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Them
"Unlock this door, Stan! Stan!"
She's been screaming and banging on the door for about half
an hour now. Part of me is wondering how much longer
she'll keep this up, and part of me doesn't give a shit. I worked hard all day and I just want to sit here with my magazine
and have myself a beer or two. Or three. Or however many I feel like having.
"Fuck off!"
It's a pretty funny situation we've got here actually. Unless you don't have a sense of humor. Then it's not. But I guess
that's how it is with everything. I'm beginning to think most people don't have a sense of humor these days.
Anyway, I'm going to tell you this story now and you can listen or not. I really don't care. It's just that I feel obligated
to try to save you. But you probably don't want to be saved. You're probably one of them.
It was only a little while ago that I had been watching porn in the basement.
I sat on the couch, one hand on my beer, one on my cock. When my wife caught me, her face turned red and the tears quickly
swelled up in her eyes. It wasn't that I was watching porn or anything. No, she's no prude. She was upset because I hadn't
had a boner in almost three weeks, and the first time she catches me alone I'm pointing straight up to the roof thanks to
women who aren't even touching me. Women who aren;t even in the room.
I'm not going to lie to you. My wife is hot. Really hot. I'm talking the type of woman that makes guys turn around when
they pass her on the street. The type that makes them store a mental picture for when they get home, and the type that makes
them look at me and think that's a lucky guy. Sometimes I let out a fart or get a whiff of my armpit and I wonder how she
can ever have sex with me. But I guess we've all had that thought. After all, she must fart too. Even Miss America takes
a dump every once in a while.
So here I have this beautiful woman, blonde hair, flat stomach, the whole works. And I can't get it up. Imagine that.
But I'm watching these two fat women on the TV, right, but fucking fat. They've got these monster boobs, and these bellies
that seem to jiggle forever. And here I am, intrigued, excited for the first time in three weeks. So my wife comes down,
and you know what she says to me? She says, "You've got a drinking problem." I tell her, "Yeah, I'm not drunk yet. That's
a problem."
That's when my hot wife gets hysterical. She's crying and ranting about this and that, something about why didn't I just
marry the fat girl across the street. And out of nowhere she takes off her shirt and bra, grabs me, and starts whacking away
like a gardener. Then she gets down on her knees and starts sucking, but I mean crazy, like it was a race. As if I was about
to shoot out money or something. Let me tell you, at this point I'm about thirty seconds away from the white waterfall.
My wife can't start the fire, but she knows how to keep it going. But you know what happens? Before I get the chance my
twelve-year-old son comes racing down the stairs because his damn mother is flying off the handle, and he's going? "Mommy?
What's going on?" And here's Mommy with Daddy's dick in her mouth, and there's these two fat women on the TV doing the naked
tango, and my kid wants to know what the fuck is going on.
Does anyone know what the fuck is going on?
So she says, :Your dad's an alcoholic." You believe that? She gets right up off the floor, tears and snot dripping down
into her mouth, and she says, "You're dad's an alcoholic." Then she grabs her shirt, and instead of putting it on she throws
it at me, and she storms up the stairs, right past our twelve-year-old son, yelling for him to go back to bed.
"No, come down here, Alex," I said. He started down the steps and I pulled my pants up, but didn't buckle my belt because
it hurt too much. I still had a rock solid. I tucked it behind the elastic of my boxers the best I could.
So my wife stops short at the top of the stairs and says, "What the hell are you doing?" When she says this she puts her
hands on her sides and sticks her head out. She looks like a freakin' rooster.
"He's already seen it. There's no sense not explaining it. My boy's growing up today"
"Oh no, he's not! You are not exposing my son to this filth!" The longer we were fighting, the longer Alex's eyes were
fixated on the TV. His expression did not show pleasure or horror. It was this blank, emotionless stare. I'm not sure if
he was set on looking at the TV or not looking at his parents.
My wife shot me an evil glare. "Show him your Playboy magazines or something. What is this fat shit? I don't want you
turning my son into a pervert."
"What's that supposed to mean? Are you calling me a pervert?"
"Damn right I am. You see this," she said, and she made curving motions down the sides of her body with her hands. "Most
guys would kill for this.'
"Well I'm not the one who woke our son trying to compete with the fat ladies on TV. Put your damn bra on." She muttered
some stuff I couldn't hear and stormed all the way up to the bedroom.
So I'm left with my son who hasn't moved or said a word since he came downstairs, and I say sorry your mother's a nutjob.
"Listen son," I tell him. "This is porn. What they're doing is perfectly natural, and so is enjoying it. Don't ever let
someone tell you what you're supposed to like. Got that?"
He nodded. My wife's turned him into a mute.
"And what you saw me and your mom doing before, that's natural too. There's nothing to be ashamed of."
Now here's the part that really pisses me off. I'm having a talk, bonding with my son, you know? But my wife comes stomping
down the stairs with her tits still flopping everywhere, and she's got this Playboy in her hand. She chucks it at Alex's
chest and it falls to the ground, and then she says, "This is what normal guys look at. I don't want you turning out like
your father."
And now I'm shouting, "PUT YOUR FUCKING BRA ON!" But she doesn't move. You know things are fucked up when your naked mother
is trying to block your view of the naked fat ladies.
So you know what I did? I grabbed the magazine and went straight to the fridge. Then I took out as many beers as I could
hold and I came up here. I left the TV on.
When I got here, I locked the door behind me and dropped the beers in the sink. Then I pulled down my pants and sat down
on the cold toilet. I had a bad case of blue balls by now.
I opened the magazine and began to take care of business, which wasn't going to take very long. The women were extremely
boring and mostly the same, but I was so close that anything would've done. That's when she starts pounding on the door.
She's yelling, "Come out here! What are you doing in there?"
"I'm doing what normal people do," I told her, and I continued about my business despite her pleas. It only took a minute
or two for me to finish, and it kind of hurt a little but was very necessary. I cleaned up with some tissues and dropped
them in the toilet, but didn't flush so that my wife would think I was still going at it.
Then something funny happened. When I stood up to get a beer I saw my fat neighbor sitting on her lawn across the street.
And you know what she was wearing? She was wearing a skirt! She had a book and appeared to be reading out loud, so I opened
the window to see if I could hear her. But it turns out she wasn't reading, she was singing. Right there on the front lawn,
two seconds after I pulled my pants up. And I wish I had seen her sitting there before I started masturbating.
I know it's hard for you to understand, especially since you're probably one of them, but try to imagine what this is like.
The one thing you want the most, sitting right in front of your eyes, waiting for you, and you can't do anything about it
because you've wasted your one chance on the Playboy model.
And now I feel stuck here. I know I can just open the door and walk out, but something is forcing me to stay right here.
There's nothing for me to do, and I'm no longer excited. But I just can't leave.
The banging stops. I hear her sliding down the door until she's on the ground and she's weeping softly. "Stan? Please,
answer me."
"What is it?'
"Why do fat women turn you on more than me?"
"You know what they say. It's the size of the thighs."
"They don't say that, Stan."
"I say it."
"Since when are you they?"
"No. They are me. Every one of them. They just don't know it yet."
"What are you saying? I don't understand."
"Forget it. You just can't help what you like. Eventually it catches up to you and you can't fight it."
"Can't I come in and help you finish?"
"It's already finished. It's been finished for a long time."
"So why are you still in there?"
"I don't know. I didn't want you to know, I guess."
"Are you coming out?"
"No. I'm going to stay here for a while."
I hear Alex come up the stairs. His bedroom door closes, my bedroom door closes, and I take another sip of beer and flush
the toilet.
Written by Brian Tanenbaum. 2007.
If someone other than me has written an article, I'll be sure to include a byline at the bottom.
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