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From: cwcobblest@aol.com (Cwcobblest)
Subject: Hubby Humiliation Bonanza: "Barfly," part one
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"Barfly," part one (MmF, wimp husband)
by c.w. cobblestone

It was deader than four o'clock in Idaho and we were playing to the barmaids.
There were maybe ten people in the bar all night, but we put our souls into it
anyway.

A lot of people think rock and roll is all dope and glamor. I suppose part of
it is. But people never stop to consider the empty nights, or the bar owners
who don't want to pay you. But you take the good with the bad, I guess.

Anyway, it's a job. Sure, it's tough to play when there's nobody there to cheer
you on - but then again, it must be even tougher to have to turn a screw for
eight hours a day in some factory. So I ain't complaining too much.

Besides, it was Thursday night. You never expect a crowd on a Thursday.

We were right in the middle of "Hot Legs" by Rod Stewart when I caught a flash
of red over by the front door. Wow! I was knocked out as soon as she walked
into the bar. I looked over at Ronnie, our bass player, and gave him a quick
"Elvis" sneer - our secret code for, "I saw the bitch first."

I squinted through the floodlights for a second look, and that's when I noticed
the balding man tagging along behind her. Surely this gorgeous blonde wasn't
with that old fruit! He looked like somebody's insurance salesman - or the guy
who does your taxes!

They both walked over to a booth and sat down opposite each other. So they were
together! Go figure!

As soon as they were settled in their seats, I saw the woman lean over and say
something to him. The guy jumped right back up and headed for the bar.

Ah ha! She's got this guy wrapped around her finger, I thought as I watched the
old dude shuffling back with his lady's drink. He's probably got money or
something. 

A rich, pussywhipped wimp! There was hope for me yet!

I glanced at Ronnie. He was turned around messing with his amp. He didn't
notice. Good!

As our set was ending, I tried to decide whether I should go up and talk to the
lady. I knew there was a chance that her companion might get mad; maybe he
wasn't a complete wimp. Maybe I had them tagged all wrong.

But when you've been in the bars as long as I have, you get to where you can
size people up pretty good. And, to me, this looked like a classic case of
rich-old-man-with-nice-looking-blonde syndrome.

I figured, fuck it. What do I have to lose? Even if the old dude did get mad,
what was he going to do? He certainly wasn't going to kick my ass! And the
chances of him packin' were slim to none.

After we finished the set, I put away my guitar and moved straight over to
their booth. As I approached them, the woman looked up at me and smiled. 

Was that an invitation? I took it as such.

Without a word, I scooted into the booth next to her. 

"My name's Jerry," I said, sticking out my palm. She stared at my outstretched
hand with a bored look on her face.

"You're pretty cocky, aren't you?" she asked.

"Why, no, ma'am, I just wanted the pleasure of your aquaintance," I replied,
being comically polite. I cleared my throat, again offered a handshake. I
repeated: "My name's Jerry!"

"My name's Rhonda," she deadpanned, her eyes never leaving mine. She let my
hand dangle there. "Pleased to meet you."

Oh, so this bitch likes to play games! Good, I thought: I like a good
challenge!

I looked over at the old guy. He was just sitting there with a sad, stupid look
on his face. 

Rhonda noticed my quizzical look. "Oh, that's Ralph," she answered my unasked
question. "He's my husband."

"Husband?!" I repeated. As soon the word left my mouth, I realized that my tone
of suprise might hurt the old guy's feelings. But Rhonda just snickered and hit
me in the arm playfully.

"Yeah, that's my Ralph," she sighed. She reached across the table and brushed
her painted fingernail across his lips. "Honey, be a pumpkin and go play the
jukebox or something. Give us a few minutes alone, would you?"

I watched in amazement as the guy muttered something, gave his wife a tight
little smile, then took off in the direction of the jukebox. 

"And don't play any of that goddamn Air Supply, either!" she called after him
as he walked away. "Play something good!" 

"Okay, honey."

Holy shit! I've seen pussywhipped rich guys in my day...but this guy had them
all beat!

Rhonda was watching me watch her husband. She smiled smugly. "Yeah, that's my
little Ralphie..."

"He's rich, ain't he?" I asked bluntly, smiling smugly myself.

Rhonda scooted away from me and shot me a uppity sneer. "What's it to you,
Sherlock? Are you writing a book about my financial situation or something?"

Oh, man - what a cocky little bitch! Well, I knew just how to handle a woman
like that! I'm hip to the game: sure, she can push her wimpy husband around, I
thought, but what she really wants is someone like me to show her who's boss!
I've seen it too many times!

I gave her my best "rock and roll" lip-curl and stood up. "Well, whether Elmer
Fudd over there is rich or not doesn't make any difference to me," I said in a
bored tone of voice. "I gotta go finish up the last set."

I could tell she wasn't about to let me get the last word. But what she said
surprised me:

"Well, if you wanna go home tonight and watch David Letterman, you go right
ahead," she cooed sexily. "Otherwise, I'll be right here waitin' for ya!" 

Boom! It didn't take a genius to figure it out: I knew I was gettin' some pussy
tonight!

I decided to play it cool. I didn't say a word. I just blew her a kiss and went
back up on stage for the last set.

This is going to be interesting, I thought as I tuned up.


COMING NEXT WEEK: THE SMASH NUMBER ONE HIT MADE FAMOUS BY VARIOUS ARTISTS
FORMERLY KNOWN AS SPRITZ! BUY FIVE COPIES FOR YOUR MOTHER!


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