October 22, 2012

"That Night With Her Friend"

Fiction piece, inspired by a couple of people I know. The narrator is me, but a very sarcastic and exaggerated version of myself. Supposed to be funny, and again, Fiction.
     I was lying in bed, next to my wife, Penelope. We both had a long day. Her more than me. Before I go too far here, let me go back and recount the day in more detail.
     Penelope had met with this friend. I’m not sure where to begin with her. I guess her name. Her name is Emily. I don’t think anyone would call her autistic, but, on that note, I don’t think anyone would call her smart. If I could go on with describing her, before I talk more about what happened that night.
     She is of average height, but overweight. She has a bit of an overbite and is a slight mouth breather. Because she never quite closed her mouth, and has the vacant stare of some sort of animal, again, no one would really call her smart. She was, however, Penelope’s friend.
     Now, Penelope, is a beautiful young woman, with naturally blond hair, grey-blue eyes, and soft, perky breasts. Her smile is genuine and infectious, and she is more compassionate than anyone you’re likely to meet. Which is why, I think, she tends to befriend people more on the pathetic side.
     Anyways, this friend, Emily, and Penelope had spent a long day out, doing things together. Talking, mostly. This girl has had an on again-off again relationship with a goofy looking guy with a beard. He leaves her alone, feeling like crap. At least, that’s what I hear from Penelope.
     Well, they came home. Both Penelope and Emily arrived at around midnight. I was relaxing: sitting down with my writing and some music. Penelope sat by me on the big couch, while Emily slumped over in what could be called a sitting position.  Prior to their arrival, it should be known, I was given a small set of instructions.
     “Did you guys have a good time?” I directed this question in the general direction of the pale mass on the smaller couch, adjacent to the one I was on.
     “Yeah,” she snorted.
     Then, Penelope chimed in, “We had a great time. We talked and I did her makeup.”
     On cue, and with as much of a convincing a performance I could muster at that hour, I gave my lines. “Oh, you look nice, Emily.” Then, ad-libbing, “Penelope really likes that girly stuff.” Admittedly, not the best line, but I had to keep the ball in the air.
     The rest of the visit, at least for me, dragged on like a wet mop on a cold floor of an empty laundry mat at 2:49 AM. It was only 12:26 AM, local time.
     I’m pretty sure Penelope could tell I was ready to go to sleep. Emily, seemingly catatonic, in a lively sort of way, was still on the couch. I walked into the hall, followed by Penelope. She touched me on the shoulder to turn me around. Those slender arms lazily wrapped themselves around my neck. Those big blue eyes looked up at me and those supple lips opened up and whispered, softly, “Baby, Emily is feeling bad and I don’t want her to be alone, tonight.”
     “So y-” before I could finish, she moved up on her toes and kissed me, softly and sweetly.
     “Is it okay?” Again, with those eyes.
     “Yeah, it’s okay,” I said, gruffly, begrudgingly, yet understanding. I was never going to say “no.” She didn’t have to butter me up. It does help,  though.
     Penelope got some spare blankets around for Emily to sleep on the couch, while I brushed my teeth. As I did, I wondered how Penelope could tell she was feeling bad. Her expression never changes.
     Penelope and I made it to bed at the same time. As we made ourselves comfortable, she nuzzled up against me and said thank you. She gave me a squeeze, I kissed her forehead, and she fell asleep.
     I must have been asleep. I don’t remember not sleeping. I do remember getting aroused. Then I was awake. At first, I didn’t know what it was that I was feeling, but as I gained awareness, I figured out what it was exactly: a hand was fondling my genitals. It felt good, I have to admit. I turned to face Penelope, but she had her back to me, as she usually does when she sleeps. I was even more lucid now, but not enough to process that fact and get to the proper conclusion. Which is why I almost screamed when I looked down. I saw that dumb cow face, blankly gazing up toward the ceiling. I saw a slightly open mouth with drool dripping out of it, down the chin below. If I had my faculties about me, I probably would have kicked her in the face. In retrospect, I’m still not sure if that would have been a good idea. But I couldn’t do anything. I was mortified, petrified. It could have been a minute; it could have been twenty.
     I just endured. I endured until she shuddered slightly and emitted a sound that was a combination of a moan and a snort. I really couldn’t describe it better than that.
     Then, with all the grace of a pregnant hippo, she skulked away to her bed on the smaller couch adjacent to the big one. And I was left there, still mortified, still petrified, with my eyes wide and my mouth agape.
     Needless to say, I got little sleep that night.