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From: john_dark@anon.nymserver.com
Subject: {Losgud}JDR"The Birthday Party A"( MFF inc cons humor )[1/2]
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JOHN DARK REPOST
The following story is posted for the entertainment of adults. If you are
below the age of eighteen or are otherwise forbidden to read electronic
erotic fiction in your locality, please delete this message now. The story
codes in the subject line are intended to inform readers of possible areas
that some might find distasteful, but neither the poster nor the author
make any guarantee. You should be aware that the story might raise other
matters that you find distasteful. You read at your own risk.
The enjoyment of these reposts can be increased by reading the "Coming
Attractions," which includes the titles to be reposted in the next week.
These stories have not been written by the person posting them. Many of
those e-mail addresses below the author's byline still work. If you liked
the story, either drop the author a line at that e-mail address or post a
comment to alt.sex.stories.d. Please don't post it to alt.sex.stories
itself. Posting the comment with a Cc: to the author would be the best way
to encourage them to continue entertaining you.
The copyright of this story belongs to the author, and the fact of this
posting should not be construed as limiting or releasing these rights in
any way. In most cases, the author will have further notices of copyright
below. If you keep the story, *PLEASE* keep the copyright disclaimer as
well.
=========================
The following is total fiction. Any resemblance etc. is a product of your
imagination. This work is meant as ADULT entertainment. If the laws
where you sit say you're too young to read this, go away and turn
yourself in to the thought police. Even thinking about sex is dirty and
nasty and will warp your mind forever. Go watch a movie or play a
game that ends with a body count in the high four figures. Death and
destruction are good clean fun.
Copyright (c) 1997 losgud. Personal use just fine. Archiving okay.
Absolutely NO for-profit use permitted. Reposting without notice is
frowned upon. Tampering with the text (rewriting) is illegal. Copyright
violations will fall under the jurisdiction of my principality, where the
punishment is to discourage repeat offenders. We cut your fucking hands
off!
=========================
NOTE: Not quite so much the epic sprawl. Managed to keep the
tangenital (ok ok--tangential) closet door mostly closed. Nice bit in the
basement though. And plenty of good clean fun for the grown-ups.
Enjoy!
=====================
THE BIRTHDAY PARTY
losgud
losgud@hotmail.com
Section A
My wife and I have birthdays ten days apart. This year I decided to
do something special to celebrate. Janey's was the previous Monday,
mine the upcoming Thursday, so for this weekend between I developed a
plan.
By the time I'd finished with the preparatory part I was feeling
physically beaten. Hustling around town in all the Friday after-work
traffic, and then the arrangements with the kids nearly fell apart. Man,
I don't know. It was all set up that they'd be staying overnight at our
friends' place. Their kids and ours get along fine, and we've had this
reciprocal agreement for well over a year. If anything, we were owed a
few sleepovers. I get there, they put up a stink, start hemming and
hawing, and in the end ask for a baby-sitting fee. A stiff one. In
cash. In advance. Some friends! I added to my mental lists. Tonight:
_hit the bank machine on the way home._ Tomorrow: _lose the
friends._
My plan entailed either a nice dinner out, or else a nice dinner in. I
had the cash in my wallet and the goods in the fridge. I'd leave it up
to Janey what we'd have to eat. For dinner, that is. Dessert, well . . .
I had this vague vision of donning our birthday suits and partying all
night long. With no interruptions, or the hint or possibility of
interruption.
We live in about the tiniest house imaginable. Any smaller and it'd be a
pioneer cabin on the prairie. It seems fairly common that a couple's
first child is regarded as a miracle of sorts. But I save that
designation for our second one. I mean, the big miracle was that we
ever managed to find the moment of privacy to mix together the vital
ingredients. There was talk for awhile of having a third, but it never
amounted to anything but talk.
By the time I got back from dropping the kids I was in a pretty sour
mood. It would have been so much easier if my sister the super-Aunt
had been able to take the kids. That was the original schedule, but
then she'd begged off because of some last minute plans of her own.
Shit, now I'd have to be getting up at dawn to get the kids before our
friends sold them on the baby market.
Needless to say I was not happy to see the car parked in front of our
house. That would be Sheila. What was she doing over? The thing
about my sister is that she never just popped in for a minute. If she
came in the door she stayed in the door for _hours_. Janey and Sheila
can just yack and yack and yack.
I should be glad that the two of them are such fast friends, but that's
always been a given. They're the same age, a year older than me, and
they first met their freshman year in college. I'd heard great tales of
Janey more than three years before I met her. Sheila brought her home
for Thanksgiving their final year, and I just happened to be home from
my university as well. Janey snuck into my room and jumped my bone
the very first night, and I've been an addict ever since. It wasn't
until after we were married that Janey let it slip that she'd been
badgering Sheila on my account for quite awhile. _So Sheila, is there
another one like you at home, but with a dick. Oh my, he's cute. I
think I'll take him!_ So much for all that nonsense about chance, fate
and free will. Shooting fish in a barrel, that's how I was landed.
I get along great with Sheila. There's always a bit of that Bossy Older
Sister Syndrome. And the confusion of growing up. First I was in love
with her; she was the perfect idol. Then she turned into a yucky girl
and I loathed her. Then she turned into a yummy girl and I entered a
period of vague lust. Now that we're all grown up we have one of
those rare sibling relationships. It's not the shared history and blood
that binds us. I like hanging around with her because I genuinely like
her.
Not that any of this made me any happier to see her sitting in my
livingroom. Sitting and sitting in my livingroom. After a brief
greeting, the two of them continued chatting away. As though I hadn't
come in. They were hogging the sofa between them, which left me to sit
in one of the uncomfortable chairs. _Buy some comfortable chairs_, I
noted. I seized a pause in their conversation to say just that. "Hey
Janey, how about we go out sometime and buy some chairs designed to
be sat in?"
She graced me with a blank look, gave a quick shake of her head, then
answered, "That sounds good, honey. Whatever you say, Ray. Whatever
you want." And then they went on talking about other things. Well,
what I _wanted_ . . . had nothing really to do with chairs except as
props. Anytime the talk veered towards a subject that might allow me
to enter in with a comment, my comment was brushed aside and the
conversation quickly steered elsewhere.
I sat around trying not to be too grim, but eventually I was fed up. I
took to my feet and stood there for the longest time without being
noticed. Eventually I poked Sheila's knee with the toe of my shoe.
"_Hello!_ What are you doing here anyway? I thought you had plans
for tonight."
"I _do_," Sheila spit back crisply.
Oh, I was in a pissy evil mood. "Oh yea? What? you gonna get laid or
something?"
"As a matter of fact," she leveled a very cool gaze at me, "that's exactly
what I intend to do. All in good time."
"What's your problem Ray?" Janey came to her defense. "If you're in a
bad mood, why don't you stuff it in your pocket and go away."
I gave up. I shrugged and left the room, heading into the kitchen for
a beer. There were some snorting sounds, and then peals of laughter
behind my back.
I stormed off down into the basement to work on my project. _Cellar_
is a more apt description of the space. It's squat and chilly and damp,
but it's all mine. I have a workbench down there, with tools. I'm a
woodworker, or a sculptor, or something. I don't have any artistic
pretensions, I just need a title to define what I do. It involves a large
hunk of tree trunk, like a chopping block, that was one of the deluxe
features that came with the house. I never felt like summoning the
strength or friends to help me lug it up the stairs and outside. Since
then I've added to it. Scraps of boards, nails. Some artists use
brushes or chisels. Me, I got a hammer. It's hard to say exactly what
I'm making, or if it'll ever be finished. I have my doubts. Its purpose
is pretty obvious. When I'm about to boil, I come down here and blow
off steam. The therapeutic value of banging nails with a hammer. I
envision the day when I stand back and see it as complete, and then I'll
haul it up and mount it out in the yard. Already I've given it a title.
_"My Anger, Dispelled."_ Of course when I consider the likelihood of
the day every arriving when everything in life makes me go _kissy-
kissy_, the chances seem better that eventually I'll be dead and some
poor realtor will have to deal with this nice little house with a
nightmare in the basement. Too big to fit through the door, too heavy
to lift, and impossible to dismantle. I use very serious nails, and
slather the wood first with a real mean hide glue.
I went at it for about twenty minutes. _Bang bang bam!_ Then I'd
hear little female footfalls on the floorboards, chatter and laughter
echoing in metallic haunts down through the ductwork. _Bang bang
BAM!_ A screech, a shriek, a chair being shifted.
_BANGBANGBANGBANGBANGBANG bam._ Murmurs in stereo, than a single
piercing giggle. _God damndamndamndamndamn DAMN!_ I wound up
running out of scrap wood.
Though I wasn't any happier, all the tension had flowed down my arms
and into my creation. I took a few steps back. _Lookin' good!_ In the
current stage it suggested a few possibilities to me. _Birthday party
time!_ I washed my hands in the little utility sink I'd managed to
successfully install down there. From there I planned to go upstairs
and straight out the front door, wordlessly. Take a small walk. Grab a
decent bite on the way and wind up at _Hed's_, the only bar where all
my real friends ever hang out.
I knew in advance how that would turn out. If I went to _Hed's_ with
a friend or two, we'd walk in the front door to discover that everyone
in the universe I knew was there. The bartender would wave at me
madly and have what I wanted ready before I got to the station. The
jukebox would be playing exactly every song that I wanted to hear. I'd
hardly dare to put a quarter in the pinball machines, because I'd wind
up playing for half an hour off the one coin. All the atoms of tiny
round tables would drift together as our crowd created a brand new
element. There would be several intriguing people I'd never met so
thrilled to meet me as I charmed them with my wit and intelligence.
Beautiful women would stand up to refresh their drinks, turning first to
ask if they could get me another.
When I went up alone, I would enter through the back door so I could
have a clear view of everyone there. Invariably there would not be a
familiar face in all the place. I would be virtually invisible to the
bartender, who would be surly and forgetful. I could slip my life's
savings into the jukebox and never hear a song I'd played. A game of
pinball would be all three balls instantly gone through the gap between
the flippers. I would remain Mr. Hydrogen, at my tiny table wherever
in the room, sitting unbonded. Not only would no one talk to me, but
no one would even glance my way. Between my second and third drink
I would have the usual epiphany: _why are you sitting drinking in a
bar full of people you don't know?_ My standard recourse would be to
have another round, deciding then to either finish up and leave or
answer _why not?_
I was about to depart on what would certainly rise to the upper reaches
of the list of my most dismal birthday celebrations. Just as I was
turning to leave I was caught by the last piece of wood I'd hammered
on. It stood straight out, pointing at me like an index finger. The
stance was almost accusatory, but really there was something so kinetic
about its placement that it seemed more like a nag frozen in mid-wag.
Then the whole piece spoke to me. _Duh, dumbfuck, you're going in
the_ wrong _door!_
=====================
THE BIRTHDAY PARTY
losgud
Section A
-30-
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