3: Dear Husband, Three Can Play
752 Words
‘I want a divorce.’
My husband’s voice rings in my head. That’s not the tone he uses when he jokes around. Plus, Greg rarely has time for jokes.
He meant it. Every damn word.
“Oh… Damn you.” I swallow the shot of tequila and slam my hand to my chest, desperate to dull the burning sensation.
My life is shattering before me. I'm a housewife. A full f*****g time housewife! Thanks to Greg, I quit my office job to babysit his ass, groom him, and the family we dreamed of creating. I brush tears from my cheeks and grab the edge of the bar.
I'm still at home, crying my lungs out. I should do his laundry, pick out his work clothes for tomorrow, and iron them out. I should select the matching pair of shoes and polish them. But not today.
My phone rings. It’s Ariana.
“Where are you?!” She is literally screaming.
“Uh— close. Very close.”
I hear her sigh. “Gurl, you suck at lying. We’re gonna be late.”
“I'm close, trust me.” I bite another lie and end the call before she says something else.
I trample on his lipstick-stained shirt and head for our grand bedroom. He’s in the bathroom when I arrive. Without a word, I change into a knee-length yellow dress, ankle-high boots, I pack my stubborn curls in a pony, and drive off to Ariana’s.
She is on the porch, sipping from a glass and ranting on the phone. She’s wearing a knitted black two-piece. Scratch that, she is barely clothed. Her ass cheeks swells against the quite generous pores, the outline of her black g-string and bra is obvious. I get out and walk down. Oddly, she stops and gives me the ‘What the hell?’ look.
“Let me call you back.” She focuses on me. “What’s…” Her eyes scan me from head to toe. “This.”
I want to say something, but I know I’ll spill the tea on my pending divorce. Instead, I swallow my words and just stutter.
“It’s a s*x party. And even if it’s a church program, you look horrible.”
I don’t argue, plus Ariana thinks I'm not just old-fashioned, but fashion dumb.
“We need to fix you.” She grabs my wrist and drags me along. “Thank goodness the stylist is still around.”
Ariana rallies around with the stylist just so they can find something fitting. I'm a bit thicker than her, curvy and way busty, so every one of her dresses ends up being too revealing.
“Perfect!” She smacks her ass, her dirty way of exclaiming.
“It’s…” I stop for a moment and just stare at my reflection. Damn!
The silver mesh dress hugs me like it’s made for sin—every glint of light tracing the outline of my curves, every shimmer daring eyes to linger. The fabric was sheer enough to taunt. I'm braless, my full breasts greedily kiss it, leaving the generous outline of my sizeable n*****s.
In the mirror, the old me died.
“You’re fire, girl!” She slaps my ass, causing me to bump forward. “Come on, we have to go.”
“Uh— My bra…”
“If they were at least sexy, I would have considered it.” She kills me with that line. “Ease up, there will be about a hundred naked women if that helps.”
Fair enough, I could easily blend in with the crowd. I whip my head around but I can’t find Mark. “Isn’t he coming with us?”
“Who?” She pulls me along. “Oh. He had an emergency, but we’ll meet there anyway.”
The drive down to the party is long, as if we’re leaving the city. I was born in Chicago, I can swear I know every inch of the city, but this place… It’s hidden.
We finally arrive at the glamorous building. From the Parking lot, the banding music from the clubhouse is loud. And Ariana is right, I literally see a lady with full breasts out…
“Seen what you like?” She teases me.
I quickly look away and focus on the queue we’re behind.
“One more thing, Bree.” Ariana bends over and whispers in my ear. “Acceptance means you're initiated. And once you’re in… you dare not leak a word.”
- Writer
