door, dishwasher left unemptied. How could a man remember a thing like that when he had just been witness to two others of his gender gorging on his wife’s breasts? “Impossible!” He
shouted happily.
Inside his briefcase he had THE BOOK that had changed his
life. He headed straight for the coffee shop near where he
worked. Slim chance his wife would emerge from the condo, given
the hungry young twins she had in her care. But why chance
it? Why ruin a perfectly good, why a beautiful day—heavenly—with
even a whisper of doubt that he would be found out? No, better
he should trot a bit farther and remove himself from the danger
zone entirely.
Gerald had taken three personal days, on the advice of his
therapist—so no guilt here, no sireee, just pure freedom and joy. Time for himself. The father, the provider, the one on whom all fiscal responsibility lay. The one who had been robbed of his wife’s ample bosoms by the tiny twins—but
he was not resentful. No! Quite to the contrary. He was doing
what he needed to do to feed himself. To provide that all-important
sense of freedom and zest for life. All around him he noticed
exhausted, downtrodden, sleep deprived, sex deprived, wife
deprived fathers, falling into the trough of despair. But not
Gerald. Oh no, not him. He would not fall into that trap. He
patted his very light briefcase. Not with this inside.
Swinging into the coffee shop, finding his favorite window
view corner table available, he thought, Yes! This is a great
day. He sat down with his double-shot mocha, extra whip and
pulled out The Book: If Only One Of You Can Survive, It
May As Well Be You. “Thank you, thank you,” he said thinking of his shrink, the author and purveyor of this incredible book. What a lifesaver, he thought, opening to chapter two, which was—wonder of wonders—entitled “Lifesaver,” replete
with a colorful picture of that old time treat: a book of lifesavers.
What every kid wanted as part of his (hopefully) plentiful
stack of stocking stuffers at Christmas.
Gerald placed a neat check mark next to the picture of an
orange lifesaver, the first in a colorful column of lifesaving
tips. “Make wise use of good natured forgetting when it comes
to chores.” No
need to rush on to the next tip. No need to rush at all. Gerald
intended to savor the orange lifesaver, his mouth puckering
to suck, suck, suck.
