Saga of the Shrewd Wife Pt. 02

In spite of all the credible evidence to the contrary, my mind would not discard the hope that this was a bad dream. Maybe it was an ill conceived debate about mores and taboos.

Surely we were witnessing an elaborate mockery of the ruling sexual conventions. If this were the case, however, my wife could not justify spending millions for campaigns to gain global celebrity. Of course, she would borrow the seed money.

Borrowing the money to finance the media assault would make all aspects of this venture serious business. Globally connected commercial bankers would join Sophie's queue. Essentially that would confirm rumors that her panties overrunneth with media of exchange.

In her "Headquarters" brochure, Sophie wrote that she would sign contracts launching a global campaign to make her logo, a line drawing of the folds of her vagina, as popular as Coke or Mustang.

"Well! I suppose she will," I said laconically. "After all, a promise is a promise, and she's always been a woman of her word."

"Read the fine print," a behemoth grunted. "Having a gold condom only makes the shareholder eligible to draw a number from the fish bowl."

Chairman Sophie then would perform "sexual congress" with those who drew the numbers one to ten. At her option Chairman Sophie would service a second "ten" or maybe even a third "ten."

"She's going to fuck ten shareholders here tonight for sure?" the blonde asked pensively. "And maybe as many as 20 or 30?"

As Sophie's tuxedoed associate thrust the flyers toward me and the inebriated blonde woman, I watched Sophie. She twitched her butt and flipped her skirt as the Rotnuts made monotonous unpleasant sounds behind her.

I grimly remarked that no woman could have "sexual congress" with dozens of men in the span of one party night. My wife, The Chairman of The Board, was perpetrating a fraud. She couldn't use her dildo without a coach.

Sophie's protégé did not react to my bitter sarcasm. He grinned and shrugged indifferently.

"However ill advised and stupid or absurd it might be," the drunk blonde said, "the pretty whore is giving the world either an erection or an enema."

"Which is it, sailor?" she asked leaning so close her sour breath choked me. "Is she gonna jack off the world or make it shit gold?"

"No sane woman would do this," I protested lamely. "Understanding this is beyond the scope of human intelligence."

"But it's not gynecologically impossible," the blonde muttered, gazing at Sophie who shimmied and shook, exposing her butt and vagina in final curtain call."

"She'll do this tonight?" I asked the Behemoth incredulously. "In one long continuous orgy, she'll give this crowd orgasms and be finished by sun up?"

Insanity! This sophomoric idiocy had to cease. No woman could fulfill the promise so precisely and boldly stated in this color brochure. This insidious scam would surely land her in jail.

"Any mature and sexually experienced woman could do it," the blonde said, "if she wanted to do it."

"No sweat," the Behemoth said, wearying of the confrontation. "She did it last Friday at The Tennis Club Bar and Lounge."

Astounded, I now gasped for air. Behemoth spoke with a convincing casualness. He also spoke with the authority of one who was at The Tennis Club Bar and Lounge last Friday. I could expect no circumstantial reprieve.

"You need to get a gold condom!" the blonde said, her excitement building in visible increments. "That's the price of admission."

Wild episodes of frenzied trading had driven the set value of each share beyond credibility. Thrill seeking speculators who equated making money with gaming sex had literally fought for the initial 100,000 shares. Their agents had briefed them, predicting that Con Del would exceed the miraculous growth of Microsoft or Apple.

"I could find a gold condom for you," Sophie's representative said, now accommodating and friendly. "It will cost you seven thou, though."

Traumatized probably described my condition. When I failed to respond, he began to clean his fingernails with a small knife.

"Scalpers are already working the mob."

Their libido intensity permeated the air we breathed. As the mob's solidarity continued to cement, I found myself observing clinically. I could never have created this perfected mob mentality in a human factors lab.

Behemoth found a thin faced woman with a hawk nose who offered a gold condom for $5,000. I hesitated. Suddenly, I had experience a strange need to witness this artfully treacherous manipulation of the glory that once was Western Civilization.

"Take it or leave it!" Hawk Nose said testily. "Half an hour from now I won't sell it for less than $10,000."

"Not without a secured place in line for an orgasm with The Chairman," the blonde said, calling and raising Hawk Nose. "You gotta have an assured place in the orgasm line to resell for the big numbers."

"Why are you butting your nose into my business?" Hawk Nose demanded of the inebriated blonde. "You've got your gold condom."

"I'm only assured of a chance to draw a number from the fish bowl," the blonde said and backed away.

"But you'll certainly get into the second or third waves," Hawk Nose answered, becoming less confrontational.

"I'm not interested," I said, realizing that I was being drawn inexorably into the artful stealth of sexual chaos. "I must go."

"Okay! You win!" said Hawk Nose with a twinkle in her cold eyes. "I'll give this gold condom away for the ridiculous price of $6,500 and not one centavo less."

"You'll guarantee him an orgasm!" the blonde shrieked. For no reason whatsoever, she shrieked. Both Hawk Nose and I cringed. Her high "C" pierced a few ear drums.

"Honey, I think it's time for your nose candy," Hawk Nose said to the Blonde. "I sell pure white and safe stuff."

"If I buy your gold condom at that insane price," I ventured, "you'll promise me a turn on the bed with the Chairman woman or my money back!"

"Maybe not in the primary ten," Hawk Nose said thoughtfully. "But most certainly in the third tier or earlier."

Hawk Nose squinted and drew the inebriated blonde aside. They whispered in business like fervor. Hawk Nose nodded emphatically and grinned. She beckoned the Behemoth to join them. Their discussion became animated until Behemoth nodded his agreement.

"We'll give you our pledge that you will not leave the AAUU Sportatorium without having an orgasm," Hawk Nose said, smiling thinly as her eyes darted about the crowd.

"I'll have 'sexual congress' with Chairman Sophie in the primary ten?" I asked, thrusting my chin forward for emphasis. Did I dare tell the idiots how repulsive that prospect was for me?

"However!" the Behemoth exclaimed. "Each succeeding tier of ten will pay the nominal sum of $500 an orgasm."

"Oh!" said the inebriated blonde, studying her gold condom. "I need another Moscow Mule Vodka."

"You moron!" Hawk Nose screamed at the behemoth. "I told you not to tell him that."

Sophie, the Chairman, was shrewd. My wife of 27 years would never have sought to be shrewd.

What has Sophie, chairman of the board, done with my wife?

**********

SEMPER FI,

BACH'S AIR ON A "G" STRING

Driving home alone from the carnival of fools provided time to assess my position vis a vis Sophie McPherson. Sophie had vowed to "fuck other men."

And she was doing just that. Oh, was she ever doing that!

My dash clock told me it was 2 p.m. Her crystallizing sex show would resume in just eight hours.

If Sophie had morphed into a Frankenstein monster or a Wolf Man or Dracula, the trauma would have been less severe. The fact that she had not changed in appearance from the sparkling ever scrubbed and fresh paragon of virtue compounded the misery.

I stopped by my office at the university. I needed notes for my outline of the next seminar meeting. Mundane functions of living continue even as the "P" Revolution roars onward toward The River Styx. My intent was to go home to the solitude of emptiness, restate my sense of well being in the full length mirror and complete my outlines of suggested trends for the seminar question.

Another unanticipated insult awaited, however, as I turned into my street half an hour later. Apparently, my wife and her pussy parade had decided to seize my house for their rest between shows.

Emptiness might describe my state of being, but my house was anything but empty. All descriptions of vehicles occupied my parking apron at the back and stood two abreast in the drive all the way to the street. I counted four Mercedes and three Jaguars.

I parked at the curb and watched as three strange men drank beer on my front porch. Judging from their expensive, carefully cultivated disheveled choice of clothing, I placed them as my wife's business associates. They nodded but remained nondescript as I passed into the foyer.

Each of the hospitality rooms on the lower floor accommodated a mixed group. Half a dozen had claimed space in the living room. All concentrated on laptops or cell phones.

None of the invaders acknowledged my presence. I found Buddy sitting at the kitchen table completing some type of official form.

"Annie is upstairs with mom," Buddy said without breaking his concentration. "Mom wants Annie to help run her business.'

Ballooning like an inflatable Hillary at a convention for stout Lesbians, I exploded. My impulsive rage did not disturb Buddy. He continued to labor over the forms on the table.

As I strode from the kitchen into the hallway leading to the stairs, the Behemoth I had met at the convention hall blocked me. He shook his head and waved a finger as he denied me freedom in my own home.

"You can't go upstairs just now, Sir," the Behemoth said.

His touching my shoulder with the tips of his fingers sparked a fury that consumed me. I spontaneously swept his fingers off my shoulder and only in a flash saw the ham-like fist.

As if suspended in a cloudy atmosphere beyond, above or below reality, I could hear the words laboriously formed by disembodied voices. Moving my body parts was denied by my numbed brain, but I was acutely aware that I was lying on the hallway carpet.

"There's no blood..."

"I hit him under his heart..."

"Will he die..."

"I think we need to get him to a hospital..."

"I can't afford the bad news..."

"We can't let Dad die like this..."

"Someone will take care of him..."

"Ma'am, we need to leave..."

My eyes opened as they filed past my body lying in the middle of the hallway. Awareness was not accompanied by mobility; so, I could only watch as they came down the stairs and walked toward the front of the house.

Several men passed, some of them carrying luggage, garment bags and a variety of small cases. When the bare legs of two women stopped briefly beside me, I struggled to raise my head.

"We should call an ambulance," Annie said without emotion. "He might be hurt seriously."

"Buddy can wait five minutes and call 911," Sophie said indifferently. "I think he has sense enough not to tell the police anything."

"Arturo said no one saw what happened," Frank Malone said. "Buddy was in the kitchen and never came out."

"Come on!" Sophie said, striding away. "We're late."

My vision had cleared and focused by the time the two women arrived at the end of the hall. I verified that they were Sophie and Annie.

Sophie wore a micromini dress that could have been the featured costume for a stripper whore. Her daughter's butt was on display in identical attire.

What price glory? How much for the butt of a classical genius?

As my nervous system restored my determination to overcome the disability imposed by Sophie's Behemoth's sucker punch, I shuffled to the kitchen. Buddy continued huddled over his questionnaires.

I fell heavily into a kitchen chair and examined my bruised chest. Buddy spoke without moving his eyes from the form he was completing.

"I'm auditioning for The Marine Band," he said dispassionately. "One of my advisors at school arranged it."

After 15 minutes of watching my son studiously ignore me, I stood, determined that my strength had returned and walked unsteadily to my car.

Time was marching onward.

**********

FREEDOM WITHOUT

A BUCKET AND WIFE WITHOUT

A SACRAMENT

Copious gobs of white slime pumped out of Sophie's once hallowed hole, her gate to the channel that led to her womb, the point of departure for all questions. She squirmed and giggled.

Ceremonies inaugurating Sophie's Condoms Delight Global, LLC, had begun by the time I found my seat in the gallery at The ASUU Sportatorium. Sophie had already produced orgasms for the first eight Gold Certificate shareholders.

"You were absolutely without any doubt the best," Sophie gushed as the 300-pound holder of the Number Ten Gold Share withdrew from her vagina and dismounted.

We in the audience heard her implore the investment broker to buy "another Gold Share and have another go."

"Just 20 minutes ago a gold shareholder sold his ticket to paradise for $52,575," said Dr. Frank Malone, the master of ceremonies. "And we have amended the rules to give anyone who pays more than $50,000 for an original gold share an immediate introduction to Chairman Sophie."

Almost immediately five men and three women came to the stage waving their gold share certificates and receipts. Frank shook their hands with them as Sophie leapt off the center stage bed and waved a tube of douche germicidal and cleanser.

As she stood in a shallow pan spreading her labia majora, the crowd reacted with a collective howl that approached hysteria. She methodically, under the white light of a fine spot, inserted the tube and squeezed.

Hot water in the portable shower had the visible effect of refreshing and restoring Sophie's enthusiasm. Applause thundered under the domed theater for almost 15 minutes as Sophie pranced to the bed and carefully placed herself once more on the gold sheets.

I had managed to gain access only to the gallery. With tickets to the gallery selling at the scalper's curb for $500, I called in a favor. I had served on the community advisory board when The Civic Center was nothing more than a plan.

Once my friend and colleague, Frank had led the lounge gang at The Tennis Club in the astounding seduction of Sophie. At least 15 tennis club officers and founding members had led the eager little band that had led her into this colossal debauchery.

"Fucking other men," Sophie's choice of words, had come to pass in all its stark raving madness. The result, however, was not as Sophie had expected.

She had learned also that "Business is Business." Some businesses, she had observed, make money.

To be sure, she now could attest, the "P" business can create wealth in addition to making money.

As an unanticipated consequence, moreover, the only resultant certainty was that Sophie was in the primary stage of becoming immeasurably rich. She luxuriated in the fame and fortune; but she expected "something else."

"Fucking other men" had become an idiom invading the 30,000 vernaculars of the world. At times Sophie viewed that unintended consequence with a sense of bafflement.

Even an intellectual and moral derelict who enjoyed

watching the nihilists pull the wings off Christianity gasped in fear as the Marriage Sacrament dimmed in the sunset of Western Civilization.

Without the sacrosanct reservations of the nuclear family, pussy wouldn't sell for the price of a bad hamburger, Dr. Frank Malone insisted as he advised the weary Sophie. She must understand the critical nature of her marriage and wedding rings.

"We must prevent Grant from pushing your divorce to the final decree," Frank said. "Those wedding rings and your being a bonafide wife and mother are worth millions."

Annie vigorously nodded her agreement. Sophie rolled her eyes with a growing detachment. She tossed back a straight vodka, coughed and sat staring at her daughter and lover through narrowed slits.

Frank's endless loop of concerns had begun to annoy Sophie. "Fucking" was supposed to be fun, not serial worry.

By the end of their administrative day, Sophie would mimic Frank in her Vodka induced moments of revolt. Invariably, Annie would counsel and sooth, interceding on Frank's behalf, and by morning, Sophie once more was counting her money.

"Seducing or giving away married pussy" was the foundation stone of post modern whoring. Frank should write an encyclopedia for whores, Sophie often would tell Annie.

All forms of romanticized debauchery would become problematical if there were fewer married women. Continuing the "Happy Hour," and "Girls Night Out," and conning the MILF all would be jeopardized if there were no sacred pussy.

In the vacuum of hierarchical authority, after the usual three-orgasmic screams, had come the disquieting sounds of "nothingness." It was always too late that the fun fucker with a brain understood that without the Sacrament, there could be no profound conflicts or tensions, existential or pious. It would be no different from blowing the nose and each rubbing the slime onto the other.

Another hour of nonstop fucking passed, and I was making my way up the aisle to leave the theater and the sickening sight of Sophie performing her fiduciary duties. I was crossing the vestibule and almost into the lobby when I heard the worst.

"When her daughter comes on stage," a woman with straight black hair streaked with rainbow colors instructed the Behemoth, "be sure your security line is in place between the stage and the first row."

As I ducked my head and almost ran across the lobby, Behemoth glanced up from the woman's clipboard. His massive face erupted in a spasm of pleasure. He called to me waving the same ham of a hand that had almost killed me hours earlier.

"Mr. McPherson! I'm sure glad I didn't hurt you too much," Behemoth shouted as he lumbered toward me.

Behemoth seized my shoulder and hugged me as he shook my hand. Pain from his earlier interest in me shot through my chest.

"You can't leave now. You gotta stay, man!" he growled, his malodorous breath stifling me. "We got an extra that you'll love man!"

"Extra?" I asked weakly, knowing that the "extra" was my Annie. I must hasten to clarify that my weakness and nausea was not from fear of Behemoth.

My fear stemmed from my understanding of myself. I knew that I was calculating the turn around time to my house. Believe it or not, my dying embers of civilized self were screaming pleas for me not "to do it."

On the other hand, there was the cave man that I, Grant McPherson, had always hidden from academic examiners and the social science community. Freud would have loved that moment.

Behemoth would never know how close he was to meeting my wonderful unconscious savage. Of course, I had only sublimated, and sublimation has an expiration date.

Using steel jacketed .45 slugs for your dirty work was the ultimate in sublimation.

Inside the theater, the applause had scaled upward to a bursting point. Frank was shouting frantically into his sound system attempting to regain control.

"I gotta get back in there to see this!" Behemoth grunted as he released me. "Sure you don't want to see her do her thing the first time?"

Cold rain washed my face as I jogged through the street doors. Behind me Behemoth stood with a monstrous arm raised and a bewildered expression cramping his facial muscles.

Depending on your point of view, it was fortunate that I could not return with my weapon of choice before they had thoroughly corrupted my Annie. It was an hour to my gun vault and an hour back to the theater.

Also, I knew the realities of whoring. Very likely, after a tour de force of an opening night, Annie would take her bows, bank her fortune and never look back. Read your history. It's in the book.