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I travel to Philadelphia a few times a year for business. I’ve been doing so for a few years now. On one of my first trips to Philly, I befriended a very attractive divorcee named Connie. She’s slightly older than I am, but she looks a lot younger than her age and is a lot of fun. Our relationship is physical in nature for the most part, but we keep in touch and I pay her a visit every time I’m in Philadelphia.
I was in Philadelphia last week and like always, I gave Connie a call. She was happy to hear from me and told me to stop over her place after my early afternoon business meeting. On my way to her place, I stopped and bought a bottle of Connie’s favorite beverage—wine.
She greeted me at the door with a huge smile and she looked incredible. She smelled great and had on a tight blouse and a little skirt showing off her sexy legs. We played grabass as we walked to the kitchen to get wineglasses and open the bottle of wine. It was about 2:30 in the afternoon, and before I could get the corkscrew into the bottle, she was on me like white on rice. We were making out against the kitchen counter when we heard the front door open. It was Eddie, her 15 year-old son, coming home from school.
I gave her a look as if to say, “What the hell is he doing here?” I thought to myself, “Shit, I’m not getting any action now.” I opened the bottle, poured us each a glass and I took a few big gulps to numb my disappointment.
She whispered, “His baseball practice got cancelled. I couldn’t do anything about it. But we can still have fun.”
Eddie exchanged pleasantries with us and proceeded down the stairs leading from the kitchen to the basement gameroom to play PlayStation.
“How can we do anything with him in the house?” I asked.
She said, “Easy. I allow him to go downstairs and play his video games with his friends online after school. He likes to listen to his music too, so the deal is that he can stay down there and play his video games for as long as it takes for one of his CD’s to play from start to finish. Then he has to come upstairs and do his homework when the CD is over. Trust me—once that music starts he stays down there the whole time. He doesn’t even stop to take a piss.”
Just then, hip-hop music started blaring from the basement. Boom-da-boom-boom!
“I don’t know about this,” I said. “Can’t we at least go up to your bedroom?”
“No, because we won’t be able to hear when the music stops,” she explained.
“I’m not sure about—“
“The meter’s running, fella,” she interrupted, “What’s it gonna be?”
I took a moment to ponder the situation. I didn’t want her kid walking in on me boning his mother. On the other hand, I wanted her bad.
I grabbed her by the ass and threw her on top of the counter. We became engulfed in passion. Our hands and mouths were all over each other. I worked my mouth down her neck, then lower, and lower, and lower when suddenly the music stopped. My head popped out from under her skirt like a startled prairie dog.
“That’s just the end of the first song, you ass,” she said and pulled me back towards her. Sure enough, the music started again.
We went back to what we were doing, and removed only a minimal amount of our clothing because of the circumstances. After about a song and a half of foreplay, we started getting down to business. We started really going at it. Good thing Eddie was playing his music loudly because his mother was getting rather vocal.
In the back of my mind though was the thought of Eddie down in the basement and the deadline set by the length of the CD he was playing. “I wish I knew how many tracks were on this CD,” I thought to myself. So while I was trying to concentrate on the task at hand, I couldn’t help but be distracted and listen for Eddie coming up the stairs. At the end of each song, I stopped doing what I was doing until I could hear a new song start to play. As soon as the music started up again, so did I. It was like I was playing a perverse game of musical chairs. It was ridiculous.
While my state of distraction obviously had no effect on Connie, it seemed to prevent me from “finishing.” Therefore, in a race against time and what I believe was an Eminem CD, I overcompensated in an attempt to finish. (She had already “finished” several times by now.) I gave it my all, 110%; I put in a real MVP performance. I threw the best hump of my life into her. Unfortunately, my heightened level of strenuous activity coupled with anxiety stemming from the fear of Eddie walking in manifested itself in the form of profuse perspiration. The fact that I was still wearing my dress shirt and necktie didn’t help matters either. I was sweating like a sum’bitch. I was drenched.
Suddenly, the music stopped. We both listened. A new song did not start. Shit!
We both scrambled to get back to our original state of dress before Eddie came upstairs. I finally straightened myself out when I realized my shirt was soaking wet from sweating, as was my hair.
“Look at me, Connie! I’m soaked!” I said frantically. “Eddie can’t see me like this. He’ll be wondering what the hell happened! Look at this, my shirt is sticking to me.”
We could hear Eddie running up the stairs. Just as Eddie popped his head into the room, Connie grabbed a full glass of wine from the counter and threw it in my face!
“You bastard!” she screamed. “Don’t talk to me that way!”
I stood there stunned. Now I was drenched with sweat and wine. All I could say was, “Wha-?”
“You asshole! If you don’t want to have dinner with me, then just say so!” she screamed.
She looked into my eyes and gave me an odd look. Then I figured out what she was doing. She was pretending that we were having an argument so she could throw a drink on me to disguise the sweat. In retrospect, I have to give her credit for thinking so quickly, although I wasn’t thrilled with having wine thrown on me at the time.
“Oh!” I said. Then I struggled to think of a good comeback for the pretend argument. “Well, maybe if you didn’t chew like a mule I would want to have dinner with you!”
Splash! Another glass of wine in my face!
“Yeah, your mother’s a mule!” she yelled back.
“Listen here, you filthy little spit-covered—“
Just then, BAM! Something smacked me in the back of the head. I heard the projectile fall to the floor. I looked down and saw an orange rolling on the floor. I turned and there stood Eddie peering at me from under his baseball hat; Eddie threw an orange at my head.
Wasted and wounded, I surrendered at that point. “I’m just going to go,” I told her.
She walked me to the door. We both tried to keep pretending we were mad at each other in case Eddie was still paying attention.
“I’ll call you later,” she whispered.
And there I was. Standing on a Philadelphia street corner, soaking wet, smelling of wine, sexually frustrated, having just been assaulted with an orange, asking myself, “Did that really happen?”
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