Our Smart

Our Smart

"sure ya said you loved me, but you still called the cops on me" - paraphrased - marvin gaye

©aladreth
(previously published)

Pigs are very intelligent creatures, you know.  You may think wallowing in mud is stupid, but if it keeps you cool and keeps people at their distance, then what?  Sign me up.  Pigs are smart.

They even sell cute little statues of pigs sitting on their plump bottoms, head cocked to one side, like they are taking in every conversation.

Remember this as I tell you my story, it may apply, and it may not. I just like to share these tidbits of trivia with you.

I'm going to start at the beginning.  People say they start there, but normally they don't.

Usually they leave out the disgusting, filthy, dirty parts.

Not me.  You know me by now.

I should have known it wasn't going to work because the way it started was me flat on my back and him straddled over me with his 'you know what' deep down my throat.

Now, I'm not saying I haven't done such things in the past, but for many years now, I've been a card carrying member of a select Female Supremacy group and we made pacts about sticking filthy things to our goddess-lips, and well, we just don't do it.

My lips, for sure, are about the cleanest thing you would ever come across in this town.

People lie, though.  Even big time movie stars and film directors.  They told me an old gal I knew died from a heart attack and then I went to "The Smoking Gun" and found out different.

Seems she had hired two sober folks to guard her to keep her off drugs.  Isn't it weird how nowadays you can hire someone to guard you from yourself?

This is good information for many of you who are going to hell in a hand basket.

Anyway, back to the gal.  She died from a drug overdose.

I suppose that would cause a heart attack.  So, at the end of the day, there's a bit of truth in every lie.  And vice versa.  Don't forget about the vice versa.  A lie in every truth.  You wouldn't think so, but yes, it is there like the proverbial sore thumb.

That cock sucking predicament aforementioned, well, that's Elliot I'm talking about here, in case you want to know.

Professor Elliot, who is exactly 13 years older than me.  That's bad luck, in case you want to know.  The bad luck number in America, anyway.  It's different numbers in different countries but 13 being bad luck comes from the times in Old England when folks would cross their fingers when passing a suspected witch on the road.  You can't be too sneaky with witches.  You wouldn't want to make a full sign of the cross in front of them for fear of being hexed, so a quick cross of two fingers would be fine enough.

I could have this wrong.  I may be getting all my superstitions mixed up, but, 13 is definitely the number of the devil.

So, I went to dinner with the devil.  Or do you say, "The devil took me to dinner?"  I recall a lovely painting and verse about how you must bring a big fork if you decide to dine with the Prince of Darkness.

No kidding.

After dinner Elliot took me back to his flat. Well, Elliot and Rena's flat.  Yes, Elliot was not only wrong for me in 262 ways, he was also married.

Make that 263 ways.

Rena was away.  She was probably spending the night somewhere else or maybe she was in London like she would be every few months.

Rena didn't care, so I forgot about caring too.

When we walked through the door, there were a dozen or so of Elliot's students from the University sitting around drinking healthy fizzy drinks with milk thistle and blessed thistle and every other kind of thistle.

They were drawing on recycled paper, reading poetry from used books and just looking somewhat younger than any of us reading this.

"Elliot!"

"What?  I thought you might like a surprise!  I wanted you to meet some of my students!"

"I don't like surprises!"  I stomped off to Elliot and Rena's bedroom and slammed the door and left Elliot and his students in the living room.

Now would be a good time to snoop on Rena.  Would she be as vegetarian-new-age-healthy-open-minded-share-her-husband-peace-goodwill-to-all-men as Elliot said?

Their master bathroom would tell me.  I flew open the door hand carved wooden doors to reveal the walk in shower and toilet.

Yes, the soap would tell me.  I figured she would probably be hiding her sins in the soap.  Animal by-products, oil from some evil connection, unnatural scents, and bunny eyes bleeding everywhere.

Nope, the soap was good, looked so healthy and earth friendly it could have been from the sandstone and dirt in the back yard.  Stacked in two stacks of three.  Six big brown ugly soaps.

Six, the number of man, the number of the beast.  I surmised, Rena was like her husband, heathen to the end.  So frustrating.  Can't I get a break here?

I returned to the bedroom and sneaked a peek in the bed side table drawer on the right side.  The right side must be Rena's side I thought.

I was right.  Dildos of all colours and sizes.  Yeah, those are landfill-friendly.  No one ever throws away a dildo.

It made sense there would be so many.  Elliot said they only had sex three times in the last year.

Elliot and I had sex 158 times in the last year.  In my ego maniac fantasies, I dreamed he had a diary some where he would put a star next to the days we did it.

Maybe he would put plus signs if it was good.

One plus sign for normal good sex.

Two plus signs for better than you could have with anyone else.

Three plus signs for knock your socks off, Holy Spirit filled tongue talking sex.

Hey.  Maybe I would find that diary when I was snooping some day.  But, that night I was just so upset Elliot felt he had to be in control and invited all those people over without telling me.

I fell on the right side of the bed on my tummy and grabbed the novel off his bed side table.  It was the novel he and I were reading together.  Well, I wasn't reading it as fast as him.  He's smarter than me, okay?  I can't get past the fact "Dry Beaver Creek" here in town has water in it, let alone, read too many pages at once in 'our' book.

I like the idea of reading the same book with Elliot.  At times I think of him intelligently naked under the covers and with his reading glasses on.  He looks sexy in his dark reading glasses and his dark hair.  Which I know he dyes but he won't admit it to anyone.  Maybe even Rena doesn't know.  But, I doubt it.  She's quite clever, Elliot's wife, Rena.

I am not sure how anyone can look intelligently naked, but Elliot pulls it off.  Like he's shy and reserved with everyone else, but with me, I bring something out in him that makes him know I accept him just the way he is, so he feels better about himself.

Hell, he's just cocky about himself with me; confident, somewhat bossy and intelligently naked.

I know I could reduce him to tears, but I just won't.

He trusts me, even when I don't trust myself.

As I was reading on the bed, my skirt was up and let my thighs show.

I heard the bedroom door open.

I wanted Elliot to come in and put his hands on my back and put his face between my legs and talk to me.

I kept waiting.

Then I wondered if he had invited one of his students in to look at his pouting old girlfriend.  I thought they might be standing in the doorway watching, laying there on my stomach, my lower lip stuck out to Mexico, my skirt up like a school girl.

I imagined him saying, "See, here, she's pouting 'cause she didn't know you all would be here.  Maybe we'll show her what for, you and me."

It was so quiet.

I thought it might be that Elliot was mad and was going to punish me.  Not speaking to me was punishment.  He knew I would throw a fit.

I could wait.

I was ready at a moment's notice to throw my fit.

All women can kill you.  This is something all women should know.  Maybe we should tell the men too.

Was he watching me?  Was it even him at the door?

I shouldn't turn over and look because then I let Elliot or the stranger at the door have control.  If I kept acting like I didn't care they could see my thighs and if I didn't care they were watching me read, then I was still in control.

So, I kept reading.

Damn.  I just couldn't hold on and glanced over my shoulder to see Elliot standing there his one leg crossed to make a triangle in the doorway.  He had taken his shoes and socks off.  He had ran his hands through his hair and it was messy.

He looked pissed.

Pissed as in angry, maybe even pissed as in a few drinks past his limit.

"You are laying on my side."

"That is your surprise," I said with emphasis on the 'surprise' bit as I was still so angry.

"Why do you have to be so difficult?"  He took his belt out of his pants.

I knew he wasn't going to do anything, though.

He knew better.

He came in to the bedroom, leaving the door open, carrying his belt toward the bed, smacking it together as your daddy would before giving you a right spanking.

"You better not, Elliot!" I turned sideways and managed to kick at him.

"What's this about 'gangster sex' ?" He asked sitting on the edge of the bed.

"It was just a scene in a movie." I said tossing my hair pretending to be aloof.

"You want to re-enact the scene?  Slap me."  He dared me with his teeth showing.

"Your damn students are out there, Elliot, and you're such a stupid fuck leaving the door open even."

"You shit.  You talk to me with no respect."

"I don't have any, and the belt, the belt, is going to get in our way." I tried to grab for the belt as he pulled it away.

 "You are laying on my side."