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WARNING: This is a story for adults. If you are under 18, please
stop reading immediately.

This story may be archived but is not to be distributed without
the name of the author, changed in any way, or sold. Please make
any comments on the newsgroup "alt.sex.stories.d" with the
subject "A.S.S.D.: Janey's January." The e-mail address is a fake.


JANEY'S JANUARY (Part I)

by Janey

When my friend Beth, sitting across the too-small table in the
Trident Cafe, dropped her bomb, I was eating those yellow
raisins that for some reason they put on your plate along with an
omelet.  I choked, coughed, and just had time to grab a napkin
before the weird little things came flying out of my mouth and
my eyes and nose started gushing. In the middle of this fit one
part of my mind was already telling me that my life was going to
change radically.

When I finally calmed down, maybe three minutes after the first
explosion, I said, "What did you say?"

"I said I think my husband has a crush on you." She grinned.

Actually, I knew what she had said, but I thought maybe I had
raisin poisoning or something.

Nobody gets crushes on 33-year-old slightly overweight
vocational counselors who live in the suburbs with two kids in
school and perfectly adequate husbands. Except maybe nerdy
college boys who have too many hormones and not a clue what
to do with their nerdy lives. And probably not them, either, as far
as I can tell. And, especially not,a quite pleasant young engineer
who happened to be married to a gorgeous Mediterranean type
who happened to be my best friend during my freshman year in
college.

I wiped my mouth again and sipped my tea, which was cold
because they don't have sense enough to use boiling water in
their leaky little hot water pitchers.

"I don't think so," I said, "and besides, even if it were true, why
would you tell me? Why not just sock him in the chops and keep
quiet?" 

"Well," she said, "I quite like the guy, and I don't mind his
wandering eye. After all, I robbed the cradle to get him--it's not
fair to monopolize his early youth and then not let him try to get
some of it back."

"You astonish me!" I said. Fair? I liked Beth a lot, but I didn't
think fair was one of her big things. 

"Look," she said, "He was only 22 and just out of college when I
met him, and we got married two years later. I'm four years older
than he is, and far more experienced. I'm sure he's not planning
on leaving, but I'm not surprised he looks around a little."

I remembered Beth in college. She had a succession of
boyfriends--she looked around all the time. But I hadn't seen her
since she transferred to a different college, then she moved to
Boston a year ago and we picked up pretty much where we left
off. My husband and I both enjoyed Beth and Steve, maybe
because they were so different from us. They didn't have kids, we
did. Steve was an engineer with a short haircut who worked for
an oil company, in the field a lot, and Beth was an accountant
with a real career; Bob was a history prof at one of the better
local universities, and I was a part-time counselor with no
ambition at all. We got to going to movies together, then they
talked us into going skiing with them in Vermont and sailing in
the summer. Beth had pretty much slipped into the role of best
friend for me, even though they had a good deal more money
than we did. But this kind of statement was a shocker.

Kind of a nice shocker, though, I found myself thinking.

"Tell me more," I said. "How do you know about this so-called
crush?

"Oh, he says little things. Like, at least twice he's mentioned
casually that you looked awfully good in your bathing suit last
summer. And he saw this blond bombshell in some TV movie
that other night and said she looked a lot like you."

"Oh, sure," I said, "she was five feet ten and had no tits and
raggedy-looking hair and freckles, is that right?"

"Come on, Janey," she said, "don't put yourself down. You look
great when you dress up. Your hair is just curly, and some guys
salivate over women in those long skirts you wear."

My skirts weren't that long, maybe three inches below the knee,
but to tell you the truth I thought they looked better than the
crotch-high minis that Beth and half the other women I saw on
Newbury St. wore. Left a little to the imagination, didn't they?
But there was no denying the five feet ten, the scraggly dishwater
blonde hair and the freckles. Maybe Steve had a fetish for
freckles. And Beth was probably seven or eight inches shorter
than I am. Maybe he yearned for the mountaintops.

"I'm just realistic, friend. Besides, my husband likes the way I
look. Or at least he used to."

"What do you mean?" Beth said. "Something wrong there?"

"Not really," I said. "I don't know why I said that. You know,
we're old married people with a family. Not so much hot
snuggling as there used to be."

"Poor baby, you're in a rut. Why don't you give Steve a little
encouragement when we go to the opera Friday night. Just a tiny
bit. Might wake you up. And might wake your husband up." 

I was gobsmacked. Learned that word in an English mystery I
read, and it was definitely appropriate here. What you do in that
situation is change the subject. So I asked her whether she
thought this Baby Doe opera would be any good. It worked, and
the subject didn't come up again

				---------------------

Back at work I was so busy I almost forgot about the
conversation. But not entirely. One of the kids looked a little like
Steve--muscular, blond, tight T-shirt, you know. But, unlike
Steve, green as grass. Steve might have been a baby when Beth
snatched him, but he isn't now. I kind of thought about Steve for
a minute, until we got to discussing software companies this kid
might work for.

That afternoon, driving down Great Plains Avenue with the kids
in the back seat, I looked at Needham for the first time in a long
time. Of course I lived there and saw it every day, but this
afternoon I looked at it. It was okay. Not much different from the
town I grew up in, except it was full of little people and where I
grew up they came bigger. And most of the houses were kind of
old, while my suburb was a bare field that was growing houses
instead of cotton. Still, a lot alike. Same kind of  things going on-
-not much, that is. It gave me a strange feeling I couldn't quite
put my finger on.

But home was great, really. I loved Alan and Judy, and I heard
all about what was going on in the first and third grades and then
Bruce the weather man said it was going to snow a whole lot and
I wondered if there would be school on Friday and whether we
would get to go to the opera after all, and how I couldn't very
well encourage Steve if we were snowed in. Oops! I guess I must
have been doing some thinking I didn't know about.

Bob was full of news about the department, and how he couldn't
stand the new guy they were going to hire for English history but
he didn't have enough clout to stop the appointment, and by God,
one of these days he'd be a full professor and he was going to be
a tyrant. He wasn't very happy, but all his colleagues at the
history convention in December envied him because the school
was so prestigious, and I couldn't do a lot about the fact that the
department was run by a bunch of knuckleheads (I think that's
what he called them), so I kind of tuned out a little. He gave me
goodnight kiss like I was his mother, and then tossed and turned
that night and didn't sleep very well. I had some kind of strange
dream about the sailing trip we went on but I don't remember
anything more about it. 

They did cancel school the next day but it turned out the snow
wasn't such a big deal so we went to the opera anyhow. The
fourteen-year-old girl next door liked to babysit because we paid
well, and she was a nice kid. We had to pick up the tickets at
seven, so we drove in early, parked at the Hancock and ate at
Chili's in the bar. I had some kind of watery beer with supper. I
didn't like it much, but I got a little tiny buzz on, so I didn't care.
Bob doesn't drink at all, but he doesn't mind if I do. He has some
kind of stomach problem. I wish he could loosen up a little, and
stop worrying about his job and life in general, and maybe he'd
get over it. I loved the guy, and hated to see him work so hard,
but that's what he says he has to do, and what do I know?    

We walked about ten blocks to the Emerson Majestic and waited
around inside for Beth and Steve. It was too cold outside, and I
was nearly frozen, but the theater was warm, even if they still
hadn't finished rehabbing it. They got there ten minutes after we
did. Naturally I air-kissed Beth and Steve, and I think I might
have held on to Steve just a second or two longer than normal.
Maybe I got a little closer than usual, too. He felt kind of good,
even if did have to lean down to get at his cheeks. Kind of a hard
body. My boobs hit him just below the shoulders. I do have
boobs, they just don't stand out like the prow of the Cutty Sark; 
they're there, all right. I had on a black dress I liked and I had my
coat unbuttoned by that time. Now, you know, all of this went
through my mind, and usually when we met I just did the routine
and didn't even know I was doing it. Must have been those damn
raisins. Naturally Beth practically slobbered over Bob, but she's
that way, so it's normal. I think she had some kind of fancy
vegetarian sandwich, anyway, without raisins. 
 
We sat way up in the mezzanine because the orchestra cost $98. I
don't see how people can afford to spend that much on a show,
but the mezzanine seats were really good and of course I brought
my little binoculars so I could  see the principals very well
whenever I wanted to. The first act was terrible, really, like they
didn't know whether it was a comedy or a tragedy. But I knew,
because I knew the story, and I got kind of involved not with
Baby Doe, but with Horace. Anyhow, the lead soprano couldn't
stay quite on pitch and that drives me nuts. 

I seriously considered suggesting that we leave during the
intermission but I could see everybody else wanted to see it
through. Get their $38 (mezzanine seats) worth, I guess. It was
getting hot up in the rafters where we were, so I wanted a drink
of water. Beth said she wasn't about to walk down three flights of
stairs for anything, but Steve said he wanted to go, so I said come
on. Bob seemed to be happy to just sit and read the program. We
got down and Steve bought me a bottle of water for only a dollar,
can you believe it? OK, I can't help it if I worry about money, I
just do--maybe I'm like Horace's wife. I'll tell you about her in a
minute. Anyhow, the lobby was jammed, so Steve suggested we
go outside for a minute and get cool with all the smokers. It was
still cold as it could be. I shivered and Steve put his arm around
me and held me close to him. That turned out to warm me up
quite a bit more than I'd figured it would. In fact, I felt a little
tingle or two in places that normally don't get cold at all. Then
they flashed the lights and we went back in. Steve went off to the
men's room and I just watched all the people. Mostly they looked
pretty ordinary, but maybe nicer than the ones at the movie last
week when we saw Titanic. A lot of gray-haired intelligent
looking men who probably taught at Harvard and women who
looked like their wives--kind of thin lips. I still don't understand
why people in Boston don't dress up when they go to the opera;
it's the frumpiest city I was ever in. When my parents took me to
theaters at home the lobby looked like a peacock farm. Steve
came back and we headed back up the stairs. He had to take my
hand to get me through the crowd. He actually had  calluses on
his hand, like the farmers back home. For some reason I got
those tingly feelings again. I think he must have, too, because he
looked kind of sheepish when he let go as we turned into the
mezzanine seats. I guess it's just as well that Beth and I were
sitting together, with our husbands on the outside. the way
couples seem to do at the theater. She raised her eyebrows a little
when I plumped down beside her, but I just kept a straight face.
Nothing to wonder about, was there? Maybe I did smile just a
little. 

You probably haven't seen this opera unless you're from
Colorado, but Horace is a miner who strikes it rich. He has this
wife who's very sharp and knows how to take care of money,
which he doesn't, but she has no vision, and he does. Then he
meets Baby Doe, who is divorced, and they fall in love. He
leaves his wife and marries Baby Doe, but the snobs don't like
Baby Doe because they think she's after his money. Anyhow, he
loses all his money because he can't believe his silver mines will
lose their value when William Jennings Bryan loses the election.
He's broke, but Baby Doe stays with him because she really loves
him. It's kind of a stupid story, in a way, and I'm smart enough to
see that, but the odd part is it's really true. Sometimes life is kind
of  a stupid story, I suppose. It's a tragedy, all right, and the
second act was tremendously better. The baritone that plays
Bryan at a big political rally could sing like a dream, and by this
time the authors had realized it was a tragedy and it hung
together a lot better. Poor Horace. 

Steve and Beth had their car in a garage on Stuart Street, just
around the corner, so Steve went and got it. They offered to take
us back to the Hancock garage and I was so glad I could cry. It
must have been fifteen degrees. Bob and I rode in the back seat
and Beth turned around and talked at us all the way back to the
garage. She invited us for dinner the next Friday night. Monday I
had lunch with one of my other friends and I insisted on the
Trident. Their omelettes are pretty good, and I thought I'd like
some more raisins. I even figured I'd probably buy some at the
Star Market. 

				---------------------

Friday night. Of course during that week I'd gone to church and
shopped and played with the kids and cooked and talked to poor
forlorn about-to-graduates who didn't have any idea what they
were going to do after they finished college. And had lunch with
my friend at the Trident. That time the raisins gave me no
trouble, but then I didn't have Beth sitting across the table. Of
course I didn't think at all about Steve and Beth and Friday night
coming up, oh, of course not. Maybe a few thousand times is all.
Maybe I don't have enough to keep me busy.

Friday night finally arrived. I spent about three hours that day--I
didn't have to work--trying to decide what to wear. Me! This was
not a big thing; it was going to be just us and Beth and Steve, and
we swap dinners all the time and afterward play Monopoly or
watch a movie or just talk. So I dithered. One of the things about
me is, I don't dither. But I dithered on Friday. Thank God it didn't
snow, so the kids were off at school at least part of the day,
leaving me alone to dither in luxurious quiet. On top of that, I
don't exactly have a wardrobe like the one Imelda Marcos has. I
could give you a complete itemized list right now but it would
bore you. Looking through it ten times bored me. I have dresses
and suits and skirts and sweaters and jeans and stuff like that.
We usually try to be clean for these dinners with our friends, but
we don't dress up. I don't dress up for much of anything. So I
couldn't put on something slinky and get away with it. Come to
think of it, I don't have anything slinky. I finally ended up
wearing a gray wool skirt, just ordinary, a white blouse, and this
vest thing I got at Nomad a couple of years ago. With little glass
jewels on it. Same old underwear, naturally. You think I had
time to go to Victoria's Secret? Well, I did, but I didn't go; in
fact, I blushed when I thought of it. This is called serious
dysfunction. I tried to comb my hair but it wouldn't. OK. It's sort
of curly and unruly. But I did manage to get dressed by the time
Bob got home and got himself ready. 

So we go way to hellangone out to Beverly, where Beth and
Steve live in a great big Tudor house. Got there around six. Rang
bell. Got hugged by Beth. She hugs awfully hard for such a little
person. We sat around for a while drinking good Italian red wine.
Good for the heart. Yeah, right. For some reason mine kept kind
of skipping, doing funny things. My pulse was somewhat higher
than usual. All this on the basis of a smart remark by a woman I
didn't fully trust, even though I loved her dearly, a perhaps
unusually warm greeting, a held hand and a funny look. Can I
help it if I'm crazy? I had refused during the week of the
thousand thoughts to veer onto the subject of why I was acting
this way. 

Beth went out to twirl the spaghetti or something. She cooks
these great Italian meals. Bob was looking at the books in the
bookcase. He does that. Then he sat down on a stool and started
to read one of them. He does that, too. He's an expert at
disappearing right in front of your eyes while you're still looking
at him. Steve looked over at him, then at me, and rolled his eyes.
He smiled. I was sitting in this big goddam couch that takes ten
minutes to get out of, but I struggled until I was standing up. Bob
looked up at me from his book and chuckled.

"They put that thing there to trap maidens," he said. "Why don't
you sit somewhere that doesn't eat you up?" Then he went back
to the book.

"OK," I said. Then I sort of sloped over to Steve's chair and
looked down at him. He looked up at me. Then I calmly sat right
down on his lap.

"Oof!" he said, and set his glass on the floor next to the chair.

I said, "I bet I can get up from here in a tenth of a second."

"That depends," Steve said, putting both arms around my middle.
"Maybe I won't let you up." Bob didn't even look up. Good book,
I guess.

Steve sat there with this little grin on his face.      

"Do you really want a slightly overweight suburban housewife
with two kids sitting on you?" I said.

He gently lifted one hand up until it just touched the bottom edge
of my right breast.

"After deep consideration," he said, "yes, I do. You aren't a
lightweight, but you feel pretty good to me."

Bob swam up out of the book again, looked over and grinned.
"Better you than me, buddy. She can hold you down in that chair
all night if she wants." I don't think Bob could see where Steve's
hand was, but I surely could feel it.

I leaned down and gently kissed Steve on top of his head. That
was when Beth came tripping back in. By the time she got there
the hand was back down around my middle, but I was still sitting
there like a great big doll.

"Hi, guys," Beth said. She looked over at Steve and me and
smiled beautifully. "I'm sorry to say dinner is about to be served."
She was wearing a frilly apron over her sweater and jeans and
looked like a million dollars. If I'd just cooked a big meal I'd look
like something out of Dickens. I was out of that chair in a
millisecond. Frankly, I was just a little dizzy. Wine does that. So
does Steve's hand, I'd just discovered.

We ate. Usual small talk. Steve had been in Indonesia a couple
of weeks earlier and he started to talk about the environmental
horrors and Bob was about to get right up on his soapbox and
orate, but Beth just quietly slapped them down. "Not at dinner,
she said. "No way. I'll send money to the Nature Conservancy but
I won't have endangered species at the dinner table." Instead, she
got us talking about Baby Doe, which was just as bad in my
opinion, and then Bob, of all people, brought up the mosh-pit
scandal. Two quarterbacks in a night club, etc.  I don't know
whether he was for or against, because I'd had another glass of
wine and was playing footsie with Steve under that table, and
that kind of distracts me from significant conversations. Not real
footsie, of course, shoes-on footsie. But he knew I was there, and
I knew he was there. I got the idea that somehow Beth knew we
were both there and was laughing without cracking a smile. I
didn't care, then I did. I hadn't played any kind of footsie with
anyone in so long I couldn't remember when. This was awful. It
was like high school, only embarrassing. But, just like it was in
high school, it was kind of thrilling. 

After supper I offered to help with the dishes, but Beth said to
just put them in the sink, so we all got them off the table in a
hurry and went out into the living room. We watched some
movie about a nasty American woman and some English wimp
she finally married. I liked the scenery, but I couldn't follow the
movie. Something was going on in my head about, is this all
there's going to be? Just footsie, and me sitting on Steve's lap for
two minutes while Bob reads a book in the corner? Now, wait a
minute! Here I am all hot and bothered and I really am crazy. I
made up my mind something else was going to happen. I wasn't
sure just what. I had to find out at least whether Beth was telling
the truth.

Beth declared an intermission and went out to the kitchen to
make popcorn. I followed her.

"Well," she said, "how's it going?"

"Going?" I practically screamed, but it was really a loud whisper.
"What's to go? I thought you said Steve had a thing for me! He
sure isn't much of a fast mover."

"God, girl, are you dense," Beth said. "You don't think men have
the guts to make a move in a situation like this, do you? I kind of
liked you in his lap, but I'm sure he thinks it was a joke. You've
got to do better than that."

"Well, I'm not ready to start a conversation on oilfields or
football," I said.

Beth looked exasperated. "I don't see how you ever got married,
even to a bookworm like Bob. You don't talk to men, not at this
stage, you do something physical. And the only kind of body
language they understand is touch. So get in there and reach out
and touch somebody."

"You're not much help," I said. I grabbed a bowl of popcorn and
stomped back into the living room. I was out of my element. My
element was more like the laundry room. Or javelin throwing. I
did that in college. Maybe I could challenge Steve to a javelin
throwing contest.

The guys were slumped down in their chairs looking bored,
talking about some oil find in Alaska. So I sat down in the
maiden-grabbing couch and said, "If you guys want any popcorn
you better come over here. I'm not going to pass this bowl
around."

Steve did move fairly fast when told. He was sitting next to me
in a second. Bob mosied over to the fireplace and stood with his
back against it, getting baked. "When's Beth coming back," he
said. "I want to see the rest of the movie."

"Ugh!" I said. "Not much of a movie."

"Oh, well, there are lots of sexy women,:" Bob said.

"Nah," said Steve. "This is not a sexy movie. You ought to see
the ones the guys out in the oil fields have--especially the Asian
ones." He took a big handful of popcorn and stuffed it into his
face. "I don't think the women would enjoy 'em, though. They
tend to be made for men."

"You try out any of those Asian women while you're out there?"
Bob asked.

"Oh, my God no!," Steve said, shaking his head. "Every time a
thought like that crosses my mind my equipment freezes up
completely. Not just AIDS, they've got diseases out there you
never even thought of. I just watch the movies sometimes, and
think about getting home to my demur little accountant."

"The college boys have those movies, too," I said. "And you're
right, the girls don't much like most of them."

Beth came in and turned down the lights, and Bob came over and
sat down with us on the couch. Beth crossed her arms and took
off the blue cashmere sweater she was wearing over her white T-
shirt. "It's too hot in here," she said. Then she sat over in the big
easy chair Steve had been in. "Let 'er roll," she said as she
punched the play button on the TV control. I was wondering who
the show she put on getting that sweater off was for. Unlike me,
she did look like the Cutty Sark under full sail when she pushed
her chest out.

As soon as the movie started I just casually put my hand on
Steve's thigh. I noticed it had a big fat wedding band on the ring
finger. He didn't react at first, but when I pulled my fingernails
an inch or two up toward his groin he sort of grunted and put his
hand on mine. Bob was watching the movie and eating popcorn.
But both hands moved away after a very short time.

Nothing else happened, but when Steve helped me on with my
coat when we left, he just barely brushed my little nipple with
the back of his hand. I nearly jumped out of the coat, but I
calmed down enough to get it on and get us out of the house. On
the whole, I wasn't convinced anything had happened at all.

					------------------


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