Quondam

December 2012
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Beige Asshole

Friction: a story that starts from truth but is not itself truth.  Fiction with an inserted r for real.  I don’t care which parts you think are true and which are false, and I do not care if not knowing annoys you.

See?  Friction.

This is the third piece of Friction in this series.

The first is here.

The second is here.

This third post works better if you have read those two posts first, but you do what works for you.

Alright, then . . .

——

She has grabbed a pillow and is now lying on the floor beside the couch, where I am similarly sprawled. The conversation has lulled, and we stare together at the ceiling for a moment. The ceiling is white.

I shift onto my side, tuck my hands under my cheek as I get comfortable, “Hey, Caroline?”

“Yeah?”

“Promise me that if I fall asleep, you will kill me. Two drinks and I take a nap? I couldn’t live with the shame.”

She snickers through a yawn, “Seriously.” I watch as she smooths her hair and then her face, her fingertips tracing the contours of her features before she rests her hands along her neck, “When did I get so old? I’m getting old.”

“Yeah, well. You and me both.”

She rolls on her side to look up at me, “Doesn’t it worry you?”

“Hmmph. It’s not enough I’m getting older, I have to worry about it? No thank you.”

“I worry about it. I worry about being alone.”

“You’re not alone. You have what’s-his name.”

“Yeah, but what if he leaves me?”

“OK, first? The man has been around for a while. How long have you been married – fifteen years? You guys are good. But if he were to suddenly get a wild hair up his ass and start fucking someone new, then you move the hell along. You move on to whatever comes next in your life.” I search her face, “Is what’s-his-face leaving you?”

She shakes her head, “Not that he has mentioned.”

“Then shut up and stop being maudlin.”

She giggles, “Who says that, anyway? A wild hair up his ass? Who says that? What a disgusting image.”

“I know, right? Anyway, if what’s-his-name starts shoving bunnies up his ass, I’m not sure you want to hang around for that. Good riddance to bad-rabbit trash.”

“Bunnies?”

“You know . . . wild hares.”

She snorts, “You are the weirdest woman I have ever known.”

I shudder exaggeratedly, “Bunnies scream when they are in pain, you know. Like actual shrieking horrific screams. You don’t need that.”

“Yeah, that will be the line in the marriage-sand he may not cross . . . No anguished screaming rabbits hanging from his asshole.” She considers, “What if he sticks them in head-first?”

“They’ll still scream – it will just be shit-muffled, and it will still be bad. Let his new whore-slut pull a rabbit out of his ass and try to turn him into something valuable. That would be quite the magic trick.”

She plumps her pillow and resettles her head, “OK, I’m glad we had this talk. Draw the line at wild hares up his ass, and if he insists, let the whore-slut pull the rabbit out and try to make some magic. Got it. Thank you — you always have good advice.”

I relax back onto the couch, “That’s because with age comes wisdom.”

We lie quietly for a moment, and then she asks again, “So you really aren’t worried about getting older? You really don’t worry about being alone?”

“Oh . . . my . . . god. This is the worst party ever! I am not in the mood to be melancholy! I’m getting older. Mark is getting older. I’m not going anywhere and neither is he.”

“But how do you know?”

“AUGH!”

She’s insistent, “But how do you know?”

“Fine. I don’t know. There is no knowing, is there?  But you know what I have? Handcuffs.”

She looks at me doubtfully, “Handcuffs? Like bondage play? You’re saving that for the moment he tries to bail?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. How is that a plan? Really? Yeah, that conversation would go something like this . . . Hey, Mark? I know you’ve found a new hot young girlfriend and she’s all smooth-assed and peach-titted and unwifely and I know you guys are fucking like roofied bunnies and all and you have never felt so alive and appreciated and desired in your entire life, but check it out . . . I’ve been rethinking that whole ban on bondage sex-play. What? Yeah, I’ll still be a 46-year-old mother of two with a soft tummy – what’s your point? What? Yeah, I’ll still be caustic and bitchy and hostile. Seriously, what’s your point? What? No, I do not promise not to laugh. How is that a deal-breaker? Look! Handcuffs!”

“Peach-titted?” She rolls on the floor, giggling happily, “Roofied bunnies?” It takes her a moment to compose herself, and then she asks, “OK, so what’s up with the handcuffs? What’s the plan?”

“I just keep them in my purse.”

“And?”

“And I don’t have a key. I threw away the key.”

“And?”

“And if I ever find myself in a situation in which Mark has just informed me that he is done being married to me, I will use the handcuffs.”

“On him?”

“How does that make sense? Listen, if he’s leaving, he’s leaving. I don’t want anybody next to me who doesn’t want to be there. But if he leaves me? Ooooh, I am going to make that shit memorable.”

She thinks for a moment, “You would use the handcuffs on yourself?”

I explain, “First I drive to a public place, strip naked, and wait for a moment of solitude. Then I handcuff my naked self to some public fixture. Then I call 911, weeping hysterically about how my peach-titted rabbit-fucking husband has left me handcuffed and naked in a public place. Think that shit’s not making the news? Middle-aged naked woman handcuffed to a traffic streetlight? That shit is soooo making the news.”

She wipes tears of laughter from her eyes, “I’m pretty sure you just called Mark peach-titted.”

“Did I?”

She nods, and then speaks through her laughter, “Seriously? Your plan is public humiliation?”

“That reminds me – do you know how to upload photos to Twitter and Facebook? I should probably figure that out before I go all naked and streetlighted.”

“You’re going to post your own humiliation?”

I look at her, eyebrows raised, and I speak dismissively, “Caroline, I’m not sure you are Mensa material.”

Eyebrows raised right back, she sasses me, “Says the woman who doesn’t know how to upload her photos to Facebook. Oh, I know! Take me along! I’ll take photos while you call 911! I’ll be your social media expert!”

“You would do that for me?”

“Post photos of your naked humiliation online? In a heartbeat.”

“Awww . . . you are a good friend.”

She smiles, “So how did you come up with this plan, anyway?”

“Long time ago, I knew this guy Ben who had a friend who worked as a security guard. One drunken night this friend gets into a huge naked fight with his girlfriend, and in an attempt to calm things down, he whips out his security-guard handcuffs and he handcuffs her to the bed. Naked, because . . . obviously. Except the woman not only fails to calm down, she starts screaming and threatening to kill him as soon as she gets loose. He’s afraid to set her free, and so he gets dressed and he just drives away. He ends up calling Ben.”

Her eyes are huge, “Are you kidding me?”

“Nope. He gives Ben the keys to the handcuffs and the house. By the time Ben gets over there, the entire neighborhood is standing outside, discussing the situation. Maybe fifteen people all head up into the house to rescue the naked screaming handcuffed woman.”

“Oh my god.”

“This guy never lived that shit down. Never. It’s been twenty years, and he’s still the guy who handcuffed his girlfriend to the bed and left her there. It’s legendary, that story.”

“And so you figure . . .”

“Exactly. I figure if Mark’s walking out? If he turns his back on all the memories he’s been making with me? Well then . . . I say let’s make some memories that are built to fucking last.”

“But what about your children?”

“Eh. They’ll live. It’s not like they don’t know humiliation . . . come on . . . they’ve been my daughters all these years. They’re not new here.”

“And you told Mark your plan?”

“Duh.”

“What did he say?”

“He laughed and reached for the handcuffs.”

“Wait . . . I thought you threw away the key.”

“Not those handcuffs, silly.”

We stare at the ceiling companionably for a moment.

It is still white.

“OK, Caroline? I am either going to take a nap or have another drink.”

She rolls to sitting, “I vote drinks.”

I sit up as well, “Good.”

I follow her into the kitchen, running my fingers along the wall, “What color are these walls? I like this color. You should so paint the walls of your new house this color before you move in. What color would you say this is?”

She turns to glare at me, “Beige, asshole.”

“Beige asshole? That is the best name for a totally inoffensive neutral paint ever in the history of paint names! If you promise to always refer to the color of your new home’s boring innocuous walls as Beige Asshole, I will totally help you paint.”

“Really?”

“Yup.”

“Deal.” She fills our glasses and hands mine back to me, “Here’s to Beige Asshole!”

I clink my glass with hers, “Cheers! Also? I am so telling what’s-his-name you call him Beige Asshole when he’s not around.”

“Asshole.”

I take a sip of my drink, “Yup, just like that, except beige.”

She smiles, but when she lifts her glass again, there is determination in her voice, “Here’s to our new house. To Sam and to me. To new beginnings.”

I reach to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, let my fingertips trace along the curve of her jaw, “Hey, Caroline? If there is to be a new beginning, does that mean there has been an ending of some sort?”

Instead of answering, she clinks her glass again with mine, “To new beginnings.”

Cheers.

    24 comments to Beige Asshole

    • Seriously . . . if you have not read the two previous posts of Friction, read them.

      They are worth reading, and the three posts work together.

      I think so, anyway.

      Kris

    • Amy

      I needed this laugh today. Kind of really hilarious, and a little bit sad.

    • Mishelle

      ohmyugawdohmygawdohmygawd….

      BWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA
      HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA
      HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA
      HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA
      HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA
      HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA
      HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA

      I’m laughing so hard my ribs hurt. It’s been such a crap couple of days that this has made it good.

      Thank you, very much.

      ps- I’m so writing down your plan… both of them.

      M

    • "OG" Axel

      Going into this, I was maybe expecting something to do with bleachings at a spa. There’s just no telling with you. But wall color works too. Can I go down to Lowe’s and ask for a color sample? Also depends on how you say it.
      “I’d like to see beige asshole” vs “I’d like to see beige, asshole” Big difference.

      Curious, why would Mark even leave you with a cell phone. You need someone there to take pics and upload them for you. Good shots are when the police first show up. Also, the more public the better.

      FYI when doing an ornament exchange party, don’t mix good wine and real champagne with cheap “sparkling wine”, Honey Jack Daniels, mudslides, egg nog, Presidente brandy and Glenlivet 18 yr scotch. I can’t even remember which order they were consumed in, but I do remember the good stuff was first and it was a steady decline into Dante’s Inferno from there. We sort of had to do scotch shots because a guest dropped their bottle on the way out- I thoughtfully busted out the bar strainer to keep the glass shards out before it all leaked across our floor. I continue to dislike scotch. Tastes like we mopped it off the tiles after the dog pee’d. Just…bleh! Okay, 18 year old dog pee.

      Speaking (well, writting) about dog pee, I’m trying to groom Deb for a new (second) dog. A friend runs a greyhound rescue and she gets younger ones off the circuit every so often- 18 month olds. Our dog is still in good health at 13 going on 14 and it’s easier to have one dog train the other so to speak. Is it really easier to ask for forgiveness than permission? The sofas are comfortable… how long would it be? LOL? Still, purebred greyhounds aren’t cheap, but you can’t beat virtually free rescue dogs with a little bit of emotional distress.

      Lastly, why does Mark have peachy boobs?

      • Axel?

        WHO BLEACHES AN ASSHOLE? That is the weirdest dumbest thing I have ever heard of. Yes, I know that people do it, but seriously? The rest of you is so fucking perfect, you are down to worrying about whether your asshole (whose only actual function is to expel shit) is properly tinted? What the hell? I do not even understand those folks . . . are they seriously with partners who critique ass-tint? REALLY?

        Hee hee.

        Next thing? I miss drinking with you guys. I so do. You guys throw one HELL of a party.

        Next thing? You are trying to groom Deb for a new dog? That so sounds as though . . . well, you know. IT SO DOES.

        As for peachiness? If Mark ever leaves me, all bets are off. I’ll be throwing produce-insults like a mad-woman.

        Doesn’t mean they’ll be true.

        Although Mark’s boobs, just like the rest of him?

        Just peachy.

        Kris

    • Todd 'tojosan' Jordan

      I honestly snorted at this one. That was before we ever made it to beige asshole.
      Great writing Kris.

    • a snowsprite

      Well that’s an image or two that’s sure to make me cringe–after I finish laughing of course.
      Bahahahahahahahahaha! I will never think of bunnies and magicians the same way again. Snort!

    • Previously, I thought the movie “Fatal Attraction” was the ultimate convincer to keep one’s pecker in one’s own pocket. But the “Naked Public Humiliation — Video at 10pm” rates right up there. Snort.

    • Oh my God, you make me laugh.

      And then I read your last tag and totally lost it.

      You have the best tags. Seriously.

    • steph

      That’s it. With all the talk of beige and drinks, I’m going to create a drink called a Beige Asshole. I don’t know what’s going to be in it yet. All I seem to have in the house Is Honey Jack Daniels and Peach schnapps. I’m really thinking that wouldn’t be a good combination. Plus? Not beige enough!

    • OMG! It doesn’t get any better than this. All this and a lesbian fantasy too. Be still my heart.