MILF Toast, a short story by StevenHunley. Date added: 2010-06-28. Times viewed: 6209.
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- Intro: A married woman puts the spark back in a relationship
"Harry, will you put down that newspaper and give me my toast?"
"Just a minute Hon," was the answer.
"Just a minute Hon," was always the answer, in this, the third year of their marriage. That's what pissed her off.
By the time Harry handed her toast it was always cold, and she couldn't help but make a mess of it trying to spread the butter. She hated Harry for making her do that, making a mess of her toast.
"I need it now Harry, it's getting cold!" she shot back, "Now put down that newspaper!"
He did, then handed her the cold toast. Now his face is free of the paper we can see what Harry looks like.
Harry was passably handsome and fresh-faced for a man of nearly forty. His hair was cut neat and he shaved quite close. One could say he was well groomed.
Wanda was nothing to ignore either. She was in great shape for a woman who'd just had a baby and had worked hard to regain her figure. The work had obviously paid off. She wasn't a pound overweight now, and looked as slim as she'd been in her twenties. She had magnificent eyes and rich brown hair flowing down to her shoulders.
I could say she looked good and leave it at that but right now she didn't. She was in a bad mood about the toast. Harry had resumed his paper and besides the phrase, "Just a minute Hon," hadn't uttered another word. That was part of their problem, they weren't talking much. And there was another problem. Did I mention it? They had been married three years.
For the first year or so the sex had been good. But now the blush had faded from the rose. Lately it had become routine. It was a trap many married couples fall into, knowing the "significant other" isn't going anywhere they become complacent. You might like lobster or fillet mignon, but having it every day of the week? Not for Harry, not for Wanda. This unspoken problem had led to them not talking, and that made things even worse.
Now that they had stopped talking their lines of communication had broken down completely. Communication is communication, whether it’s with words or sex.
"I'm off to work," said Harry, "See you at eight, I may be late."
She gave him one of those kisses goodbye that meant nothing.
She piled up the dishes, and threw out the uneaten toast. Then she went into the bedroom and piled up the editions of the Kama Sutra and Perfumed Garden she'd been reading and threw them out. She was running out of ideas. Lastly she sat down on the edge of the bed and had herself a bit of a cry. Well, maybe more than a bit but you know what I mean.
When she had regained her composure she decided she'd go out and spend some money. That always seemed to make her feel better. If Harry wouldn't give her attention then she'd give some to herself. Where better to give yourself attention than at the beauty shop? So that's where she went first. Besides, she liked dumping her problems on Trixie, her beautician, who always lent her an eager ear.
"Trixie," she said, sitting down in the chair, "I'm having problems with Harry."
Trixie was one of those hair-cutter types, who when you saw them, always had a different colored hair from the last time you were in. Now it was blond and glittery, last time it was Gothic black, the time before that streaked.
"There’s nothing new there Love," she answered, "I'm always having trouble with my Stanley. But what kind of trouble exactly?"
"He's tired of me. I try to be different but I'm always the same."
"In bed?" Trixie had instincts like radar.
"I know what he's suffering from. It's a case of the Same Olds Same Olds, that's what he's got."
Did I mention Trixie was a Brit? Trixie was a transplanted English Rose. She talked like a Brit and walked like a Brit, which is to say, with style.
"Let me look at you girl."
She spun the chair around a turn.
"You got your figure back, that's for sure, he can't complain there. Then she looked at her hair.
"You need a changeup, that's what you need. Give him a bit of a change, make him think he's got someone else in the sack."
"Do you think it might work?"
"Works for my Stanley. Been with him for fifteen years. Why do you think my hair goes through so many colours?"
Then she whispered and pointed to the other customers waiting. "You think I change it for these old hags? Not on your life. It's for my Stanley. Jump through hoops for these customers? Not on a bet. But my Stan, he's worth jumping through every hoop in the bleedin' circus."
"Well, I was thinking of getting my hair cut."
“You think of more than that by the time I'm through with you," Trixie continued, “Just leave it to your Trixie.”
So that's what Wanda did. After all, what did she have to lose? Harry? She'd lost him months ago.
So it was a "snip snip here" and a "snip snip there" kind of like the Lion in the Emerald City in the Wizard of Oz. Wanda's hair was cut short. But Trixie didn't stop there. They sold lipstick at the shop too.
"Now Love, let me give you a history lesson in Lipstck 101."
"I'm listening," said Wanda, and she was.
"You know Betty Boop?"
"Well, not personally, but I know who you mean."
"You ought to Love, she's an American icon she is. She's got cupie-doll lips. In the twenties, all women wanted cupie-doll lips. The only problem was, some of their natural lips didn't quite fit the mold, if you know what I mean."
"You mean like mine?"
"Spot on, like yours. Nowadays women like to imitate Angelina Jolie, now there's a woman with lips. Full lips are in style. But if you're lips are a bit thin, well Lovey, there's a way to get around it, which is... you just go around them!"
She demonstrated. She applied a new color to Wanda's lips and went outside the natural lip lines, visually increasing their fullness. Wanda looked in the hand held mirror when she was done. They looked definitely fuller. Angelina would have been jealous.
"In the twenties the women did the same thing. They'd even skip the color on the corners and get these pouty Cupie doll- Betty Boop lips instead. It looked kind of like Helen Bonham Carter's lipstick when she's playing the Red Queen in Alice in Wonderland. Real heart-shaped."
"So men will like it better."
"Of course they will, besides, the heart-shape reminds them of your ass. It's a psychological thing."
"The things they teach you in beauty school."
"It's the school of life I picked that one up in Lovey, the School of Life."
Wanda looked at herself in the mirror. She did look different. Not completely different but different. She'd never had hair or lips like that.
"It's just a start Love, just a start. Here's what else I want you to do. You buy some new clothes, perfume and shoes too. Something different of course, and when you're done, come back in and see me. I'd like to see the finished product."
"I'll do it," she answered, and was out the door. Wanda was ready to have some fun.
She found a top at Mervin's which clung in all the right places and some skinny jeans to match. The high heels she found made her so tall she nearly got a nose-bleed. She could barely keep her balance. Skinny jeans and high heels? Yes, she looked quite the tart. That was her intent.
Then she picked out a perfume. The one she picked was called Eden, and had a new and marvelous scent. Now she was taller, her hair and lips were different, her clothes, and on the way back to Trixie's she worked on changing her walk.
Trixie was impressed. The only thing left was her eyes. Wanda had beautifully distinctive eyes. They were shots of rusty brown near the irises and extended into a calm green on the outside edges.
"We can take care of that right now," said Trixie, "with these."
She opened a drawer and gave her a pair of sunglasses. Now she looked a different woman entirely.
"I've got to go home now and make dinner," Wanda said, “but you've made a new woman of me and I'll never forget it."
She gave her a hug and left.
She started planning the meal on the way home and realized she needed to go to the store. She was in the vegetable section with some melons when he spotted her.
It was Harry. He could hardly believe his eyes. A woman standing there grabbed his attention by the throat. Melons had never looked that good. He pushed his cart her direction.
She looked up.
"That man down at the end of the isle, my God, it's Harry. And he's seen me."
He started rolling her way.
"That girl. Look at her. She'd drop dead gorgeous."
"He's got a strange look in his eyes. Why hasn't he said anything yet? It's not like Harry to not say anything."
She turned to give him a closer look.
"He's giving me a look..."
"What do you say to a girl like that? Just look at her!"
Now he was going to say something. His lips parted and he would probably give her a compliment. That's what she figured. Instead he said,
"'Can you direct me to the zucchini?
In her head computations were going on. The look he gave her wasn't a look of recognition. She'd seen it before, but not since they were married. It was one of those hungry sort of looks men give women. That was it! He didn't recognize her! The look, when she identified it, was the look he'd given her at the high-school dance, before they were introduced. She hadn't seen this look in his eyes for years.
She said nothing and tilted her head and tried to look stupid, narrowing her eyes in a questioning manner. Wanda wasn't just beautiful, she was smart. She dropped the tone of her voice a smidgen.
"If zucchini is what you want, look over there where it says Italian squash."
"Oh, I didn't recognize them. They usually grow them bigger around here."
This is the point where Wanda decided to have even more fun.
"I wouldn't know about that. I'm not from around here. I'm only here for the weekend. What’s there to do?”
"There's not much to do I admit. It's kind of a bedroom community."
"I've got nothing against bedrooms," she answered, "if they're mine. But I'm at the Marriot, only here for the auditor’s convention. The hotel bedroom is the only one I've got. I'm bored."
Harry started to do the math. Beautiful friendly woman+ in town only a day+bored+ likes bedrooms. He liked what it might add up to.
"You only need some company," he said, "I'd give you something to do but I'm married."
"You don't look to married to me," she said, and moved closer to him, so close he could smell her perfume, then whispered so softly he had to lean even closer to hear her say, “Don’t let that stop you."
When Harry got a whiff of Eden it was so good, like a garden he'd never been in. And it wasn't just the perfume. It was the combination of her and the perfume, that proprietary fragrance each individual woman wears. He succumbed.
"We should have drinks and talk over old times. Do you drink?"
Now he’s being funny.
"Like a fish," she smiled.
Now he was hooked.
"What's your poison?" Now he was getting cute. She hadn't seen him get cute in years.
"Orange juice and Vodka."
"Yes," she answered. And bring plenty of vodka. There's nothing I like better than a stiff screw."
"My God,” she observed, "he's drooling."
"Make it eight o'clock at the Marriot. Room fourteen."
He turned around with his cart and left. He forgot about the melons he'd seen. At least the melon melons. Now he had other fish to fry. On the way out he ran into a pyramid of tomato soup cans, demolishing it. He was driving his cart under the influence, her influence. She pretended not to see, thinking it would affect his manhood later. Men are such fragile beasts. She needed him in to be in good shape.
On the way out an annoying thought occurred to her. Her husband was preparing to do it with another woman! She knew it was her but he didn't. This gave her mixed feelings. She was of two minds about it. How should she handle this? What exactly was going to happen? How could she possible go through with this charade?
"Damn," thought Wanda, “What have I got myself into?"
She needed time to think and prepare. So that's what she did. But not before calling the Marriot and reserving a room.
When Wanda walked into the room at the Marriot she had some things to put in the drawers. She still hadn’t decided what to do about Harry. On either side of the double bed there was a nightstand with a lamp on top and a drawer beneath.
Into the one on the left she placed an assortment of condoms. In the one on the right she placed a nine millimeter Berretta with a full clip. Now she was ready to relax and take a bath. She had an hour to kill. Let’s hope that wasn’t all. Either way she was prepared. Some women like to be prepared. Can you blame them?
She placed some of those little colored balls of perfumed bath salts in the bath and stirred them around until they dissolved. She put a white fluffy cotton bathrobe near the tub and slipped into the hot water, and here she lounged until about seven thirty. No matter how much she considered it she still couldn’t make up her mind what to do.
“I’ll do whatever he makes me do,” she concluded, “I’ll just have to see. I’ll suppose I’ll just play it by ear.”
At seven thirty she got out and put on the robe and only the robe. It was a treat not wearing any underwear. By habit she looked into the mirror, ready to put on her make-up then figured,
“He’s not going to see my face anyway. So why put it on?”
She walked into the room and turned out the overhead light. Instead, she turned on the two shaded lamps on either side of the bed and tilted the shades so that the shadow they provided hit about half way up the pillows. She reclined on her back and regarded herself in the mirror on the dresser which faced the foot of the bed. With a single adjustment, the shadows fell over the pillows and if she placed her head just right, hid her eyes and the top of her head. The rest of her, from her lips to her toes, was bathed in light. The sunglasses she’d worn during the day were now unnecessary. Then she waited for his knock.
At eight it came.
She flopped on the bed and checked her reflection in the mirror. Perfect. Hollywood film noir couldn’t have lighted better. She dropped the register of her voice and trying to sound like Marlene Dietrich said,
“Come in. It’s unlocked.”
Harry walked in carrying a bag with ice, Stolichnaya Gold, and two glasses. He was prepared too.
“Just put that over there.”
He placed the bag on the dresser and when he turned around and regarded the room he suddenly realized just how much a hotel room resembled a bedroom.
“So, tell me all about yourself,” she said leaning back.
In keeping with the Dietrich theme she let one of her legs come out of the robe and drew her foot up nearer her body while the other leg lay straight, and clasped her hands around the folded leg like in the publicity shot from The Blue Angel where Marlene sits on a barrel.
Did I mention that Wanda had magnificent legs? She did. Magnificent, same as her eyes.
This pose proved particularly effective.
He gulped and then he sputtered. Then he composed himself and managed to come up with,
“My name is Harry,” as if he was reciting it to his third, no, make that second, second grade teacher.
“I’m Lola. And I’m lonely,” is what she answered. If she’d had a top hat she’d have put it on.
They talked for over an hour and over the drinks as well. Wanda made it a point to avoid the subject of wives in general. But finally the moment of truth had come. She rolled over and approached the dresser on the left and opened the drawer. What she took out she fanned with one hand and waved them at him like a magician with a hand full of cards doing a trick. He recognized the devices at once.
“I suppose you’ll need a few of these.”
“I suppose,” he sputtered, “a few.”
She was upping the ante. But he was prepared to raise the bet even further.
“I’ll be right back,” he said, and went into the bathroom.
“I knew it,” she said, “I just knew it!”
She rolled over and opened the drawer on the right, took out the Beretta and placed in under the pillow. Who could she blame about this? Only herself.
He opened the door and came out fully clothed. As he approached her hand slipped under the pillow just as his went for his belt. He grabbed the end and pulled it free from the loop. Her hand felt for the cold steel between the cool cotton sheet and pillowcase. He grasped the end of the belt with his hand and started to tug at it to free it from the buckle. Her palm wrapped around the handle of the gun.
Suddenly his hand lost its grip and he fell on his knees.
“I can’t do this,” he cried, “I can’t do this.”
Her hand went free of the pistol.
His hands covered his face just as her eyes escaped the shadow. He started crying.
“I’ve got a beautiful wife. You know? A beautiful wife.”
She took his head in her hands and placed it on her lap.
“So why aren’t you with her?”
“I can’t talk to her anymore. We have nothing to talk about. I’ve run out of things to say.”
So that was it. It was a communications breakdown.
“That happens between all couples at one time or another. Just give it another try. You’ll find something I’m sure. Here, let me give you something to drink.”
He continued sobbing and she slid his head off her lap and on to the bed. Finally he composed himself. By the time his outbreak was over and his tears had cleared from his eyes he noticed there was silence in the room. She was gone, that’s why.
Wanda went home, and except for the hair changed into herself. She went down into the playroom and fixed herself a drink. She started a fire in the fireplace and wondered as she sat there just what would happen next.
Within the hour Harry arrived carrying a brown paper sack.
“It’s some Vodka, want a drink? Say, your hair! You’ve done your hair!”
“You like it?”
“Yes, it’s wonderful. Quite fashionable. It suits you.”
“Good. Then let’s celebrate. Fix me a screwdriver.”
“Of course,’ replied Harry, all new-like, as if he’d been purged or something, “If there’s anything my Wanda would like it’s probably a stiff screw.”
Wanda was not to be outdone. She walked over and said,
“Let me fix it. Here’s how I like it.”
She took out some country-style orange juice all thick and full of pulp. Then she chose a tall glass.
“Now watch me Harry. Here’s how I make it suit my taste.”
He watched her like a man transfixed.
“When I get a stiff screw I like it so be long.”
And she slapped the tall glass down on the bar.
She poured in the country-style juice.
“And strong,” she said, filling it up half-way with vodka, “See what I mean?”
Right then Harry did see what she meant. He knew damned-sure exactly what she meant.
“Yes Darling, I’m sure.”
She took him by the hand and into the bedroom.
“But before all this,” she cautioned, motioning to herself with a sweep of her hand from head to toe, “we talk.”
What happened after the talk I can hardly discuss it was so very “X” rated. So we’ll just leave that part alone. But I might mention that afterwards, they talked so much pillow-talk that they noticed the dawn was appearing through the blinds when they weren’t even through.
“That’s OK,” Harry said, “we can continue this later. Let’s eat. I’m famished.”
You may take note that on that morning the toast wasn’t delivered cold over the morning paper by a non-attendant Harry. Wanda now got her toast hot, and she didn’t have to butter it, Harry buttered it himself.
And before I forget, I might point out that Harry caught Wanda retrieving her books out of the trash, and that the next time she saw Trixie she gave her a hefty tip.
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