House Play

"Time to hunt the Bitch, boys!" Len LaPaglia exclaims as he shuffles a deck of cards at the head of our pretend dining room table. Micki and I met a few of the families today and felt obligated to invite some of them to our home this evening to get to know one another, under the guise of trying to lure Spaulding and Marissa over. *They* gave us a raincheck, along with the rest of the stunning, medicated crew of women and their husbands that range from nerdy to geeky. There's got to be something else these men have going for them to be in the company of their insani-hot wives. I bet they're rich as fuck, or hung like mules.
Speaking of the "F" bomb, Mrs. Penelope Yorke and Mrs. Sheila LaPaglia love saying it in spades. They are among the few that made it over for drinks and Rummy 500. I'm sitting at the dining room table with the men. There's Donavan Yorke, a friendly suit and tie guy that's an associate at a successful law firm; Len LaPaglia, a sports agent who is big and jolly and has an emasculating wife; and rounding off our four is Clint Johnston, a shy, middle-aged cattle rancher from Texas. He met his wife, Rain, hitch-hiking at a truck stop on his way home last year. She's in the adjoining kitchen with the rest of the wives. Rain is a fresh 20 and looks like she's "Going to San Francisco"; her long blonde hair is in a center part and she's got a flower tucked behind her ear. She showed up to our 'house' barefoot in a thin cotton vintage housedress and red-rimmed blue eyes, clinging to her husband and giggling. Right now she's watching my lady Catherine blending mixed drinks with an amazement only the truly stony know as Sheila and Penelope regale my lovely fake wife with the word 'fuck' every two seconds in the midst of their chatter.
It's a bit queer that only the couples that are newest to the community showed up and nobody else, though. I suppose it's up to us to figure out why. I glance over at Micki-Kitty, who's now going through our cabinets on a mission.
"Topher, darling, can you help me with the Daquiris?" She calls over to me, "I need help finding the Tumblers, too."
"Sure thing, Love." I answer, rising and shooting the men at the table a knowing glance. Len makes a whip cracking motion in my direction. "Hey, like you can talk." I crack at him as I end up at Micki-Kitty's side. I find the Tumblers in seconds flat.
"Toph, I am *not* whipped. I wouldn't do that shit; I'd let her find them herself. We're in the middle of a *game* here, bro." Len replies in protest.
"*Let* me? You dumb Fuck; you couldn't find your ass out of a wet paper bag!" Sheila starts in as I hand her a glass, "At least Topher is considerate to his wife's requests. I learned early in our marriage not to ask you to do anything that requires critical thinking, because you're a *fucking MORON*."
Penelope cackles at this, "Don't hold anything back, Sheila."
"Oh, like *you* could." Sheila sends right back, "Don't get me started on your fuckin' mouth."
"Touche." Penelope agrees.
I finish assisting my beautiful faux wife with the drinks and bring four of them back over to my card playing buddies myself on a serving tray.
Clint tips his Stetson to me as I set down the tray, "The boys and I have come to a consensus a sorts, and we all agree that you're completely whipped."
Len cuts in, "We also agree that we don't blame you. Redheads. 'Nuff said." he laughs, high fiving Donavan, "You playin' or what, man?"
I nod, recieving my cards as I sit down, "Let me ask you; who here among us is not whipped in one way or another? Donavan, don't sit there and not say that Penelope doesn't fucking *own* you. Who has the douche?"
If you're unfamiliar with Rummy, the two card is known as the douche, and the Queen of Spades is the fabled Bitch, seeing as she's worth the most points. The person who gets to 500 first loses and drops out, leaving the last man standing as the winner.
Donavan grins, "That'd be me. Hey, I'll admit that she causes slight discomfort in public arenas, but I know that she'll never leave me. Therefore, I am not whipped."
"*How* do you she won't leave?" Clint asks.
"You know that Eddie Murphy routine in 'Raw' when he talks about the noise that a woman makes in bed when you know you have her for good? Penny made that noise. I'm set. She just has no filter between her brain and her mouth. It's not her fault." Donavan adds, looking pretty smug, "Doesn't seem like Topher's gotten Catherine to make the Gotcha noise yet, guys."
Sheesh, this guy seemed pretty buttoned down, but he's putting me on the spot like a regular frat-boy asshole type, "Have all of you..." I begin, trying not to appear baffled.
"Yep." Len says in a stretch and chugs a little of his frozen drink.
"First night we met, pardner." Clint echoes, "Sorta sealed the deal. Me and my darlin' don't have a lot in common, but we do have *that*."
This doesn't seem fair. She hasn't made the Gotcha noise because we've never had sex. I can't tell them that, though, "What makes you think she hasn't?" I ask defensively, glancing over at the kitchen area to make sure the wives aren't listening. It's doubtful. Penelope found a radio and is blasting the Smiths' "How Soon is Now?", loudly singing along with Rain and drunkenly forcing the rest of the tipsy-girl brigade to dance. Even Sheila. Micki-Kitty looks like she's having fun, anyway.
"Exhibit A, compadre." Len laughs, "You care entirely too much about what you do around your partner. I could care less anymore; Sheila yells and I tune her out. We have our system. It seems like you two are still figuring out your system."
"Which includes the Gotcha noise." Donavan adds. "So what about this town, huh? That Men's club has me intrigued, for sure."
"Plus, it's like every man in this town has a wife that worships him." Len chimes, "Where do I sign?"

*********************************************************************************************

"Cat, your pussy-power over your husband is astonishing." Penelope tells me as she rolls a joint. The women-folk have retreated to our master bathroom to smoke marijuana. Surprises aplenty, Angry Sheila was the one who suggested it, looking over at Rain and saying, "Don't hold out on your stash, hippie-girl. I need to fuckin' wind down."
The suburbs are a decieving place, full of colorful characters. The city is tame by comparison.
"Meaning?" I reply to Penelope's statement.
"Your husband a-fuckin'-dores you; what the fuck do you think she means?" Sheila fires out. Penelope hands her the joint silently along with a lighter, which she ignites with a satisfied sigh.
"Sister, I think what Penelope is saying is that your old man is wrapped around your finger. You must practice Tantra on him, right?" Rain drawls in a stony southern accent.
"I don't even know what that is." I shake my head no.
"Well, whatever you're doing with that fuckin' thing," Penelope starts, motioning to my lady-parts, "keep doing it, for womankind everywhere. Your husband acts like how we *all* wish ours would."
I blush a little and look down. Would that it were; how can I have pussy-power over him if we've never done the deed? Nice to know that I have them fooled, however.
"Batter up!" Rain giggles as she offers me the smoking joint, "You're the hostess, Mrs. Silverman, it's only fair that you partake."
I take in the motley crew of housewives before me, shrug, and suck in a lungful of piney smoke from the blazing wand. When in Rome. Suddenly, the door swings open as I'm passing it to Penelope and exhaling a large cloud of smoke. She hastily hides it behind her back as Ryan observes us from the doorway with an amused smirk, "Darling, and Ladies." he addresses us, trying his hardest not to laugh, "Doing anything you shouldn't be?"
Penelope laughs in relief, "Oh, Topher, it's just you! Donavan won't talk to me for a week if he found out I was puffing. I'm supposed to be clean. Don't tell him, okay?" she pleads goodnaturedly.
"Oh, and could you not say anything to Clint, either?" Rain adds, "I told him I wouldn't toke at your house, but Sheila wouldn't take no for an answer."
Sheila shrugs, "What the fuck ever. Len *begs* me to smoke pot, tell all ya want."
"What? I didn't see a thing." Ryan as Topher winks, "We finished up our game, though, and your husbands are all looking for you." he adds, putting an arm around my waist, "Should we give our new neighbors a proper goodbye, Cheech?" he kids me as we all pile out of the bathroom, "Or did you need to do another bongload first?"
"You watch it, or else I'm gonna have a headache tonight." I smile a little lazily, leaning into his hold as we follow the women in front of us. It's been a looong time, and I'm a tad on the high side.
"Pussy-power!" Penelope exclaims loudly, "You're radness, Cat!"
"What's she talking about?" Ryan leans in conspiratorially.
"I'll explain later." I tell him as I quell a spreading smile.
We say goodbye to our guests, help each other in a hasty cleanup of our kitchen as we discuss the events of the day and prepare for bed. Now we are both showered up and in our sleeping attire, lounging on our four poster king size wonderland of a bed. It may be the most comfortable bed I've ever slept in, partly due to present company. The method of marriage is easier the second night around. I think. I'm in my lotioning process when Ryan clears his throat to speak.
"So, what's this pussy-power thing that Penelope was yelling earlier?" he asks me.
"My new friends seem to think I have some sort of sexual power over you." I admit with a smile, finishing up my legs and handing him the lotion bottle.
He accepts my offer and shifts down to my feet where he begins to work his magic. A girl could get used to this. "That's funny, because the guys are all telling *me* that I'm whipped, and that I seem to be the only one." He admonishes as I lean back happily against my pillow.
"I wonder why that is?" I laugh a bit, "What about Sheila and Len? It seems like she's the one laying down the law."
"You'd think, but the boys are saying that they can tell I haven't made you do the Gotcha noise." Ryan sighs, "They all apparently have, which is *why* they can tell."
"The Gotcha noise? Dare I ask?" Men are a strange breed. My curiousity is killing me.
Ryan kneads the arch of my right foot with a deliberation that's almost erotic, and I hope my panties aren't hanging out. "Are you familiar with Eddie Murphy's comedy?" he asks me as he stares at what he's doing. He can't even look at me.
"I saw 'Delirious'." I admit in what sounds like a breathy moan. I really need to try to control my breathing.
"You haven't seen the new one?" he prods, masterfully working my toes. I wonder if I can convince him to keep doing this when we return to our real home.
Nonetheless, he's dragging this out and I'm impatient, "No, so would you get to the fucking point?"
Ryan pauses and doubles over, "Mrs. LaPaglia is rubbing off on you." he chuckles.
"Ryan, *Christopher*, you'd better start talking." I glare at him, "and who told you to stop rubbing?" I'll show him Sheila LaPaglia. I'm fueled with enough sexual frustration momentarily to take on a tsunami and win.
"Okay, o-kay!" He sucks in a deep breath, "The Gotcha noise is, according to Mr. Murphy, the sound a woman makes when you've fucked her so good that she'll never leave you, no matter how shitty you may treat her afterward. It's age old." Ryan lets out as he hastily begins to resume his workings on my left sole.
Maybe I didn't want to know. What he just said created a gush of wetness the second he uttered 'fucked her so good'. I'm going to have to replace these panties, post haste, "Ah-huh. These men can tell that you haven't somehow?"
His cheeks are burning as he nods, "It's like they're equipped with Gotcha noise tracking. I hope we get this pan soon, because this is humiliating. I'm that 'whipped' guy."
"Look on the bright side. At least they're fooled enough to think we're having sex. That's positive." Why can't I stop my voice from sounding like this? Through no fault of my own, I sound as if I'm auditioning for those 976 numbers they advertise in the backs of magazines.
"Of course *you* can look on the bright side; they think you're better at it than I am." Ryan argues with a whine, the intensity of his hands on my feet tripling in force.
This amuses me to no end, and his frustration is assisting in giving me one hell of a good footrub, but I attempt to soothe him, anyway, "Let them think what they want, it's only pretend anyway. You know the truth."
"Yeah. Yeah, I do." he perks up a little, then looks me straight in the eye, "For the record, if this *was* real, I would've made you make that noise."
Did he really just say that? I've become a puddle of goo in the feather mattress. We need to find that pan, and quickly. I don't know how much more of this I can take.
"You're no match for my pussy-power." I try to joke, but it comes out sounding just wrong.
He stops what he's doing and pats the tops of my feet, "I have to go to the bathroom." He says suddenly as he retreats.
Jeez. I guess he really must've had to go.

********************************************************************************************

I'm having the most wonderful dream. In this dream, this really is our home and I've returned from work to find my beautiful wife wearing nothing but her "Food should be cooked with Butter and Love" apron. She's happy to see me, standing in the entryway with a colorful tray of cupcakes.
"Honey, you baked." I say approvingly.
"Cupcake?" she smiles as I advance towards her, "They have sprinkles."
I shake my head and she drops the tray to the ground with a loud crash as she launches into my arms. We kiss like the world's on fire. Her hand moves down my torso and grasps my package firmly, "Don't wake up yet." she groans against my lips.
"What?" I ask, confused.
My eyes snap open as the dream dissolves away. Fuck. Well, it's not all bad, I suppose. I feel Micki snuggling against my back, her arm draped across my hip. My lap still feels pretty happy, and I realize it's because her hand is resting directly on my equipment. I freeze, and try not to make any sudden movements. There'd be no end to her embarassment if she woke up right now.
"Mmm, yeah, right fuckin' there." she mumbles into my back in her sleep, then thankfully releases me and rolls over.
What's she dreaming about? I'd be lying if I said I wasn't curious. I should stop myself while I'm ahead, otherwise I'm going to have to clean up the ol' bellybutton again. Our little conversation about the Gotcha noise and pussy-power last night proved to be too much when combined with her black camisole nightie and my husbandly duty of rubbing her feet.
I am thankful for today and the audience with Spaulding. At least we can get things moving along. Yesterday felt like panning for gold and coming up with rocks and silt. We're unsure of where this cupcake pan is, because the weirdness has spread to most of the town and most of the ladies seem not to be of sound mind. I have my suspicions that it might be kept at the Men's Club. There's something wacky going on, I mean, it is too coincidental that there isn't a studly husband among the bunch. I don't mean to sound egoiste, but Clint, Donavan, and myself are probably the best looking guys here. It's also noteworthy that the newest residents all have friction in their marriages. Clint and Rain are a cowboy and a flower child, about as opposite as you can get. Donavan's job and required uptight professionalism doesn't mix with Penelope's lack of social filter. Len and Sheila seem like they have love there, but it's as if she hates him and he just puts up with her. Micki and I think the other couples may have been in the same frame before the wives were transformed somehow.
Still, there's got to be a cryptic underlying horror involved. It's not like Uncle Lewis to spread this kind of unbridled happiness without some sort of payback.
I decide to get up and make breakfast this time, at least to spare myself the vision of Micki in her nightgown and the apron. Cheese and *rice*. After the dream I just had, I figure it's best. I prepare omelets and fresh coffee while she snoozes. When she still doesn't come downstairs, I place it all on a tray and bring it upstairs, breakfast-in-bed style.
They guys are right. I'm whipped as hell. Hey, I'm just playing a part. Just keep telling myself that. If I was ever blessed enough to get the chance to play naked twister with her, I would not rest until the Gotcha noise was established. My manhood has been threatened, and I can't help but be a little defensive. I'm being misread here, and I don't like it.
"I brought you breakfast." I say as I enter the room. What I see almost makes me drop the tray. Micki has one hand under the bedspread in her lap and I just saw it stop abruptly. Her other hand has the corner of the bedspread twisted in it, and her face is flushed and perspirating.
Fuck. Fucking fuck. We *have* to get this thing or my blueballs are gonna kill me. I can't believe I walked in on this. The hand in her lap emerges from the blankets and she uses it to cover her eyes in shame, "How much did you see?"
I feign cluelessness, "What do you mean? I made omelets." I add as she sits up, trying not to notice that her nipples are standing at attention as I place the tray in front of her. Damn.
Her face reads relieved, then happy, "Christopher, you're the best husband a girl could have." she smiles, "I feel spoiled with the breakfast in bed! You shouldn't have." she adds as she nurses her coffee gratefully.
"Method, Kitty my love. If I'm the whipped guy, I'm the whipped guy, right?" I tell her, trying not to sound bitter.
She rolls her eyes in an exasperated way as I sit next to her carefully on the bed and obtain my own coffee cup from the serving tray, "Donavan and Penelope? What time did they say they were showing up?" she asks me as she digs into her omelet.
"Donavan said he'll be coming an hour; you might have to wait around for Penelope, though. He said she usually rises around the crack of noon."
Micki nods in understanding, "She told me she had bouts with insomnia, though she mostly attributes that towards trying to stay off downers. Donavan has issues with her past drug use. Penelope said that was the reason they moved here, to get away from her model lifestyle."
"You two are going to that Ladie's Circle gathering Marissa's hosting later?"
"Yeah, that should be a barrel of laughs, but at least I'll have access to her kitchen and can try to check for it there."
"In the meantime, I'm gonna see what the deal is with this Men's Club and Mr. O'Clare."
I don the standard Topher uniform of khaki polo and black slacks, parting ways with Micki when Donavan arrives in his BMW and honks the horn in our driveway. I'm relieved at the time apart. After what I just walked in on this morning and just, *everything* we've been doing and saying since we've been pretending to be married, it feels like it's taking it's toll. The sexual tension is so powerful I could uproot that tree in front of the gothic mansion we're advancing toward. And it's a big fuckin' tree.
"This is the Men's Club?" I say in awe. The building is stately and pretty huge, with many gables and turrets. It's rather intimidating.
"Welcome to our Man-Lair." Donavan says, "Looks like cards and fireside brandy sipping is about to occur."
We make our way through the front doors to be met by another entryway with marble floors and another set of doors. Posted on them are signs that say Men Only. No shit. I'm hearing faint music on the other side and Donavan does the honors, giving the doors a knock. A small window that wasn't visible slides open and a set of eyes glance at us quickly before the door opens altogether.
Whoa-ho, Nelly. I was *not* expecting this. The room itself is in the decor I had pictured in my mind, but this, my friends, is the ultimate Man-Palace. There's an overhead sound system blaring "Girls, girls, girls" by Motley Crue and a stage on the far end of the room where strippers work their magic on their poles. There are numerous big screen TVs with men playing Nintendo in heated matches, poker tables everywhere, a whole wall of dartboards, men lounging on couches with more strippers on all fours in front of them; they appear to be using them as coffee tables to set their cans of beer upon, and is that....
"Is that the robot from 'Rocky 4'?" I exclaim in surprise as I spy it rolling around, serving drinks. Donavan and I both look at each other in amazement, "Well, you got the card-playing right." I say to him.
"Mr. Silverman! Mr. Yorke! Welcome to the Blissful Grove Men's Society!" Ralph Bloomquist (husband to Beverly) greets us, "Drink?"
"This is some society." I comment as we glance around the room, thunderstruck, "I can see why you keep this hush-hush from the wives. Where's O'Clare?" I ask as the "Rocky 4" robot makes its way over and I snag a shot of bourbon.
"He's in his personal office with one of the new residents; have you met Mr. Johnston?" Ralph asks, motioning to a door that reads Private.
"Clint?" Donavan confirms, nodding, "Nice guy."
"Donnie and the Toph!" we hear Len exclaim from across the room, "Is this place fucking *great*or what?!" He's sitting at one of the couches, retrieving his beer can from his live-stripper table and saluting us with it, "I'm in Heaven! Get your ass over here, whipping boy!" he tells me, "You too, litigation guy! Got any singles? I'm about to head over to that stage, but I'm fresh out of dollar bills and they make Candy very, very happy." he waves at a young latin girl who's upside down naked on her pole. She smiles and waves back. Now that's talent.
"How long have you been here, Len?" Donavan asks, pulling out a few dollars and handing them over.
"8 a.m., mon Cap-i-tan." Len boasts, "Sheila was at me pretty early, so I decided to see what was going on with the goings on around here. Boy, am I ever glad I did!"
"She would castrate you if she knew what this place was about." I comment as we make our way to the stage, where a redhead almost as pretty as mine accompanies Candy and gyrates her hips seductively to Billy Idol.
Len gives me a wary glance, "Doubt Catherine would be too stoked about this place, either, so Mum's the word." A finger goes to his mouth and he tries not to smile. He's already happy-drunk.
"Hey, my lips are sealed." I say, noticing Clint and Spaulding emerging from the private door. Clint's carrying a flat paper sack and begins to head for the exit as Spaulding starts our way, "Clint! Hey, where'ya goin' man?" I yell.
He tips his hat to us, "I'll see y'all later; gotta get home to the miss-us." He hollers across the room, leaving rather quickly.
"Gentlemen!" Spaulding grins widely at us, spreading his arms, "How about this place, huh?"
How indeed. This town just keeps getting weirder. I mean, this is *cool*, but definitely weird.