What an ass. Does he think Turner's plaything is going to give him a blow a job in the closet while we sip our drinks out here. It's plain to see where Turner gets his utter lack of discretion. He could be forgiven one last fling before settling down but this girl. Surely, he was good looking enough to bed a Senator's daughter. Does he have no respect for Paige? For God's sake, this girl went to a state school and her father had been a lobbyist of all things. He might as well fuck the maid. It's all just too cliche. The four of us are like a car after a flat. Three real tires, and the fourth only fit for use until a suitable replacement can be acquired. At least when Parker had his last fling he had enough respect not to cheat too far below his station. Granted, she had been from New Jersey according to Eleanor's spies, but her father was a member of the House, and she went to Princeton. It wasn't like she was Italian. Italian. As it always did, the thought of Italian made her squirm in a way that was entirely pleasant. Parker wasn't the only one who'd enjoyed the last summer before they wed. She went abroad to study Italian, and study Italians she had.
What an ass! It had a familiar twitch to it. Turner winced and let out a low moan as he watched the bartender's hips swivel away after serving father and son glasses filled with cloudy wheat beer, garnished with a slice of orange. A refreshment befitting his father on a hot summer's afternoon, light and fruity but still beer so he could cling to the pretense of manliness. He drank deeply while peering over the rim at the bartender who responded with a grin. Where? The Loading Zone, he remembered and smiled himself. That's where he'd seen that ass first. Then he'd seen it from behind at his apartment. What was the name of its owner? There had been so many lovely asses he couldn't always recall the names attached to them. This one started with a “D,” maybe. He would miss those asses. He'd be expected to marry Paige if he didn't want his parents to disown him. He pretended to focus on the golf tournament his father was watching on the TV above the bar. Holy shit! A lifetime measured in rounds of golf, business meetings and semi-erotic couplings with a frigid Wellsley girl. The bartender was standing in front of them saying something. Danny! His name was Danny. He was the one who could tie a cherry stem with his tongue.
“Do you want another?” he asked.
“Yes, Danny. I'd love one.” Turner smiled.
What an ass. Correction, three asses. They are so fucking boring. She took a sip from her Cosmo and assessed her company. The mother is so proud of the button nose she bought from some doctor in Mexico. He probably did the lipo to keep that bony body looking like it did when she played field hockey at Amherst or Sarah Lawrence. Thinks she's Jackie O with her collar popped up, a single strand of pearls and a diamond that's large but not vulgar. The father might be even more full of shit than the son, which would be an accomplishment. He looked like a Ken doll with salt and pepper hair. She giggled when she imagined the smooth plastic space between his legs where genitals should have been. No doubt that bitch had taken his nuts years ago. She probably wears them for earrings, and he has to beg to use them when he wants to roll dice with the boys in the Men's Grill. No wonder Turner's such a fag. What did she care? She got some great dinners and clothes out of it, and it only cost her a few blow jobs. He must have pretended I was one of his little boyfriends so he could get off. How stupid's he think I am? At least it wasn't as bad as being married to that old asshole. A lobbyist. What was she thinking? She actually had to screw his wrinkly ass, and when he was finally considerate enough to die, he's only got a lousy 100 grand of insurance. She took a long drink to rinse the image of him on top of her from her mind. Anyway, the Three Stooges here would be gone in a week, and the Senate would be back in session soon. Then, she could set her sights on getting a new husband. She wasn't getting any younger, and this whole “sorority girl” schtick wouldn't last forever.
Eugene Bruns was a lawyer, but he got better. He lives in a small town near New Orleans.