“Ménage à Twerp” by Marsha Wight Wise
This story appears in the adult bedtime book “Not Your Mother’s Book…On SEX.”
Back in my B.J. days (before John, my husband . . . what did you think I meant?), I had a thing for Jewish boys. I don’t know why I was drawn to them like Kim Kardashian to a plastic-surgeon convention, but I was. Given a man with a prominent nose and a last name ending in –man, –stein or –berg, I immediately pictured myself under the huppah . . . the Jewish wedding canopy.
So the day I went to my local pharmacy and discovered they had hired a good-looking, albeit short, new pharmacist named Mitch Goldman, I was in my element. I was already calculating how many questions I could get away with asking him at the counter before the store would start charging me for advice.
The good news is I wasn’t arrested for stalking because Mitch also took a liking to me. Being only 4 feet 11 inches tall, I’ve always appealed to shorter guys . . . and my blond hair, cute tochus, and DD cup size didn’t hurt, either. When I dropped off my prescription for allergy meds, Mitch said he would call me when it was ready. And he did. That’s when our tumultuous romance began.
After our first date, Mitch didn’t call me for a week. For months, I bought every lame excuse he gave as to why I would not hear from him after our dates. And if I did question him, he would always turn it around on me and ask why I was trying to make him feel bad.
Then I finally came to my senses. At a time when we hadn’t seen much of each other, I finally decided I needed to let Mitch go. But then, a bootie-call from him caught me in a particularly vulnerable mood. Against my better judgment, I allowed him to reel me back in.
When I arrived at his place that night, I wasn’t the only one to receive a call from Mitch. Sitting on the sofa was a pretty Asian-American girl whose face reflected the same confusion I felt. As soon as he introduced us, she began to make excuses that she needed to leave. But Mitch assured her she should stay.
The three of us made awkward chitchat, and then Mitch offered us drinks. When he left the room, she asked me, “Did you know he called me, too?”
“No,” I answered.
She grabbed her belongings and quickly left.
Mitch came running when he heard the door slam. He sealed his fate by saying, “What did you say to make her leave?”
I was livid, not only about that comment but also about all the times I had allowed him to treat me like a schlock.
Mitch insisted I go after her, and I did, but not for the reasons he thought. I caught up with her at her car and learned from her that she had just met him. With that, I gave her the lowdown on what to expect in a relationship with Mitch. We both agreed that our boy was looking for a threesome, and we shared a laugh. She left, vowing never again to take his call. I said I was done with him, too. And I meant it.
Deciding to head home rather than return to Mitch’s apartment, I lay awake all night. I was beyond pissed and decided that the best revenge would be to get even.
By dawn, I had a plan. I called my BFF Veronica and ran my idea by her. She was ecstatic to help and happy that I had finally seen the light when it came to Mitch. But I needed one more person for the plan to work. Veronica called back and said her friend Michelle was in.
I called Mitch and apologized for having thwarted his ménage à trois. Then I asked, “How could I possibly make it up to you?”
True to his narcissism, Mitch said, “I’m sure you have a friend who would be up for it.” He had played right into my hands.
A few days later, I called Mitch and told him I had a friend—Michelle—who was always game for a good, raunchy time and had agreed to meet him at my place. I’m certain I heard the zipper of his Dockers groan with the sudden increase of pressure from within. In the nine months I had known Mitch, I had learned never to mention his height or that I was sure that, at age 25, he was still shopping in the junior’s department at Sears. I smiled over the fact that I was about to pierce his Achilles’ heel.
Veronica and Michelle arrived at my place early. We rehearsed the script and reviewed our positions in the room. Since Mitch knew Veronica, she couldn’t be visible. Thus, she was our safety net in case things got out of hand. She took her position behind the basement door, just off the living room, cordless phone in hand and finger poised to dial 911.
Michelle was so eager to play her role that she had dressed like a $20 hooker—sheer black lace blouse, no bra and tight black pants. I had on a bodysuit that displayed my fabulous DDs. I knew Mitch wouldn’t be able to walk upright less than 10 seconds after crossing the threshold.
He showed up, grinning as if he had just won the lottery. It was obvious he liked what he saw. He and I settled onto the sofa with Michelle sitting in a chair across from us. After small talk, our eager beaver dove right into the subject at hand—or at least it would be in his hand later that night.
“So, Michelle—Marsha tells me you like threesomes?”
Blushing, Michelle said, “I’ve only had one with my old boyfriend, but I really liked it. When Marsha called, I thought, ‘Why not’?”
By this point, Mitch was so excited he rubbed his sweating palms on his pant legs. “What’s your favorite part?” he asked Michelle.
“Seeing my boyfriend’s face as we pleasured him.” She had obviously read too many Harlequin romances to come up with that line.
“Why don’t you sit over here with us?” Mitch said, patting the sofa.
Then Michelle delivered the line we had practiced. Jumping up, she said to me, “Marsha, I’m sorry. I can’t do this! I came here to be with a man and he’s . . . he’s . . . he’s the size of a 14-year-old boy!” On cue, she grabbed her jacket and purse then left.
If only this had been during the Smartphone age, I would have a photo to share with you. To say Mitch was mad would be like saying the Duggars have just a few kids. Smoke drifted from his ears, and he couldn’t form a complete sentence. “What the f_ _k just . . . what a see-you-next-Tuesday (edited because I’m a lady) . . . she didn’t . . . what . . . didn’t . . . I . . . I . . . I have to go NOW!”
I remained in character and tried to soothe Mitch, but he stormed out.
That very night, I regained my confidence. I also understood, for the first time, the meaning of closure. No more toxic, co-dependent relationships for me.
Unbelievably, Mitch had the audacity to call me several months later as if nothing had happened. He must have spent enough time on the shrink’s couch that he was back to his cocky self. He asked if he could come over.
Before I agreed, I asked him, “Should I invite Michelle, too?”
I never heard from him again.
Marsha Wight Wise lives in Baltimore, Maryland with her husband, three sons, four dogs and two cats. She is the author of four nonfiction books on local history (available on Amazon and Kindle). Marsha shares her day-to-day misadventures on her blog www.pulling-taffy.com.
Again, this story appears in “Not Your Mother’s Book…On SEX.” Coined by the Northern Star in their review as the “compilation of copulation” (http://bit.ly/1b3iTfe), this book is filled with 69—yes, 69—carnal stories about everything SEX!
To submit your stories for consideration in future NYMB titles, go to http://www.PublishingSyndicate.com and click on the “Not Your Mother’s Book” tab.