Troubles and Treats

“But…that’s my swing,” I whine loudly and try not to stomp my foot.

“Shhhhhhh, I just got him back to sleep,” Jenny whispers while giving me a stern look as she gently sways from side to side and stares lovingly down at Billy – IN MY MOTHER FUCKING SEX SWING!

“Sex…me…the swing…bad….sex…barf.”

Nonsense. That’s what is coming out of my mouth. Pure nonsense.

The gift that's supposed to rejuvenate our sex life has now become a new baby rocker.

Barf.

“Come over here and sit with me on the swing, Drew. There’s plenty of room,” Jenny says softly as she stares down at Billy.

Sit next to my wife on a sex swing and NOT have sex? I do not understand what is happening right now. Is she speaking English?

“No hablo SEX! Billy bad! Me want!” I complain, stomping my foot for real this time.

“Drew! What the hell is wrong with you tonight?” Jenny whispers loudly.

MY PENIS IS DYING AND MY EYES ARE BLEEDING! That’s what’s wrong with me, woman!

“You are ruining my present,” she complains.

“You ruined my penis!” I complain back.

“I ruined your pens? What does that even mean? I never touched your pens.”

Oh believe me, I’m well aware of how much you HAVEN’T touched my PENS. This whispering thing obviously isn’t working.

With resignation, I pull my cell phone out of my pocket and head into the bathroom while I scroll through the newest Erotica dot com updates.

“Where are you going?” Jenny asks softly as she watches me take my walk of shame across the floor of our bedroom.

“To a backyard barbeque where Misty and her friend Buffy cornered their high school Science teacher in a bathroom and asked him to explain the theory of threesome-tivity,” I mumble sadly.

Chapter 2 – Negative, Ghost Rider

Jenny and I have been married going on…uh, something like four years. Or is it three? Our daughter Veronica is three and Jenny definitely wasn’t knocked up at our wedding. So, three, take away the one, carry the two…eh, three years and some change sounds about right.

Our wedding was the shit! It was the most romantic, perfect day ever. Our friends and a few family members went with us to Vegas, baby! And the best part? You guessed it, we were married by Elvis. Not the real Elvis. Last I heard he was spotted somewhere in Piedmont, North Dakota. This guy was totally a fake, but he was still shitballs good. Jenny surprised me with a shirt to wear during the ceremony. In big, block letters it had the word “Groom” with a giant “X” through it. Underneath it was written: The Bride’s Bitch.

I had known the first moment that I met Jenny I would be her bitch, and I am perfectly okay with that. If I wasn’t with her, I’m pretty sure I would be in prison and belong to the dude with the most packs of smokes. This is way better. The day we met she had just finished throwing a sex toy party and sampled the merchandise a few minutes beforehand. I didn’t know if it was the glow from her recent orgasm or not, but she was the hottest chick I had ever laid eyes on. I had immediately thrown away my man-whore card and stuck to her like glue.

Every day since that moment, I have never regretted one second I’ve spent with her. That makes it imperative I fix whatever problems we have as soon as possible.

“So how long HAS it been since you and Jenny had sex?” Jim asks.

The guys know all about the sex swing incident. As much as it had pained me to have to relive the horror of that night last weekend, they knew what I was planning and were expecting a full run-down of the events. The guys at the hardware store had a candlelight vigil for me earlier this evening. It really was a touching moment but it just made me all emotional and shit. When I had walked into work tonight and started sobbing uncontrollably, mumbling words like “rocking” and “sleepy penis” and saying, “My kid is the spawn of Satan,” they knew the night didn’t go as planned.

After telling them about my cock-blocking kid and showing them the Ziploc baggie filled with rice that had my cell phone nestled in it, they know it was a banner evening at the Parritt house.

“And more importantly, why is your phone in a bag of cooked rice?” Carter questions as he reaches across the table and fingers the contents of the bag. I smack his hand away and pull the bag closer to me.

We are on our lunch break at the automotive plant and seated at a corner table in the lunch room. The three of us still work the night shift, and there is nothing unusual about the fact that our “lunch break” occurs at 11:30 at night.

“I dropped my phone in the toilet,” I mutter.

“Again?” Jim asks with a laugh.

“Shut up ass**le. I was trying to scroll to the next page of the story. Fucking touch screen phones. And I wasn’t even jerking off this time. I was sitting on the edge of the tub. It was a really good part of the story too. Buffy just recited the theory of threesome-tivity, and Misty was going to reward her for being so smart. I wanted to see if Misty was wearing the pink jean skirt and white tank top like in the story about their senior prom. It was a really cute outfit.”

Both men stare at me for so long I’m pretty sure their faces might be frozen.

“You seriously need to get laid. Right the f**k now,” Carter tells me. “And you’re not supposed to use cooked rice, genius. Why the hell is it brown?”

I roll my eyes at him. The rice is obviously not the important part of this story.