national drunk writing night 2007

Through the back door I see her there, silently watching our favorite home video again. The one where her ass is up in the air and her girlfriend is spanking the shit out of it. I remember the looks on her face from when I was there filming it. And how her voice filled the small black space we filmed it in. It reminds me of the good old days when we were together. The times when she didn't mind seeing me, and opening the front door for me. It was fun and sensual all the time. Laughter and moans filled the living room from dusk till dawn.

But those days are gone with the changing of ourselves, and mostly myself to be sure. I know I didn't mean it when I cheated on her with her girlfriend. But I was drunk and she seduced me. She wouldn't believe me when I said she raped me and had the restraining order to prove it. Saying that her girlfriend couldn't rape the willing. But I swear she dosed me with roofies and viagra.

She rests her head on the back of the sofa pillow and I duck out of site from the window to make sure she doesn't see me. Her eyes were closed so she must be tired. I waited for a good amount of time to make sure that she didn't see me when I started watching again. It's okay that I'm outside, because it isn't that cold in Seattle this time of year. 80's during the day, 60's during the night when the clouds were still hanging around. It was a good night for watching.

It gave me time to stare at the hot tub in the back yard and take in what exactly she had to change to get it. Dump me, win the lottery, and still stay in the same city with the money. She was humble, I'll give her that. I just wish I couldn't scored on the lottery cake walk that inevitably fills the void when you have that kind of excess cash. Oh those times where have they gone.

Having stayed for more than 5 minutes looking away I thought to look through the window again, but heard shuffling. Somebody was either coming to the kitchen or to the back door. The footsteps became louder and louder as my heart raced pulse quickened. I was sure this was it this time. No more free rides. I'd pay in prison with my violation this time. But the footsteps stopped. The clinks of fresh ice cubes hit her crystal rocker glass. It filled with some liquor of choice, either scotch or vodka. Then she trotted away, no doubt in the teddy I bought her on our trip to Cabo San Lucas.

The footsteps stopped as I could tell she was son the carpeted portion of the stairs now, and for me the night was over. Time to head back to home and sleep with my wife.

The drive home was a lot worse than I'd expected, but the accidents never cease in Seattle. I-5 was terrible as always. It was only made worse by the fact that I stopped by to hand out business cards to the accident victims to try to reel in personal injury clients. Shameless, yes, but I really don't have much of that.

The wife was sleeping already. The sleeping pills were working, unlike everything else in our marriage. After the first two years we were married, we realized that we really weren't in love, and that, getting a marriage out of convenience, opportunity, and personal gain was about all there was between us. We weren't committed to one another, nor were we necessarily in love with the idea of being monogamous. So although we were both independently rich. We were together for more vain reasons.

She was an upper class rich money girl. When she was 18 we met at a charity dinner thrown by my companies then client who had just won 200 million in personal injuries, so he was celebrating by donating a huge chunk to cancer research, of which he was dying. I was just 20 at the time, and not in loves favor, but did enjoy in most respects the position of the family and the money they had. My marriage to her would be the bread and butter of local celebrity gossip and city lore. "Hard working upper class joe marries into newly found wealth at his hand."

The terrible relationship started because of our parents mutual desire to see us both happy and child baring. We having committed to such yet, but at 25 and her at 23 now, we both don't feel right. The relationship is a show for the people it's important to, and as long as we both find each other sexually attracted to one another, the farce will continue.

In the morning, I awoke to Thadeus stirring up some high protein breakfast for the wife. He and I were both friends before she met him. The relationship continues in small talk now, as he's convinced my wife is telling me the truth when she's says, "It's our little secret." I don't mind anymore, but it has kind of made the men's locker room at the gym a little uneasy. She promises to where a condom and use birth control, so I feel confident that when we do decide to breed the two left footed demon spawn into this world that it will be mine.

"Hey Thadues, how's the throwing arm?" an old inside joke that really doesn't have any meaning and only stirs an uncomfortable laugh from the recipient.

"You know, same old same old. Can't find enough hours in the day for drugs, sex, AND rock and roll." The number of times I hear that a month surpassed 15 once.

"How was the traffic?"

"No accidents, and surprisingly sunny." Done with my subliminal request, he already wants to end the conversation. He must be hornier than usual.

"Fucking sun. I don't have enough sunglasses for this kind of weather." I finish filling my coffee cup and head for the bathroom, shower, and am off to work. A quick morning routine cuts down on the small talk with the wife, which usually regresses to childish remarks and retorts, or sickeningly sophisticated sarcastic punches attacking the most strangest parts of our former lives. Weird I know.

Work was a cake walk again. There are only so many times I can fill out the same form with the same signature asking the same insurance company for the same amount of money. I have stacks on my desk where I fill in the name of the client, sign, and put in the out box. No new clients today, so the secretary was going to spend the rest of the day filing, sorting, faxing, and mailing. Maybe browse some porn, but she thinks I don't know. Not like I'd mind. It's pretty vanilla shit that ends up in her inbox as spam. As soon as she graduates to videos or goatfucking, that's when we have a chat. When it is the utmost uncomfortable for her. Then I'll have an edge.

I leave the office around noon to endeavor on some shopping that needed to happen before the trip my wife and I were taking our trip to england. I wanted a nice wool suit and overcoat for any type of evening occasion or weather they could muster in england. Warranted, the weather may be the same, I still had my affinity for custom wool suits, and seeing the wife in little bits of under clothing called lingerie.

The fitting was at a store near work, so I walked, and passed a department store on the way. The fitting was done quickly because they still had my measurements from last time. Cloth choice was a little more difficult this time as they had some more fabrics available in more patterns than last time. Single breasted as always. But that's all I really remember about my choice in style. The rest I left up to the tailor, as my choice in clothing only applied to the aforementioned choice in breasts. I do like bigger breasts, but I'm not picky. Oh, I'm talking about women's breasts that time.

On the way back to the office to catch my secretary, I figured I'd stop by the department store. Uninteresting as it may seem, i had a good feeling walking into the store this time. The cashier new me from previous trips to store for various undergarments, socks, t-shirts, and what not. A quick look at the ties in the mens department, and not finding anything that was as good as my other ties, I made my way to the women's department. I grabbed my paper with the measurements I jotted down the measurements from the wife's most recently purchased lingerie and looked right as a man in the lingerie department. Well, as good as a man can look. Because either I'm looking for something in plus sizes for myself, or a gift for a lady friend. I preferred the look of a gift giver, but found myself touching fabric too long to sell it.

My preferences are particular, and most revolves around the feel of the fabric. So needless to say, I looked creepy as hell. Usually the sales associates are frightened by the men in there, but a new girl, naive to the ways of the cross dressers like Hoover, confidently strutted up to me and asked if there was anything she could help with. Some flirty conversation later I had convinced her the measurements on the paper were not for myself, and that I would be fine. I directed her to a much more blue collar man towards the more hidden section of the department.

On the girls way over the man was obviously avoiding her I got lost in the situation and ended up just observing them. The department store music covered any intelligible conversation that I could understand, but safe to say the end of the conversation was the man yelling no, then crawling under the circular clothing rack of bras, sitting down, then rocking back and forth clutching a rather large red garter belt and crying. I then recognized him, and only then from the picture on the news. He was the regional manager at a Les Schwab's tire place until a month ago. He was fired for some sexual harassment thing that he had been getting away with for years because of his position in the company.

The girl ran off in a panic, and I followed her at a quick walk to the nearest teller to buy a suspiciously uncomfortable looking black bra and panty set. The cashier I knew asked if I knew what was going on. I said no in hopes of preventing the further conversation between the two of us. I paid and left in record time so she could investigate the issue personally. I was only upset that in her haste she hadn't wrapped it in it's normal lingerie packaging that stated to everyone I walked past that in fact, I indeed, was carrying women's undergarments that I had just purchased. No matter, it wouldn't be in it for long.

The trek back to the office was interesting in that homeless Seattle guy kind of way. I got asked for change twice, and a bitch threw an uppercut at the man she was with. Totally awesome day, must be a full moon or some shit. Got back to the office where the secretary stirred uncomfortably in her chair and was feverishly clicking things. Had I surprised her? I figured she would know that I don't leave work for the day before 3. Another spousal arrangement regarding her unemployed, chef fucking ass.

The rest of the day was spent on the computer typing emails to clients and business partners reminding them of the pending vacation and contact information. Although it's just professional courtesy as I do not plan on answering my phone while away. I don't spend enough money to be one of them global calling plan mother fuckers. Oh the fun I make fun of them while at the gym. Jogging on a treadmill while on a 3 way conference call with assholes in all parts of the world. Some of them I bet aren't even talking to people. They're just trying to impress their buddies at the gym, and by buddies I mean the female members of the gym who are pretty much all single middle aged divorcees trying to get ready for the dating market again with their wad of cash they got in the settlement.

The end of the day was spent looking over the secretary's work and annoying her while making ambiguous sexual advances that really are used to make her feel good at this point in time. Coming out and hitting on her may happen later, but that depends on how unhappy I become with my current arrangement. It's not really stalking if she knows I'm there right?

After work, the wife and I have a cordial dinner at the Metropolitan grill where it's nothing but formality. Show our fans and colleagues that we are like any regular couple with a fat bank account and a trust fund. A couple of the people dining there had also just gotten lucky with the stock market and thought they had moved to upper class over night. I recognized one of them from another internet based company that went public and made this guy's fat ass a cool 10 million. Not really high society yet, but the capital and smarts to do it again. That's really the business I should be in. Find an idea I like and pump money into it till it bursts and gets back to me 10 fold. I just don't have those kind of connections. Bastards.

Dinner was awkward as always, standing up to greet, meet, and hate people on every first impression. The key was to seem alright to the new people so they say high again. Then we can act like we never met, or just dismiss them as not having as much money as I do. It's quite surreal, but a life.

"So, are we gonna talk about it again?" She asked after after a bank owner vied for my attention to HIS plan, again. Third Thursday in a row. The shit head must be desperate.

"You know how I feel about important conversation in public," I disdainfully dismissed the conversation with the same way I addressed everything. "If it's important enough we should be in private and have an attorney present."

"Don't be so dramatic, we are both quite good at what we do."

"I'm still surprised I know what you do and still don't have a fat ass like all the other pretentious old money wives around here."

"I never know why you say that, I just have high metabolism, and just count your blessings that I'm bedding with you. Prick." We both carry this conversation with a smile and begin to chuckle. She was of course right that I was lucky our relationship looks as good as it does, because otherwise I wouldn't be with her.

Equally sarcastic banter fills our night while more Seattle "royalty" stops by for hello's, goodbye's, and what's news. But after drinks and dinner we were out by 8:30 per my desire to leave, and get her into bed as soon as possible.

The penthouse always feels cold at this time of night when nobody has been indoors in several hours and the air conditioning is just able to compensate for the correct ambient temperature because nobody is about. The computer at my desk whirs to life as I hear the bottle shake and rattle in the bedroom as the wife is taking her more than recommended dose of sleeping pills to get her through the night. I tell her I'll be to bed shortly, but in combination of the sleeping pills and drinking, she'll be out in less than 10 minutes. Lucky for me.

The 10 minutes pass slowly as I browse the internet for new sexual positions, and videos demonstrating them, while simultaneously checking my email from my mom who made it to New York for the first time this year. My life of wealth has brought many things to my family, but luckily keep them out of my hair for my own endeavors. I'm easily the favorite of her 4 children of which I'm the only one who graduated college and married rich. All other three children were girls who couldn't find their way out of debt with any amount of money. Two of them already are in prison for 25 years because of a bank heist that involved one gun and inside information via a certain bank manager. The other is doing "God's work" for the lesbian community in San Fransisco. We can't all be winners I suppose but the story is always interesting to those I tell. Of course I embellish a bit when telling the story to people I want to impress, and scale down the version for anyone that I don't wish to speak to longer than it takes to tell a story.

With the wife asleep I put on my black coveralls from the closet. The wife has still yet to notice it, but with separate walk in closets, I'm not surprised to the slightest that she hasn't seen a vast majority of what I keep in there. The strap ons, whips, chains, 60 feet of uncut rope for no good reason, and various condoms and lubrications. She's not into any of those kinds of activities with me, so if she's seen it, she just doesn't care, or won't ask.

The drive to Lynnwood was quiet and smooth that night on a weekend around 10. The car isn't fantastically expensive, and is still pretty sporty, but not of particular interest to anyone looking at cars. Volvo's are great like that. I had to downgrade fro a nice Audi A4 for these adventures because people were still noticing me.

I park on the street no less than 3 blocks from the house on the street and walk to the house. It's lights in the front and back are typically off this time of night as she readies for the coming night. Usually watching movies or TV till the time when she's had her drinks on and then to sleep. Getting to the back past the carport is simple as no windows with immediate access to the carport are present. Then it's time to hide in the shadows and view and observe from the back window.

Tonight she's there with her girlfriend. I can only assume it's her new girlfriend after happened with me and that restraining order, but there is something familiar. Someone must be on the rag as they are both on the couch watching the L-Word for fun. The gall of that story line. It's so dramatic and mostly uninteresting, but I suppose it's a stark comparison to the Queer as Folk gay comparative show, which is mostly comedic, and less drama. But only by comparison, as there is plenty of drama and ass fucking for everyone.

I don't know if it was the cold temperature, or something more substantial, but there was something in the air that just wasn't right. This night wasn't going to end with it's cocktail and bed. There was tense conversation on the couch, and wild hand gestures. The TV was turned down low enough I know it was just acting as a distraction to the actual conversation. Then the voices were even louder. That something familiar was back. She was back with the old girlfriend. The same one that was in the video last night. She lives a crazy fucked up life, but this could get interesting. I watched, silently, intently while the scene unfolded. They were soon facing each other in the dark of the living room with the only identifying characteristics I could see being the outlines of their faces and heads against the brightness of the TV. Then exaggerated folding arms and facing forward. Someone had won, or been hurt.

Winning was what was done, because there was no sympathetic back or arm rub to confirm that anyone had done something wrong. They sat there in silence watching the show for another extended period of time. And I could see the two of them giggling, murmuring to the what was happening in the show. It progressed like this for two episodes on TV and I was compelled by the show and I was getting tired.

The moment was surreal but there. The event both exhilarating and dreadful as I noticed too late that she was headed to the kitchen for her drink. A shriek rang out as her girlfriend turned and saw my pale faced shining in the light of the TV. I immediately ducked out of view. Do I face them and admit to once, or do I run and hope they think of it as a snooper.

The door flung open before I could finish my thoughts. A bull dyke great. Aggressive and not spooked too easily, she had ran for the door to identify the stalker. Instantly she stepped outside and recognized me. Before I knew anything, the bottle she was handling struck my head and shattered. I retained little else from the event.

The next thing I remember was being on the floor inside to the sound of arguing voices. Had they still not decided what to do with me. I prayed they hadn't and I had my way out. I tried for my hands to push my weight up but was bound. Bull dyke or no, she knew her BDSM shit like no one's business. I wasn't moving. And my hope for escape was dwindling fast. Faster than usual I'm afraid. I feigned to still be out on the floor and attempted to shimmy to a position where I could grab the knife hidden in my belt. But again, the movement wasn't there. She was good.

"What the fuck? He's moving." bull dyke must have been looking right at me. I stopped faking.

"What the fuck what you crazy bitch?" I said, sitting up with my arms still behind me. Upon opening my eyes fully and sitting up, I bumped against something. Soft and squishy. Her.

"What the fuck are you thinking?" She was tied up beside me, bleeding from the head. There was a conspiracy afoot I was previously unaware of. How odd, was the only thing I could think.

"Who me?" I said, practically embarrassed I had to ask. "Because I don't think you want to know."

"Actually, honey, I was asking the crazy fucker who thought it was a good idea to beat you and me up and hold us captive in my home." So she did still like me. The use of honey was intentional and carried weight. Or, she just may have been antagonizing the other one.

"Me? Well, I'm making sure I have a plan for your bodies after I fucking kill you." The bitch spoke again.

"Well that's just dandy, you do know that I don't think that will be too fucking easy to do." I said, just speaking the truth as I saw it as nothing much else mattered at the time.

This of course, was met with a fist to my face and a quick scream from the other captive. Holy shit, bull dyke packed a punch. Surprisingly, the rope tying my shoulder was loosened. I can now reach my knife. Not a big one, but one that would do the trick. I without hesitation began to reach and pull and I did, get my knife. The work began.

"Ow." Antagonizing her may be all that separates me from the death that could be chasing me for now. Just keep her punching, I thought.

A kick to the gut this time. But now I just stayed down.

They began to talk about the dangers of men and the whole things being way out of control. I was free. The ropes were tight, but not to carefully thought out. I waited for my chance.

Bull dyke started pacing. The bitch was gonna get it on her way out. I popped up and lunged towards her back in one quick silent movement. Too many videos of martial arts training I thought. My feet still bound, I fell down on top of her, but forced my weight through the knife and severed her spine. She passed out from the pain and the head hitting the hardwood floor. I confirmed that she was still breathing and freed my feet. I helped myself up, and freed her, who was silent. Panic, fear, shock. I could only imagine what she imagined as the way the night might end, but this wouldn't be it. I told her to call the cops. She grabbed her cell phone from the coffee table and went to the kitchen.

I tried in vain to clean up the blood. So I started to pick up the rope and turned around to join her in the kitchen.

The placement of the knife was painful. Right above the liver. Then down into the liver. I'm a dead man. I should have noticed the footsteps, or the fact that she wasn't saying anything on the phone.

I hit the floor, right beside her lover. "Why?"

"You, my lovely boy, are the scape goat. Lover's quarrel turned deadly for my affection." It came together, as everything went black. She was the one who orchestrated everything. The strings and the girls. No time to thing now, just pray, until the knife was plunged into my heart. Too perfect, everything will look, too perfect. I don't love her anymore.