Rainy Days Last Longer

Cloudy cold mornings are unwelcoming of my Sunday routine with G.  We grab breakfast at the market and walk to the beach.  Even in weather this brisk, the routine is comforting. 

But the gray this morning somehow exposes the ugliness of my surroundings; the cracks in the pavement and garbage on the sand. I imagine I wouldn't have noticed these things on a nice day, and that thought only adds to the hollowness in my chest.  Everything moves far too slowly on days like this. 

G tugs on my bare ring finger, and I realize tears had been silently falling from my eyes on our short walk. 

"What are you feeling, Mama?” Asks my precocious 6 year old.  She shouldn't have to ask these questions, and her teeny voice and wide eyes makes it hurt more. 

"Sometimes rainy days make me think of sad things, baby" I wiped my tears on my sleeve and carried her the rest of the way. 

It happens like this, sometimes.  A pause will expose what lies beneath the expertly arranged ornaments of my life.  I don't like exposure, it's why I avoid the sun and trendy restaurants.  I’m comfortable adorned in lies; I suppose I always have been. 

It isn’t clear what exactly I’m sad about, but I remind myself things can’t be that bad.  I love my family, my life, and my job.  I have everything in the world I could possibly want.  I tell myself this moping is a sign of weakness, but it twists and burns more as if to demand attention.  So I sit on the damp sand and watch my daughter skip stones, thinking only of the waves.  

"Sometimes sunny days make me sad," G said when we were walking home.  It was time for her play date and my dreaded Sunday Skype chat with S in which he consistently manages to infuriate me. 

"They do?" I stretched my voice, trying to make a joke out of it.

"Uh huh."

There was a long silence as I weighed whether or not I wanted to know what could possibly make my little girl sad on a beautiful sunny day.

"Its because," she skipped in front of me and started walking backwards up our driveway, “They go by realreal quick, and then its done, and the whole time I’m thinking ‘don’t end, don’t go away.  But it does before it even begins.  Rainy days last longer.’”  She lunged at me and buried her pink face in the folds of my raincoat, as if she knew I needed a hug. 

We stopped and kicked off our rain boots in the foyer.  G ran off to her playroom and I just stood there in my jacket staring out of the open door, taking in the slow pace of a longer day. 

The Daddy Daycare Blowjob Incident

My real name isn’t Stella Bliss.  Shocking, I know.  Of course the name was contrived with S’s approval, and unbeknown to him has special meaning to me other than inducing images of a passionate Marlon Brando and general… you know, pleasure. 

Like I told S when I was indoctrinated into his house of curvaceous representatives, I might as well use my own name since most of my regulars live right here in town.  Though many of them pretend I’m someone someone else entirely when we meet for our little trysts, and that’s his whole argument.  The game, the secret, the anonymity; Shuuuut up…I live on the same fucking street as you!

Many scream Stella when we’re together, then wave at “G’s Mommy” when we’re at the Soccer game the next morning, avoiding my real name altogether.  Fair enough.  I mean, I have clients who hunker down between automobiles and duck behind menus when I round a corner, as if playing peek-a-boo will make me disappear.  I’m not taking the ability to insight knee-knocking fear in the self-titled elite lightly.  Just a power I don’t have use for right now. 

Then there is Ken, dubbed so for his Mattel look-a-like and equally as charming soon-to-be ex, Barbie.  Ken only calls me by my real name, which is fair enough I suppose as he’s G's best friend's Dad.  My ex-Ass Nugget P and I used to be friends with Barbie and Ken, before Barbie fled the dream house with a Swiss financier.

So, that leads us to this afternoon’s double play date and the question that ran through my head: why not mix a little business with… Mommy business?  Ken’s a standard spent 10 years married to a no-blowjob giving tyrant kind of guy.  No gadgets required, I thought as I continued to talk myself into it. 

So as the girls plopped down in front of the Disney Channel with fresh popcorn and Barbie’s Chihuahua to snuggle with, Ken pulled me into his home office and locked the door with a mischievous, sparkling white smile.

“_________,” He whispered my name, squeezing my hand tightly as he pulled me towards him in the darkening room. 

The widening of his eyes betrayed the unspoken storyline; we were two teenagers hiding from out parents, and we needed to be quiet. 

I was game. 

His pants dropped to the floor as I approached, my consciousness quickly flashing into the other room. “The baaast of both worldsss!” Two tiny, innocent voices sang along with the Hannah Montana theme.  

His hands tickled the back of my neck, groping at fistfuls of my hair with each suppressed moan as I teased him with my tongue. 

There was more talking than singing in the other room now, but the thick pulse in my mouth and soft touch at my neck was like tunnel vision. 

“Don’t stop.”

I glanced up at him from bellow, smiling mischievously as I’d done exactly what he’d ordered me not too.

“Well, smack me upside the head you whore!”  The door had swung open and my almost ex-husband, P, stood in the doorway wearing a wrinkled pink polo and a satisfied gleam in his eye. 

Just the sound of that mother fuckers voice and I fell back on my thankfully still fully clothed ass.

“So I see I’m not the only one getting’ a little mmmhmm on the side?  And with my man Ken here to boot.” 

“What the HELL is he doing here Ken!”  I jumped up and brushed myself off then stared over at Ken, who was standing there with his rapidly softening cock hanging out.

“Dude, the game isn’t on for another hour,” Ken said, finally adjusting himself. 

P responded by holding up two six packs of Bud bottles, as if that made his irritating presence understandable to everyone.

Apparently it did to Ken, because I was on my way out the  door.  P suspiciously followed when I kissed G goodbye, and even when Ken walked me outside.  

“So are you two dating now, or is this just a fuck thing?  Cause, you know,” P turned to Ken, “My wife here gave me the axe for fucking whores so if you’re gonna go there you better knock out those weekly blowjobs from that town whore I keep hearing about,”  P elbowed Ken in the stomach.   

I rolled my eyes disbelievingly.  My expression, my everything keeping up the façade of frustration even my ex-husband couldn’t crack, “a prostitute in this town? good one guys.”

We arranged a pick-up time, the door shut and I deflated against it. 

Town. Whore.

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Face Down, Pants Up

Cadillac is an ass man.

He made that clear from the moment he pulled his Escalade in my garage.  That isn’t a poorly constructed euphemism… the man is paranoid.  He owns one of the most successful hedge funds in Fairfield County and is married to a waspy blonde from a political family with a name that sounds like something that got caught in the drain. 

           

“Take off your clothes, I’ve only got 40 minutes,” he loosened his cobalt brooks brother’s tie, hiking one hip up on my kitchen counter. 

“You’ve booked me for the weekend...?”

Subtext, douche bag: I could have booked 3 other clients, so you better pay me in full.

“Your money’s all here, Stella,” he pulled a roll of cash from his back pocket tucked in a Tiffany & Co. money clip, engraved with an S. 

I gave an approving nod.  It’s a rule of mine never to say thank you to a client.  It’s their job to praise me.  Unless, you know, we’re doing a role-play thing. 

He grabbed my hand roughly “You are all mine. All weekend.  I just stopped by for an appetizer.”

I leaned in to kiss him, stopped by his hand over my mouth and socked foot rising up between my legs in the same motion. 

“Turn around and take off all your clothes.”

I did as he said, facing out the picture window in my eat-in kitchen.  I live atop a hill on four acres, which is a privacy draw for big shots like Cadillac, according to S. 

He was behind me the second my panties hit the floor, his hands and tongue caressing my ass.  I melted back in his arms and he lifted me and placed me ass up on the table. 

“Do you want me?” he asked.

“Right now,” I told him, eying his pants from the corner of my eye.  It would have been my response regardless of the client, but In this case it was the truth.  Cadillac is powerful, handsome and the sex is unbelievable.  "Why are your pants still on?"

He ran his hands over my skin, standing above me, fully clothed, ignoring my question.  

“You know what I’m going to do to you?” 

“Ah?”  Images of being bent over his wife’s outdoor flowerbed, twisted inside trunk of his Escalade, and on his office desk all during our last engagement came to mind. 

“Yeah.  All of that,” he laughed, as if he could read my thoughts.  “But…harder, faster, and much, much more.” 

His breath was close to my ear as he ran his tongue along the ridge.  His hands seemed to wander the length of my body for the full 40 minutes. 

“Not now,” Cadillac said, finally.

He left through the garage, anonymously gliding back into town, and the waving passerby’s oblivious that I remained face down on my kitchen table choking on the taste of pine sol. 

Come back soon for more Bliss…

Home on a Saturday Night

It's not like I didn't have business to attend to, but G is sick and needs Mommy's chicken soup more than I need the Mulberry Alexa bag.

Somewhere out there in southern Connecticut, a woman has abandoned her husband for girls night, leaving him with nothing but shitty mega pixels, fake moans (I fancy mine realistic) and a jumbo bottle of astroglide. 

On a normal evening I'd see it as my duty to put a stop to such a scene.  The dildo toting, fishnet clad superhero Stella Bliss, to the rescue!

 I'm taking suggestions for official names bellow.   

S showed up at my house, pissed I'm not working, as per the usual manager (read: pimp) modus operandi.

"Could you be an even bigger caricature of yourself?"

I mean, the guy calls me woman. 

"I could beat you with a stick, wear a cape and a pointy hat." 

"The question was rhetorical.  Plus, you're describing a scary ass wizard, not a pimp."  I paused, peaking my head out from the glass panes on the top of my back door.  He isn't allowed in. 

He had his back turned away, head cocked sideways as if he'd never seen a sunset.  S, always perfectly suited and coiffed with a shit eating grin to boot, looked too city to be hanging out in the 'burbs.  Heads turn and eyebrows go up.  There may also be some lady whistling.

"Wizards are pimp," his face and pointed finger were suddenly pressed up against the glass.

 "Take the FACKIN' night off, okay?  Give the little one a kiss for me, and make sure you get in your cardio, woman"

I came off my tippy toes and waved goodbye with one finger. 

Nice to know there's one man in my life who cares about my kid.  Douche mongrel, on the other hand, couldn't wait to get rid of his daughter for the rest of the weekend.  But then I get to be the one who makes the soup. 

I might have turned my back on the whole housewife thing, but there was one recipe I kept. 

While Smart Pop and Hannah Montana isn't as glamorous as my Agent Provocateur, there's no where in the world I'd rather be on this Saturday night then curled up on the couch with my feverish little girl. 

The Kindergarten Teacher

I fucked my daughter’s kindergarten teacher, Mrs. W last week. 

She doesn’t know her husband is paying me for weekly nooners.  One household, two clients.  They were just married in June, a formal affair featured in Greenwich Magazine.  I’m certainly maximizing my profit margin. 

Sex with the kindergarten teacher was a whole ordeal.  The mascara tears and hesitant kisses quickly turned into kinky play with jump rope bondage and edible children’s paste.  I should clarify; the tryst took place in her classroom after school hours.  Her idea, not mine.

I normally don’t do girls if I’m their first, but the price was too good to pass up.  Mrs. W, only 25 and born in argyle pampers, most certainly hadn’t tasted the pleasure of female company. 

It’s not like I’ve been doing this that long myself.  Whore didn’t top my career ambitions when I graduated from an Ivy.  I got knocked up later that year though, and felt obliged to marry P, or as I referred to him this morning in front of our lawyers, shit eating weasel breath.  The name changes daily you see, now that I’m ridding myself of him. 

But, this is about life post P.  Because his idiocy is how my whoring career started.  Not that I blame him for it.  I actually see this as the best decision I ever made.  I should send him a bottle of champagne, really. 

So, we got married and like a good, albeit well educated Connecticut girl, I decided it would be prudent for me to stay home and raise my daughter, make the house, cook the delicious things on the cover of Martha Stuart (our ex-neighbor), and lay still while P orgasms inside of me 2.5 times a week.   Did everyone in this state forget what decade we’re in?  I grudgingly digress…

There was a reason, of course, that I was able to stay home and enjoy these luxuries.  We were rich.  Not just comfortable, but 3 car garage with 2  parked out front, huge diamond ring and vacation homes all over the northeast, rich.

So, naturally when the market crashed along with our bank accounts and his career, and P came clean about his nasty little $50,000 a month prostitute habit which drained our savings, I had no choice but to kick his ass out on our fresh sod lawn. 

Fast-forward two years, and I’m still living large.  But now it’s on the dime of the husbands (and wives) of my promiscuous neighbors, soccer coaches, restaurateurs, and other local community members who serve to complicate things a bit more. 

So that’s me: Stella Bliss, from housewife to still very suburban whore. 

How I eventually came to this profession is a longer and much more interesting story than my brief prelude as a housewife.  Though I suppose during the day that’s still what I am… only as a cover, of course. 

Come back soon for more Bliss…