“ Nothing like you honey. You’ re the best fuck in this town, and I mean it.” And he did.

“ What about you?” asks Glyn. “ You must have a truck load of boyfriends.”

Debbie thinks hard. Boyfriends? What is a boyfriend? Glyn is a fucking friend, literally speaking. She shakes the tree of her memory to see if any boyfriends fall down like mangoes, but nothing comes down. Ex-husbands are easy to pinpoint because there used to be a marriage certificate at the bottom of some drawer and city hall had a copy of it too. They cannot be called boyfriends. Boyfriends, are they paying johns? Are they the bloodsuckers in search of pussy and a free lunch she always had a hard time getting rid off? Was Ken a boyfriend?

Standing on that sidewalk in Dallas and watching him drive away, that had hurt. The money in her hands didn’ t mean a thing. That was the money she had used to get high and drunk and buy the car she used to kill that woman. Great good had that fucking money done. The tears that had rolled down her face, those Ken never saw in his view mirror. Like he was gonna give a damn because she was crying. Nobody ever gave a damn. But she didn’ t and she doesn’ t blame him. Who wants to be the boyfriend of a whore and a junkie?

“ Debbie…?” asks Glyn. “ You’ re too quiet.”

Debbie bends over his waist and puts his almost erected member in her mouth and starts to give him fellatio in a furious way, squeezing hard and making him moan. A whore, of course she is a whore, always been and always will be, that is the nature of the beast, she thinks, that’ s her lot in life, to please men for a few bucks or for a few hours of company, what’ s the difference?

She is sucking so hard that Glyn starts to moan in pain more than in pleasure.

“ Wow!” he shouts. “ You’ re gonna bite it off!”

Debbie stops, his large and swollen member is gagging her. She pulls it out of her mouth and looks at him over his belly. There are tears in her eyes.

“ Debbie, what’ s wrong babe? asks a surprised Glyn. Debbie shakes her head and says, “ Nothing.”

“ Did I say anything I shouldn’ t”

“ Oh, no. It’ s not your fault. It just me, being messed up tonite.” Debbie wipes her face clean.“ I’ m sorry.”

“ Come here, ” says Glyn patting the spot next to him on the bed. “ Sit next to me.” Debbie obeys. He makes her put her head on his big chest.

“ Now, there you are, cry like a baby‘ cause you got a shoulder to cry into.”

And Debbie did.

Undeserved Freedom

Billy exits the Colorado ’ s Department of Correction’ s van that brought him to Colfax Avenue in downtown Denver. He is greeted by sunshine and people walking without name tags on their shirts. His personal things are in a small night bag and the prison walls are miles behind in Cañ on City. Prison overcrowding and the fact that he was not serving time for a violent crime let him out before he had served one third of his sentence. Life as a parolee in a halfway house is sweeter than behind bars.

Billy has heard all the sad stories in jail, of how they didn’ t look for trouble but trouble found them. Yeah, right, thinks Billy. He likes trouble, he lives for it. He doesn’ t want to stay out of trouble; he just wants to get away with it. He walks to a pay phone and makes a couple of calls. Trouble has started to stir.

Married Life

Me sleeping alone in the guest room has relieved some of the household tension between Helen and I. Sharing a bed had been for appearances, to fool ourselves and the world that we were part of a dysfunctional but still standing marriage, with physical contact being the occasional and accidental rubbing of backsides. We watch TV together and now and then make small comments about what comes through the tube while sitting on opposite sides of the couch. We are like the Japanese and avoid looking at each other.

This ain' t married life, or much of a life at all, but it' s all we have. It sounds so easy to say it: get a divorce. All undone in a swift moment and happiness recovered, just like returning unsatisfactory merchandise for a cash return. The true is, I don' t have the balls to go through it, and she doesn' t either. So we watch TV like strangers sitting in a lounge. Dinner time is fast and monosyllabic, if we happen to be at the house at the same time to share a meal. I work long hours on purpose so I don' t have to go home, and she finds excuses to spend time visiting relatives to do the same.

My biggest fear is the shame of calling my son and telling him that his mother and I are going to split. Maybe it is the Catholic in me, or the thought of soiling the memory of my dad' s steadfast loyalty to my mother, a loyalty unperturbed by her death. He kept his love for her until the day he died and I' m sure that his last thought on this earth was one of bliss, knowing that he would soon see her face on the other side.

The old man was old school. He believed in that until death do us apart bit, and beyond. I don' t know what the hell I' m or what I believe in. But the shame is there, having to admit that the last twenty years of my life are a flop, a monumental family failure. My business, the Harley, the big truck, the big house, fuck all that, I failed at being a good husband to my wife, the most elementary of things. This thought of self incrimination comes with a side dish of blame towards Helen; after all, it takes two to make a marriage work. I don' t want to dwell on whose fault it is because it serves no purpose.

The marriage has a broken leg and there it lies in the dust in silent agony and I cannot bring myself to put it out of its misery with a point blank divorce. I' m not sure about Helen' s reasons for putting up with this life. Any other wife would already have run to a lawyer to get her half of the pie. What is she waiting for? Frumpy she, the years have not been kind to her figure, and I have to admit it, She is as dull as anybody can be. Maybe she is afraid of getting fatter and older alone and me sitting on the opposite side of the couch gives her a sense of security. Maybe it is her inability to make a living. The woman has never held a job in her life because I, the provider, have always put food on the table and paid for everything.

But something is gonna give; it has to. This ain' t living right. Either we fix this marriage or we bail out but right now we are standing on no man' s land, exposed and afraid and worried, frozen by our own doubts and inaction. This cannot go on forever.

"Marriage counseling," I said aloud. We are watching Everybody Loves Raymond. I don' t look at her. I just blurt the words out, let them fly out there like a pigeon. After along pause she speaks from her side of the couch, without looking at me.

"Do you have one in mind?"

"No one in particular. There should be a few in the book."

After another long pause she answers.

"Ok."

And that is how it comes that we are now seeing a shrink.