I didn't see my wife.

I saw a thin faded sundress, and the silhouette of a woman underneath. She was reaching for her bag. Sun-bleached golden, long wisps of her hair brushed the floor of the station as she bent to the ground. The backs of her sandals dug into her heels, like she'd been walking too long and too far.

Curiousity moved me up the back of her legs, to the strawberry birthmark just at the edge of where her skirt met her skin.

I shifted in my seat, trying to be discreetly interested. There are a lot of creeps in bus stations. This was a traveler's last resort. People don't take Greyhound for the adventure. They take Greyhound because they're too poor to travel. And wherever these people were going, you could bet it was somewhere tourists wouldn't even stop to piss.

Besides, a nice ass doesn't guarantee a nice face. I waited it out.

Here she goes. Why do girls do that with their hair? When they bend to do stuff and then get back up and whip their hair out of their face? Do they know it's an instant hard-on or are they completely oblivious? So after the flip of the hair, I see the eyes. This is a sad, sexy woman. The kind of eyes that have seen pain and heat and everything in between. The kind of eyes that see right through me. The greenest eyes I've ever seen. She had one eyebrow raised to the somewhere behind me, making it safe to stare.

I traveled the slide of her cheeks, the round of her hips, the arch of her neck, and the faintest edge of white lace winking at me from behind the strap of her dress. Her skin was copper from a mix of sun and hard work. Her nails were short and clean. Her hands, fine-tuned and steady.

This was the kind of woman who could take a shot of tequila without making a face. The kind who walked past me everytime.

So while I'm thoroughly checking her out, hiding the growing show of appreciation in my pants with a copy of Time Magazine, she starts walking... still staring at the great somewhere I'm not. I'm letting her get away. So without thinking, I stick my foot out, and she goes flying. Can you believe that? What an asshole! Now she's on the ground and it's my fault. So I jump up to make sure she's alright and she just looks straight through me and says, all business-like, "I'm fine, thank you."

I reach my hand out to her to help her up when I see that her ears are turning red and she's breaking a sweat at her temples. It hits me that she's embarrassed. And it strikes me funny for some reason; that a woman like that could be embarrassed.

So I start to laugh. And I can't stop. It's the kind that comes out with a guffaw, with snorts and hiccups. The kind that makes a guy look real cool. At first she's looking at me like I'm an asshole. And then it strikes her funny too. So there we are in the middle of the Greyhound station, tears rolling down our faces, when I look down and realize that I'm still holding her hand. And she's holding mine back.

I remember it like it happened this morning.

It's funny because when she'd ask me when I realized I loved her, I never could answer her. I couldn't think of when. I'd just shrug and say, "I don't know."

When she was pregnant with Jill, I wouldn't cross the room to put my hand on her belly when the baby was kicking. But at night, when she was sleeping, I'd slide down the bed and put my ear up to her belly and listen.

I was stupid, pretending she didn't know I did shit like that.

I met Jenny Sue about two weeks after I separated from She Who Sits at the Right Hand of Satan. I found myself moving into an affordable (meaning slightly run down) ‘garden apartment’ (sans garden) which was mercifully located on the third floor. So I lived above most everything. The complex had the usual collection of single-parent families, college students, dysfunctional families and a woman in 2142 who was very cute, wore a skin tight leopard-skin jumpsuit and saw four or five ‘gentleman’ callers every day. Not what I was used to, but my lawyer demands payment in advance, and by then my marriage had deteriorated to law sex, which is when you both pay lawyers a lot of money to fuck each other.

I didn’t move in looking to meet a woman. In fact, a woman was the last thing I wanted after four years with Evil Incarnate. But divorce hadn’t killed me yet, and Jenny Sue lived across the parking lot. She had a first floor two bedroom with two young kids and her biker boyfriend, at least on the nights he decided to come home. Jenny Sue isn’t very tall, in fact she’s downright short but then you don’t judge a woman for her height. She never dressed to get attention, just the usual jeans and billowy tops of your average young mother. But there was no hiding her curves. ‘Classic voluptuous’ is the term, which simply means, she’s got tits, and she’s got ass. In spades, particularly the tits part. Fact is I’ve never seen a women in real life over thirty with boobs that big which didn’t hang to her navel. And although I’d sometimes like to claim membership in the sensitive, New Age guy set the truth is that a great pair of hooters will often get you a lot more attention than a great personality even though personality might be a better long term investment.

And not just from me.

Still it took us a long time to get together. She Who Sits on Satan’s lap had soured me on the entire concept of women and like I said Jenny Sue had a boyfriend at the time. A really, really big boyfriend. King Kong wore a pony-tail down to his ass, studded leather everything and a whole raft of prison tattoos. So I decided my health required my staying away from two things: Jenny Sue and his Harley, a point made ever more clear by the lawyer sucking up every dime I had sparring with She Satan.

Unfortunately for the King motorcycles and sour mash really don’t mix well. One night King Kong didn’t come home. That in itself was nothing unusual. But when two purse-lipped police officers knocked on her door looking for the ‘next of kin’ I realized tonight was different. Seems the King bet his life that he could beat a train across a crossing and lost. I was sitting on my porch and heard the whole conversation, so I went downstairs and watched her kids while she went downtown to identify the body. I knew she’d came back a wreck so I got dinner together for her and the kids, called a mortician I knew from college and generally got the ball rolling until she pulled herself together.

As her parents weren’t exactly supportive, her brother dead and most of her friends in jail or rehab I became her official crying shoulder for the duration. Still, when you consider the circumstances she pulled together really well. Somehow Paul patched the King up well enough to open up the paper-mache coffin funeral parlors sell for the price of your first born male child. Jenny Sue stood up front at the viewing like a grieving widow while I hung back a bit because I wasn’t exactly close to the deceased. Not to mention the crowd of Death’s Angels shooting whiskey as they stood around the coffin. They seemed friendly enough but I figured that if I spent too much time hanging around Jenny Sue they might wonder what I was doing with their dead brother’s old lady. And it seemed as though the viewing would go smoothly. Jenny Sue wore nice black dress and for once got along decently with the King’s parents and ex-wives. But I could see Jenny Sue getting testy. More than a couple strange women showed up to mourn the King’s passing. Still most left quickly after seeing Jenny Sue. We had thirty minutes left when Ellen showed up.

Ellen was hook-nosed and bone skinny except for a pair of boobies the size of Rhode Island. She dressed in black and accented her face with black streaks from crying out her mascara Ellen had enough attitude to face down Dick Cheney with a shotgun. She came to the coffin, broke down then started looking around the room for someone. She found Jenny Sue and made a beeline toward her, stuck her finger in Jenny Sue’s face and declared, “So you’re the bitch who’s been keeping house with my man.”

Right away she and Jenny Sue began a knockdown, drag-out glaring match that might have gotten ugly except neither one really wanted to catfight on a coffin. And they might have stayed angry if fate hadn’t intervened. Fate took the form of petite, perfectly proportioned Oriental girl wearing skin tight black leather shorts, fuck-me pumps and funeral black “Bad Girl’ tank top. She had the face and body of a porn star, ten pounds of silicone, too much makeup and legs all the way up to her ass. She shook it for everyone every step of the way up to the King’s coffin. Then she threw her arm over her forehead and commenced wailing.

“Why?” she wailed, and threw herself on the coffin. Right about where the King’s waist was. Fact is I think she even reached inside the coffin for a ceremonial Last Grope. And everyone just watched because when time she broke down her boobies shimmied in perfect time, her tight little heart-shaped butt quivered and because her tears lined absolutely perfectly tanned skin.

Ellen and Jenny Sue were much less amused. The declared an armistice and immediately redirected their death stares at this previously unknown interloper. Turns out that the King had been two-timing both of them. And how! Now Jenny Sue is pretty good looking, but in a very unspectacular way. Ellen can politely be described as plain. She’s positively the skinniest, boniest girl I’d ever seen in my life. Everything about her is long and lean, including her nose. If if wasn't for her overstuffed boobs she had no curves at all. But this new woman was gorgeous! Whatever their previous anger at each other, it was immediately overwhelmed by solidarity in the face of a much prettier rival. Jenny Sue and Ellen synchronized their death stares and started exchanging notes on the King, most of whom centered on his drinking habits, riding on the back of his Harley, and his manhood. Which probably explained all the wailing women. By the time the coffin was planted they had bonded, shared cries, stories and Ellen promised to bring her kids over next Saturday.

Which she did.

Over the next few weeks I pitched in a bit when she needed help dealing with the problems death creates. But that’s as far as it went. She Who Serves Satan was still trying to get her ten pounds of my moist, tender flesh. Of course Jenny Sue had some weak moments after the funeral. Such episodes come naturally after a death, despite his rampant infidelities. Even her kids were affected, and although they did still have a father who sometimes showed up for visitation, they missed having the King in their life.

I knew exactly how they felt. My Daddy left when I was nine.

So one day when their father ‘got hung up’ I decided to do something. I bought some pop, a pack of hot dogs, and my favorite baked beans and invited everyone to an impromptu cook out. Especially the kids. When I asked Jenny Sue’s face brightened up for the first time since the King's passing. And so we all climbed into my Focus and headed out for the park. I started the fire and ended up tossing a baseball with Tad, and teaching Brittany how to throw a Frisbee. We ended up in a big circle tossing the disc around and took a hike in the woods. And when the park closed at dusk we headed home the kids were smiling, and asking me when we’d go again.

“Soon,” I told them and I could feel Jenny Sue smiling at me even though I had my eyes on the road.

“And what do you say to Mr. Christensen?”

“Thank you Mr. Christensen,” they wailed in unison. It felt really good too.

Three days later Tad came over to tell me that Mom had told him to ask me over to dinner. Now I half-expected some kind of payback, but I really didn’t want one, especially this soon. But there was no way I could say no to that kid. Jenny Sue went all out that night. She made a nice big meatloaf covered in salsa, with real mashed potatoes and a salad. She even had some ice cream for dessert. The kids were all smiling at me, and Jenny Sue had her apron on, and she looked happy. After the kids had showed me their school projects and their new games, and I’d played Sorry with them we sat down on the couch together to watch a movie. The kids sat right between us all full of life. I’d seen Star Wars a few dozen times. So had they, but it really didn’t make much difference to anyone. Tad said he wanted to be Luke Skywalker but he imitated Darth Vader, while Brittany swooned every time Han Solo came on screen. Jenny Sue ushered me out at the kids bedtime. I had fun. I only thought about my divorce four or five times the entire night.

And so it went for a while, with me taking the kids out when Dad got ‘tied up with something’ (which wasn’t every weekend). Jenny Sue immediately feeling that she had to pay me back. Which I didn’t like and finally told her so.

Naturally she took it the wrong way. “You don’t like my cooking?” She looked darned hurt too.

“No, I love your cooking and a home cooked meal does me a bit of good now and then. I’ll I’m saying is that I don’t need you paying me back. I enjoy those picnics. It takes my mind off things I don't need to be thinking about.”

“Well, your visits take my mind off of Lenny.”

Lenny? Who knew that the King had a name? “Why do you think I asked you guys out in the first place?”

“Oh, so it was a pity party.”

“No, it wasn’t a pity party. I’m not looking down on you. But anybody who loses their lover has got to need a bit of comforting.”

She narrowed her eyes. “And what sort of comfort did you have in mind?”

“The friendly kind.”

Jenny Sue laughed bitterly and right then I realized how badly I had screwed up. Of course a man who wants to bag a babe says he’s being friendly. “I didn’t mean it that way. I don’t want to have sex with you.”

Jenny Sue completed one of those instantaneous changes of emotion women are justly so famed for, changing from pissed off to hurt in the drop of a hat. “Am I that unattractive? Is that why Lenny was screwing everyone?”

“Of course you’re pretty!”

“Then why don’t you want me!”

“I’m getting divorced. I don’t want anyone right now.”

“Oh yeah? I bet you want that Miko. I saw you staring at her ass during the funeral.”

She had me. Of course I was staring at her ass. Everyone stared at her ass. You couldn’t hardly help yourself. But that didn’t excuse me in Jenny Sue’s eyes. The fact that I didn’t instantly come up with a plausible lie closed the case.

“So you're hot for Miko.”

I lied and said I wasn't. But for once I came up with the right reply saying “I don’t usually date girls who come to a funeral dressed for an orgy.”

“Yeah, but you looked at her her ass and not mine.”

“Jenny Sue you know that isn’t true. I look at your ass all the time. I just have the basic human decency to wait until your back is turned.”

That made her smile again. “What about my tits?”

“Excuse me?”

“I said ‘what about my boobs?’ Do you look at my tits?”

“Well, you don’t really dress in much to show them off.”

“Are you calling me a frump.”

“No, I’m not calling you a frump. But you just don’t flaunt it.”

“So I am a frump.”

“No you’re not. You’re just modest.”

She laughed. “You don’t know me very well, do you?” and she unbuttoned the top four buttons of her shirt, pulled it apart and leaned forward. “Take a good look at these!”

And there they were, rising like the Appalacians out of amber waves of bra. Full and quivering like living things, even confined as they were. I’d known she had hooters, but before that moment I’d never guessed how much. She gave me a thin smile as she leaned back and re-buttoned her shirt. “Pretty good, aren’t they?”

I couldn’t say a thing. When you’ve gotten a view like that it sort of stops your mental processes for a moment. At least if you’re a guy. If you’re a girl it’s probably a combination of jealousy and relief that you don’t have to lug them around. But for a guy it’s as if you’re at the Gates of Heaven and you suddenly realize the place really does stretch on forever.

“Don’t worry, it isn’t me that asks you over.”

“What do you mean?” Now it was my turn to be disappointed. I’d like to think a bit of the old Christensen magic had survived four years with She Satan.

“Chris, I would never ask you over on my own. I do it for the kids.”

“Oh. Well if it’s the kids. I wouldn’t want to disappoint them.”

“Definitely the kids.” She smiled as she said that. And that’s all I thought it was too. But I kept thinking about the view she so deliberately gave me. Finally I decided she was just trying to reassure herself.

About three months after King Kong died Jenny Sue’s ex found a fresh dose of responsibility and began showing up consistently for visitation. One Friday night I saw her in her kitchen as I climbed the stairwell up to my apartment and waved. She waved back. Thinking nothing more of it I went inside and took my evening shower. I’d just gotten out when I heard someone knocking at my door. Of course it was Jenny Sue, and she’d brought beer, and had left a few important shirt buttons undone. I forced myself not to look too much. She handed me a cold one and pushed her way in even though I was standing there in nothing more than my bathrobe. “Pleased to see you,” I said, and decided a cold one worked for me.

“I wanted to drink some beer tonight, and I’m told that if you drink alone you’re on the road to alcoholism.”

“I’ve heard that too. I’ll be happy to help. Give me a minute and I’ll go get dressed.”

“You don’t have to get all dressed up for me.”

“How about simply dressed?”

She ignored my words. “Never seen that bathrobe before. It looks like silk.” And she started running her fingers over the material, and by default, my chest.

“It is. My ex bought it for me during one of her credit card sprees, back when she was still spending some of my money on me.”

“At least she didn’t beat you up.”

“She leaves that to her lawyer.”

“I know something about that too. You have any music in this house?”

I pointed to the el cheapo boom box on the mantle.

Jenny Sue hopped right up and began looking through my remaining CDs. Both of them.

“I keep forgetting she got everything. Your lawyer sucks “

“True, but I can almost afford him. She doesn’t have to afford hers. New Guy is loaded.”

“She’s replaced you already?”

“She replaced me before she left.”

“Okay, I’ll run downstairs for some tunes.”

“I’ll get dressed.”

“Nope. I like you right the way you are.”

I could feel myself blushing. This wasn’t the Jenny Sue I knew, though it was clearly the same woman. But I decided to do the honorable thing and managed to slip my good set of boxers on before she got back. I was even dithering over lighting some candles when Jenny Sue pushed her way back inside. “Your music’s kind of conventional,” she observed, and slid a CD into the boom box. “What are you playing?” “The Lords of Acid. I can’t play them around the kids. Shaddup and dance.”

Now I had heard of the Lords of Acid before, but I can’t say I recognized any of their songs. Of course none of their songs get played on the radio an account of the fact that I’ve read letters to Penthouse that were less explicit. But the beat was good and driving and Jenny Sue just grabbed my arm and pulled me to my feet.

And then she began grinding herself against me. That’s when I learned the Jenny Sue school of dancing. She didn’t Tango, she didn’t do the twist, she didn’t Bossa Nova. What she did was hump and grind. I sort of felt like one of the poles at the nudie bar except she didn’t wrap her legs around me and spin. And she kept her clothes on. But there was a pole of course, right beneath my boxers and every time she bent over and rubbed her butt right up against it I worried if I’d need dry cleaning. Not that it stopped me from pressing back, of course.

So for the next half our or so we hump danced and swigged our beers. We got another beer, and humped some more and still more after that. Pretty soon hump-dancing progressed to kissy-face. And from kissy face to introductory gropes, which fit nicely with our humping. Jenny Sue sucked my tongue in her mouth as if it were a triple-chocolate shake. I mean, she gave me an honest-to-God tongue hickey, which I had heretofore never thought possible.

But the real surprise came when we progressed from free-range groping to full speed ahead trouser infiltration. She was rubbing me through my boxers, and I had discovered that underneath her oversized blouses she wore some very interesting underwear. I ran my fingers down the crack of her nicely rounded bottom when she reared back and whispered, “You can fuck my ass if you want to.” In a moment of clarity I suddenly realized that at long last I was dancing groin to groin with the very woman Rick James warned us about. Fact is, a proposition like that just doesn’t come up every day, or even every lifetime. Seeing as how I didn’t want to die with a whole lot of regrets, I did the only sensible thing: I carried her to my room and threw her on the bed.

And so it was a few hours later when she was buns-up squealing while I went at her at ramming speed. I was panting and groaning and giving her all I was worth.. And she thanked me for every drop too. As we recovered with me lying on top of her with both of us sweating like monsoons when I allowed that I might not ever be able to come again.

Jenny Sue wasn’t having any of that. “Wrong. You’re my man now and my man is a horny man! Got it? You get it up and keep it up or I’ll kick your ass!”

Well what can you say to that?

And so it was that me and Jenny Sue set up housekeeping on those evenings when her ex-husband, grandparents or the occasional babysitter had charge of the kids. And I have to say I liked it. She cooked now and then, didn’t bitch about my cooking, or me, or the way I kept house, or how little money I had. She listened to the music I liked, showed me new stuff and made me laugh. And we fucked like bunnies stocking up for Easter. This was a wonderful change from the Evil One, who thought blowjobs were only given in return for precious stones. Sometimes I would baby-sit Jenny Sue’s kids so she and Ellen could have a ‘ladies night out’. Which was kind of fun as the kids liked me, as they were setting me up for something.

One day Ellen wandered over out of the blue while Jenny Sue and I were doing dishes. She gave her personal knockety-knock-knock then pushed open the door. “I won four tickets to see the Spotted Shorts at the Odeon tomorrow.

Jenny Sue’s eyes perked up. “The Spotted Shorts you say? Man, I love them. And they're playing here!

“I guess they're slumming. But they're coming and I've got the tickets. I got a hot date too. The mechanic at the Sunoco behind my house."

“The tall blonde one with the dimples? I didn’t think he was interested.”

“He wants to see the Shorts and that’s all the opening I need. Who are you going to take?”

“I’m taking Chris of course.”

Ellen shook her head at me.

“You know Ellen, if you’re going to try and cut me down you at least ought to have the courtesy to do it behind my back.”

“I’m not cutting you down, I just don’t know how you can fill Lenny’s shoes.”

“It’s all in the tongue.” And I wiggled my tongue at her.

“You’re no Gene Simmons.”

“I haven’t heard surgery there either”

“Simmons didn't have surgery.  Found out on Snopes.  Still,  I’m hotter for Waco, the lead singer of the Spotted Shorts.”

“Me too,” suggested Jenny Sue and I positively swear there was a bit of drool rolling off her tongue. “He’s really ripped.”

“Hung too. I hear he has a genuine ten inches of Georgia pink snake,” suggested Ellen. “You know he has it tattooed.”

“He had his dick tattooed?”

“Yeah, he had a snake tattooed on it.”

“That’s too wild!”

I shook my head. “No way that could be true. It hurts just hearing about it.”

Ellen laughed, “Yeah, but you’re too wimpy to get a tattoo anywhere.”

“It's got nothing to do with my tastes. It's because I'm the only person present in possession of his very own penis. Dicks are sensitive. He’d have to hold a hard-on for hours all while they stuck his cock full of needles. Ain’t no way!”

“Way. He’s got rings in his nipples and lip, and two studs in his tongue.”

“Oooooo!” You could practically see Jenny Sue creaming.

“Would you like it if I got stuff like that?”

“Honey, you would look good with a dragon tattooed on your cock.”

“Not happening.”

“How about a flaming death’s head on your shoulder?”

“I’m not a flaming Death’s head kind of guy.”

“How about a cross on your bicep?”

“How would I explain that to my customers?”

“Gee, I’ve never seen you go to work shirtless. Or tie-less for that matter.”

“Of course I wear a shirt and tie! I deal directly with clients.”

“There are other tattoos. And other places to put them.”

“But I don’t want a tattoo.”

“Pussy,” suggested Ellen.

“Don’t call me a pussy.”

“You won’t get a tattoo.”

“Like you have any.”

“The Hell I don’t!” Ellen unsnapped her jeans turned her back on me and pulled them straight down, exposing her bony ass. Sure enough there on her right cheek she had tattooed a complete Harley Davidson insignia. The piece took up practically her entire cheek, and I have to admit it was nice work. She grinned back at me and suggested I could kiss her ass.

I was pissed at her for challenging me so I did just what she said. And I figured it was best to do it with a bit of style too. I bent down and ran my tongue deep into her crack. “Consider it kissed!” I added, before taking my place by Jenny Sue.

Ellen pulled her pants up and turned around. For the first time I saw something resembling actual respect in her eyes.

Jenny Sue was laughing so hard I thought she'd tear up on me. “Now you see why he’s my man. A bit of ornery, but you can count on him. You have to admit Lenny wasn’t very good at responsibility.”

“No, he wasn’t. But when he was there!” For emphasis Ellen completed a series of slow but provocative pelvic thrusts. “He wasn’t the King for nothing.”

Jenny Sue laughed. “Chris is my man now, so you’ll just have to get used to it.” And then Jenny Sue reached right over to give my loins a squeeze. Naturally I responded with a tent of my own.

Ellen studied my groin intently. “Well, they say a hard man is good to find, so more power to you. But for me I want to lick every bit of Spotted Shorts snake until it spits at me!”

“You know what they say to do in case of snake bite.”

“Suck out the poison! Only he won’t be shooting poison.”

“Amen sister. Chris, would you leave me if I blew Waco at the gig?”

“Well, seeing as how it’s a big fantasy and I might want one of my own one day.”

“What kind of fantasy do you have?”

The usual” It came to me that mentioning your fantasies was sort of like playing hopscotch in a minefield.

“And who do you fantasize about.”


Jenny Sue and Ellen both laughed. “You lying dog! You’re ex-wife must have rode you hard. So tell me, what famous lady would you like to bag if you had a chance?”

I stopped for a moment to think. “Who was it who played the Empress in Gladiator?”

“I know,” said Ellen. “Connie Neilsen.”

“She played that redhead in Devil’s Advocate. Yeah, she's hot all right. Kinda flat though.”

“Oh, she’s smoking! But Waco’s even hotter. And I plan to let him know it. “

“Are you going to flash him at the concert?”

“I’ll flash the whole band if I get the chance. Hell, I’ll do more than flash him.”

“Like what?” whispered Jenny Sue.

“You’ll see..”

Jenny Sue sort of tilted her head and regarded Ellen with narrowed eyes. “You wouldn’t!”

“I will, if I can.”

“No way! There’ll be cops and everything.”

“Hey, the King just died. We’re all gonna go sooner or later. It’d be worth a night in jail just to taste that meat.”

“You are the ultimate groupie,” I suggested.

“I’m no groupie, I’m a full-fledged band ‘ho. “ Ellen and Jenny Sue just started giggling and shaking their tits. I sort of felt like I’d been invited to sit in at a secret female fertility ritual where the women verbally boffed the men of their dreams. But I can’t say I understood it. On the other hand, when Ellen left Jenny Sue practically dragged me to bed, and right there in her matching red lace bra and thong she ritually sucked off Waco, lead singer of the Spotted Shorts.

Only it was my dick in her mouth. And I realized that if just imagining this guy turned her this ravenous that I’d better start eating oysters and taking vitamin E, because I knew I’d be in for a long night.


Will Ellen bag Waco? Will Chris find True Love and escape from She Satan's Clutch? Click here for the stunning conclusion!

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