44 Chapters About 4 Men (23 page)

When my boobs were sufficiently deflated, I deftly snapped the flaps back up on my nursing bra, adjusted my designated I’m-going-to-a-rock-concert black tank top, ripped off the nursing cover I’d worn to keep from flashing innocent bystanders, and stashed the bottles of milk away in the little cooler I kept inside my breast-pump bag.

Hoping I had enough time to pee and grab a drink before the show started, I cheerily repeated, “No, thanks. I’m good,” as I ran-walked through a sea of scary-looking scalpers and vagabonds into the venue.

When I emerged from the least feculent restroom stall I could find, I noticed a group of teenyboppers huddled around one of the sinks, primping and preening. All three of them looked nearly identical with their matching skeletal, fifteen-year-old bodies and perfectly straight waist-length hair. I delighted in eavesdropping as I washed my hands.

Tween #1: “Did you notice that guy sitting next to us? He’s so hot!”

Tween #2: “No! What does he look like?”

Tween #1: “He’s wearing, like, a button-down thing and looks kind of stuffy, but whatever. I just like looking at him.”

My ears perked up.
Hot? Button-down? Stuffy?

There was only one guy in that audience who could possibly match that description. Ken had come straight from work and was looking positively GQ when he met me for dinner in his pale-blue dress shirt and navy basket weave tie.

Tween #3 rolled her eyes. “Don’t be creepy.”

I smirked as I dried my hands.

You should listen to your friend, bitch.

I made my way up to the balcony, following the directions Ken texted me while I was pumping, and spotted him sitting in the back row. He locked eyes with me immediately like he’d been watching the door and smiled, casually saluting me with two fingers. I happily drank in his Christian Grey–esque business attire.

Damn. He does look hot.

Ken’s smile got wider as I approached, obviously noticing my appreciative stare. I stopped in the aisle behind his seat and bent over to kiss him hello before I made my way to the bar. When I stood back up, he flirted with me by taking a little nip at my thigh with his teeth.

Wha—who is this guy??

Flirting back, I said, “I stopped by the restroom on my way up here and overhead some little teenyboppers talking about some hot
button-down
guy sitting next to them. I assumed they must have been talking about you.”

Ken nudged his head to the right and replied, “Was it those girls?

I looked past him to a cluster of giggling waifs about ten feet away who were just taking their seats. And holy fucking shit, it
was
them! Those little bitches really did want my husband!

I can’t explain what happened to me after that, Journal. To call it jealousy would be egregiously dismissive. This was visceral, physiological. Knowing that a gaggle of younger, skinnier, straighter-haired females wanted my husband caused my body to start pumping out pheromones on a nuclear level.

By the time I got back to my seat with my half-gallon of Jameson, I was a virtual mushroom cloud of sexual energy. I don’t know if the pulse I was emitting was a defense mechanism meant to warn off the bitches sitting next to me or if it was an offensive tactic intended to scramble Ken’s thoughts and keep his attention solely on me, but whatever it was, Ken picked up the scent loud and clear.

While we watched the opening bands, I sat up on the back of my seat so that I could see better, which also gave me a height advantage over Ken and those little skanks. I used the power differential to assert myself by resting a protective arm on his shoulder while lightly scratching his head with my fingernails. I felt ridiculous, like I was some high school quarterback trying to prove to everybody in the lunchroom that the big-tittied blonde cheerleader was mine, but I couldn’t help it. I stared straight ahead like a gangsta, never acknowledging the cast of
Hannah Montana
sitting next to me, and fantasized that they were staring at me out of the corners of their eyes thinking,
Who is that woman with The Suit? Is she playing with his hair? Oh my God, she’s such a badass. He looks like some rich business executive, but Rocker Chick has her arm around him like he’s her fucking bitch. I’ll bet she has tattoos. And rides a motorcycle. And keeps a pair of brass knuckles in her vagina.

Just as I was beginning to worry that I was making Ken feel emasculated with my possessive posturing, he leaned over and rested his head on my tit! It was fucking adorable. At that point, any energy I was expending on warning off the jailbait next to me got redirected to my now throbbing pussy. This gorgeous, well-dressed, five o’clock–shadowed tall drink of water was cuddled up next to me like a teddy bear. He was mine. And all I could think about was how badly I wanted to throw my leg over the wooden armrest between us and dry-hump him for the rest of the show.

And it was a really good show—until it wasn’t.

There were two opening bands, and both of them were actually pretty fantastic. Ken and I bobbed in our seats, never breaking physical contact with each other, and surrendered to the noise. By the time the headliner finally came on, the crowd had been worked into a frothy, foaming, hormone-fueled frenzy—Ken and myself included. We leaped to our feet like everyone else and jumped and danced with abandon.

People without children will never truly appreciate the majesty of a night out. The exquisite freedom from responsibility is intoxicating, especially after polishing off a feedbag full of Jameson.

Then, two songs in, the music stopped. A cloud of murmurs and reverb wafted through the air as the lead singer was led to the side of the stage by a roadie who whispered in his ear entirely too long for it to be good news. The hush was deafening. When the roadie finally returned our beloved front man to the mic, he was beaming with pride.

“You guys are so fucking crazy you broke the floor!” he exclaimed, just before being ushered off-stage.

Broke the what?!?!

The house lights came up, but no one so much as flinched, seeing as how we had just been told that the floor might or might not be crumbling beneath us.

The same roadie (who was obviously developing a semi from standing on stage in front of a sold-out crowd) told everyone, in his best authoritative voice, “Remain calm. Don’t make any sudden movements. When security tells you, move slowly to the exits.”

Move to the exits?? Show’s over?? NO! No no no no no no no!!! They just got started! We have a babysitter until one a.m.! You can’t make us go home! PLEASE don’t make us go home!

As it turned out, when the headlining band came out and everyone rushed toward the stage, all the little bitches in the emo club down in the basement freaked out because they heard a “loud cracking sound” and “felt the floor shudder.”
Pussies.

Not that I was surprised though. The venue is in an ancient building, and anyone who’s ever seen a show there has feared for his or her life at least once during the experience—except for me because I am a cock-eyed optimist. Even though the floor always seemed to bounce and sway in a way that made me question the most basic laws of physics, I felt secure in the assumption that
surely
the fire marshal/building owner/safety-code-person-man wouldn’t let thousands of people pile into the place night after night unless it was absolutely, positively one hundred percent safe. Right?

I know, Journal. I know. It’s a miracle I’ve survived this long.

While we waited for our section to be dismissed, everyone remained standing, craning their necks to try and see what was going on down below, but Ken and I were too enveloped in our own little foreplay bubble to notice. He had pulled me into his arms and was seductively rubbing his hands up and down my back. Between the jealousy-fueled pheromone beacon I was emitting, my belly full of Irish whiskey, and the frenzy we’d been worked into from the music, it was taking every ounce of my already limited self-control to keep from climbing Ken like a fucking tree.

When I couldn’t take it anymore, I stood on my tiptoes and growled into his ear, “I’m not going to be able to wait until we get home.”

Ken just smiled and said, “What do you have in mind?”

As soon as we got the go-ahead from security, I grabbed Ken’s hand and took off down the fire escape, bobbing and weaving through the unfortunately dressed, sexually ambiguous heartbroken teenagers slowly shuffling out of the crumbling building. We sprinted three blocks, pushing past panhandlers and hurdling over hobos, until we finally made it to the car.

Once we were safely inside, Ken raised an eyebrow at me and asked knowingly, “Where am I going?”

I gave him directions to Sara’s old neighborhood, the sketchy one she’d lived in back when she was just a lowly school psychologist, like me. It wasn’t ideal, but it was the closest poorly lit secluded place I could think of. It was so poorly lit, in fact, that when I’d left my car there for a couple of nights while Sara and I were at a school psychology conference, we’d returned to find that all four of my tires had been slashed without any of the neighbors so much as batting an eye. It would be perfect.

As soon as we found a good spot, Ken killed the engine and looked at me with concern in his eyes. “So…how are we going to do this?”

I was already in the process of tearing off my boots, jeggings, and underwear. Foregoing the foreplay, my only instruction was to, “Switch places with me,” as I climbed out of the passenger seat and onto the center console, perching up on my tiptoes like an owl, to allow him enough room to slide over.

There, facing the backseat, crouched half-naked on the armrest while I waited for Ken to get situated, I could feel those two empty child safety seats staring back at me, judging me.

Fuck you, car seats! I’m still a good mom! You’re lucky I’m even letting you watch!

Ken eased over to the passenger seat, unzipped his fly, and shimmied his pants down just enough to allow his eager cock to spring free. Still high on pheromones and territoriality, I almost came just from looking at it. Although I tried to straddle Ken as gracefully as the quart of Jameson in my bloodstream would allow, I failed in spectacular fashion when my left knee completely missed the seat and slipped down between the door and passenger seat.

Shit!

Trying to be smooth, I immediately attempted to pull my leg out of the crack as if I had just placed it there for leverage or something, but…but…it was fucking stuck!

I panicked and yanked on my leg like it was being crushed under a boulder in the middle of werewolf country during a full moon until it finally popped loose. Trying to salvage whatever was left of my sexiness, I pinned Ken with a sleepy-eyed sultry stare and placed my left foot (instead of my knee) in the seat next to his hip, causing me to end up in a weird half-squat/half-straddle position.

Real sexy, BB.

Bruised ego aside, I soldiered on. The instant the warm, naked parts of Ken came in contact with the warm, slippery parts of me, I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding. This…this was what made waiting until we got home an impossibility.

Mmm…

As I began to rise and fall, Ken pulled up my shirt and snapped open both cups of my nursing bra simultaneously. At that point, it had been almost four hours since the last time I pumped, and my breasts were full to bursting. The moment Ken took them in his hands, I felt a familiar tingle and watched with detached horror as my left breast shot a stream of milk directly onto his blue button-up shirt. The right one, which has always been a little gimpy from having been pierced three times in the past (I call her 50 Cent
1
now), just dribbled onto his lap.

Oh my fucking God! My milk let down!

When I finally released my cringe long enough to peek at Ken for his reaction, I noticed that his head was tilted back against the headrest, and his eyes were closed in ecstasy. He hadn’t seen it! He didn’t know!

However, the relief I felt was quickly overshadowed by the realization that Ken was really, really enjoying himself.

Shit.

It suddenly occurred to me that this was going to end the way almost all of my kinky sex experiments had ended—with Ken coming too soon and apologizing profusely before half-falling asleep/half-trying to get me off with a vibrator that somehow always had an almost dead battery.

The thought made me sad. I really, really wanted to come. My pent-up sexual energy was whistling so loud that I’m surprised the neighborhood dogs weren’t howling in pain.

I knew what I had to do. It was time to take matters into my own hands—er,
hand
.

Reaching deliberately between us, my fingers found their target. Swollen and sensitive, it didn’t take long before my entire lower half was on the verge of eruption. Ken met my enthusiasm with his own, grabbing my ass with both hands and thrusting into me fully, taking care not to pull out so far that I would hit my head on the ceiling above.

Ever the gentleman, that Ken.

I thrust my other hand into his hair and claimed his mouth with mine. As soon as he hissed into my mouth that he was about to come, I felt myself detonate around him, whimpering as I squeezed and clutched and clawed and bit whatever I could get my hands on.

We held each other for a few moments as our heart rates returned to normal before Ken broke the contented silence, “So, what are we going to clean this up with?”

Um…crap
.

I hadn’t thought that far in advance.

Taking a mental inventory of the items in Ken’s SUV, I suddenly flashed on a package of baby wipes I’d stashed in the glove box months ago in case of an emergency. This definitely counted as an emergency.

I reached behind me, careful not to make any sudden movements, and retrieved the package.

Ken raised an eyebrow at me as if to say,
You have got to be fucking kidding me
.

I simply shrugged and handed him one nearly dried out square of cloth.

In my defense, just in case any of you actually serve on the Mother of the Year judging committee, I want to make it known that I did, in fact, hold on to both our soiled baby wipes until we got home so that I could be sure that they made it safely into our trash can. I could have easily tossed them out the window like a common hoodlum, but no, not me. I care about the environment—and world peace.