Tuesday night was sex night, and every second Tuesday was Jeremy’s night to find a prop. If he were in the habit of telling the truth, he’d have admitted he hated the prop idea, and hated the scheduling even more… but Jeremy didn’t usually say what was on his mind.
Because of the long weekend, he’d totally forgotten it was Tuesday at all, and when Ashley came in in her slinky nightgown, paused by the lamp like she always did, he had a jolt of realization: he was fucked. And not in a good way.
“Hey baby,” she smiled, and dimmed the light to the prescribed level. “It’s eight o’clock.”
It was, in fact, exactly eight o’clock. He slowly closed the side of his computer, trying to look like he hadn’t forgotten.
“Hey back,” he smiled, and brushed his hands on his shirt. “You look great.”
He always said this. He didn’t want to say it the same way every time, but he wasn’t sure what she’d do if he broke with tradition. She knelt herself on the end of the bed, looked at him with those brilliant, excited eyes of hers. He wanted so badly to be excited too.
“What did you pick?” she asked. “Because I have to say, it’s going to be hard to beat those water balloons.”
He smiled nervously, felt his pockets as subtly as he could. Nothing there but his wallet and a few coins. He did a quick sweep of the room, but everything was so pedestrian… she wanted something new, something unexpected.
“Jeremy, baby,” she said, growing impatient, “It’s 8:01.”
“I know, baby, I’m sorry,” he said, finally settling on the first thing within reach. He held it up in as erotic a way as he could manage.
Ashley stared at it.
“A screwdriver?” she asked, uncertain; desperately uncertain.
“Y-y-y-yes,” he said, turning it around slowly. “I want to… uh… use it to… uh…”
“You want to screw me with a screwdriver?” she asked.
There was an awful pause where he realized it would have been better to say he’d forgotten it was Tuesday and furthermore, he didn’t like planned sex at all, and also, her yoga classes were not doing the wonders she thought they were, especially around her middle. Instead of saying any of that, he muttered:
She said nothing for a moment, eyes fixed on the screwdriver in his hand. And then, without warning, she burst into tears. He dropped the screwdriver and ran to her.
“How did you know?” she wept. “Who told you?”
“Who told me wh—”
“I was drunk and it was college and the nineties were a confusing time and he looked a bit like Ethan Hawke and I’d never seen cocaine before and he told me it was sanitary!” she cried, holding him so tight he nearly passed out. Or was that because of shock? Well, either way, it wasn’t very pleasant.
She looked up at him, mascara running down her face, pleading for forgiveness for something he was having a hard time imagining.
“It was just the one time,” she whispered urgently. “Thirty-six hours tops.”
“It’s… it’s okay,” he said meekly.
“I swear, baby, I had no idea the cameras were there.”
“I think I need to lie down,” he said.
“Have you told Ellie you know?”
“No,” he said, leaning back on the pillows. “Why?”
Her face was the picture of obfuscation.
“Wait, Ellie, Father Bishop’s wife?”
She gave him the worst innocent smile he’d ever seen.
“I think I need to sleep now,” he said, voice faint and distant. “I think I need to sleep.”
“But baby…” she said, climbing atop him, sniffling, nuzzling close, “it’s Tuesday. It’s our night.”
“I don’t think I can right now,” he said. “I don’t think I can do anything right now, you know? Maybe tomorrow. We can try again tomorrow.”
“I can’t go to sleep like this!” she pleaded, shaking him lightly. “I want you, baby! It’s our night! Let’s do it!”
“Sorry,” he said, frustration boiling over. “Why don’t you call up Ellie, see if she’s free.”
Ashley sighed, flopped onto the bed next to him, staring at the ceiling unhappily.
“She’s not,” she pouted. “Prayer group. Otherwise I’d switch your nights, believe me. Scheduling you two is such a pain in the ass.”
“Oh,” he said.
“The other five aren’t so bad, though.”
This 1kStory was written for Burt ("Screwing With the Screwdriver").