Last week I left off with me and my wife parked at L.A.’s Black Beach having lunch and me preoccupied with the “activities” taking place in the Lincoln parked behind us. Last week I left off with me and my wife parked at L.A.’s Black Beach having lunch and me preoccupied with the “activities” taking place in the Lincoln parked behind us. I had just concluded Eager Beaver was a hooker because a wife wouldn’t do that. Okay. Now that we’re all up to speed, that’s when it happened.
He kisses her on the mouth! Yeah, I couldn’t believe it either, he actually kissed her on the mouth! And short of his sexual escapade being “mind blowing” he didn’t need a stamped passport to verify where her mouth just emigrated from. Hmmm. I never saw that happen on HBO’s “Hookers on the Point”. Did I miss an episode or is marriage keeping me from the latest haps these days? Didn’t Julia Roberts tell Richard Gere kissing on the mouth is personal, in Pretty Woman? Happy Bastard kissing Eager Beaver on the mouth while on the job is like the pinnacle of sexual gratitude! But then again maybe she was his girlfriend, wife, or the LA equivalent: his live-in woman (until he gets a three-picture deal from Paramount and kicks her ass to the curb on a blonde White girl trade-in. Didn’t Brother O.J. teach us anything?)
Unfortunately, when I believed that man was having tawdry sex with some cheap broad he paid for, it seemed okay (in a very secular way). I viewed that woman as on object; a thing. But now that he kissed her I don’t know what to think. “WIFE”. There’s a level of universal reverence when it comes to a woman that possess that title. It’s respected. I had to ask myself if I was becoming “conservative” after close to a year and a half of marriage? Might I vote Republican in 2004? So, I ask myself: “Would I dare take my wife here to ‘get jiggy with it’”? But what respectable husband would do such a thing? Yet more importantly, what respectable wife would do such a thing?
By this time my wife has to return to her neuro science conference. So, I start the car and make a U-turn. I have to do it. I have to see what that man looks like. I have to know who the hell brings his wife/girlfriend/hooker to Sandpiper St. to get his knob polished, not once but twice, then talks to her, then kisses her on the mouth.
So, as I make my turn Happy Bastard now has Eager Beaver pressed against the passenger door. “Are they?” I asked my wife. “Yeah I think they are.” They are having intercourse. Damn! I guess the black Secret Service/Homeland Security suburban that just rolled past us wasn’t the effected deterrent to deviance our brilliant President believed it would be. When they passed my parked car they stared Cheryl and I down as if our last names were Mr. And Mrs. Al-Qaida and we were folding anthrax letters while plotting our next orange level terrorist attack. So as our car gets closer to the Lincoln, the lascivious culprits straighten up. Like nothing just took place. Then came the moment of truth.
That man and I meet face to face. He actually smiles at me, as if he’s proud of himself, as if to say, “Yeah boy, I’m the mother#@%^&* man! Ain’t I?” And for that brief moment the Quick Draw McGraw high schooler in me wanted to empathize with him and give him a great big old ESPN X-Games hi-five, but I couldn’t. Because I ain’t in high school anymore. I can afford the quarter hour rates at the finest Crenshaw Blvd. Crack motels. In addition to the fact that Happy Bastard is still sporting a jheri curl. More importantly, I can’t condone it because I’m married now. Wives are delicate flowers that need to be held in the highest regard and there’s no way in hell I’d subject her to such public carnality. Why? Because a Wife Wouldn’t Do That so neither should I.