A taste of Scum

1.

Often it's the little things that change your life. Two lines of an old song, a trace of scent you all but forgot existed, a face in a crowd looking just like someone you knew and cared about… It sparks a thought, encourages a gesture, the little gears get in motion, the synapses start firing. The change is just an idea, weak, barely noticeable and unlikely to survive, but it snowballs on until there it is – a different life than the one you once knew. A new life, born of a small, insignificant seed.

Then again, some lives take much more work to change. In Susan's case it took anger, desperation, impatience, stubbornness, alcohol and frustration, all cemented together through a string of bad decisions and wrong choices. Looking back on unfortunate events, it is often easy to say they could have been avoided with just slightly more attention to detail. Susan will look back on the events of that night and what she will see is going to make her hate and despise herself. The hurt will pass, the shame may be suppressed, perhaps even forgotten, but the guilt will stay. Some changes are irreversible and this is exactly what Susan inflicted upon herself. There will be scars, oh, yes, there will be scars. It didn't just happen, though, no. She brought it on. She was looking for it, she was asking for it. That much is clear to her. Susan isn't stupid.

It doesn't take a stupid woman to be frustrated with her life. It doesn't take a stupid woman to be angry at her husband. Hell, it doesn't take a stupid woman to imagine that one evening spent away from home, responsibility gauge turned off for the occasion, will somehow bring some colour into the grey. Not that grey becomes any easier to bear tomorrow. No, the home, the kids, the church, the family weekends, the same commercials on every stupid TV channel, the same bed every night with the same words, gestures, foreplays, main courses, same moans and sighs, well rehearsed hundreds time over, they stay the same. The same problems, the same solutions, the birth and care machine running within the advertised parameters… Surely, there is no reason to complain? Either way, your warranty period is over and has been for a long time. No money back, no free drinks. Sorry.

Susan slammed the door behind her. Looking back on it, it makes so little sense. How childish is it to walk out of the family house, refusing to tell her husband where she will be or even when she will be back? Fuck him, she thought, let him wonder. He deserves it. An evening with the girls, that's all he needs to know. Let him wonder whether those girls sport penises in their underwear. Let him wonder whether those ‘girls' will just have a few drinks, a few laughs and the obligatory few rounds of gossip, or whether they will fuck his pretty suburban wife, make her swallow some cock, come onto and into places he could never think of and perhaps even call her some names he'd never dare let pass his lips.

But anyway. That was not the plan. That was a passing thought in Susan's head. A chuckle on a back seat of a taxi while riding to the café. My wife, a slut. Hahaha, now there's an idea. Let him wonder, let the bastard hurt a little, let him feel threatened, insecure and humiliated. He knows that men like to look at his wife. Come on, he is not stupid, he can tell his wife is attractive, he can see men are attracted to her, despite her age, pregnancies, despite her suburban ennui, he can see the stares in restaurants, church, theatre… Let him fry a little tonight. Let him wonder whether Susan's had enough and whether she's decided to accept one of those unspoken invitations. He could see the way she dressed, he could see the make up she put on. He could see the skirt she decided to wear was somewhat shorter than what usually passes for decency in soccer mom circles. He could see the cleavage that was suggesting more than just a friendly round of drinks with her female friends. He could see the high heels that will no doubt turn heads of men around Susan and produce comments about her legs and behind. Let's give the man his due – he is not stupid. And Susan knew he was not going to try to stop her go out dressed like that – that would not be in his rational, mild nature – but she also knew he would be worrying. Oh, yes, let him worry. Let him worry what happened to his wife so that she got dressed like a slut, refused to even speak to him respectfully on her way out and click-click-clicked on her high heels towards the taxi that awaited.

What her husband could not see was the face of a taxi driver in the rear view mirror. Nervous, quick glances framed by drops of sweat, glances hoping not to be noticed by the leggy passenger in the back seat and yet hoping to steal enough time so that the image of a tall, sexy woman riding towards her favourite café dressed like she is intending to make someone happy, remains firmly etched into the mind. Susan chuckled again. Of course she noticed the driver was looking at her. He was young and not looking particularly clean. A few ideas and images passing through her head sent a pleasant impulse down her spine. Remembering that those same ideas, albeit probably in a censored form should be forming in her husband's head at exactly the same time made her feel even better.

Dressing like a slut to piss your husband off is hardly a sin, or even a crime. It's not even something one would call eminently stupid. Getting drunk is slightly higher on the list of stupid gestures but then again, sometimes we recognise despair only when we're halfway to the oblivion. It's just something people do. Those who haven't been there may feel free to cast the first stone etc.

So, yes, she got comments from her friends. Yes, all three of them commented on her legs, her skirt, her cleavage, her make up, this is just something girls do. It doesn't matter whether they are fourteen, sixteen, twenty five, or, as in this case, in their forties. This is a girl thing. Susan laughed and sipped her cocktails as her friends used the words like ‘foxy', ‘minx' and felt the pleasant tremors in her lower belly when the words jokingly changed into ‘slut' and ‘fucktoy'. It's those moments when enjoying being sexy just because you are does wonders for one's self-esteem. This is your fuel, Susan, it'll keep you running for weeks, months, if you're lucky. Cross your legs again, look at how sexy they look in black stockings, feel the fabric slither, hear the sound of your long, manicured fingernails produce absently scratching against your thigh.

Susan felt content. Being a woman, an attractive woman among other women who all acknowledged her looks and made very clear comments about her sex appeal is good. The only thing better is throwing some men in the mix, right?

Was it the third or fourth cocktail in when Mick and Shane joined the group of merry women at their table? Susan was not sure. The other thing she normally wouldn't be sure about was the logic behind having two men barely half her age join the group of female friends chatting about their husbands, sons, jobs, TV shows and sex. Normally, that wouldn't have happened at all. Susan was surprised it did happen. Blame it on alcohol. Everybody would anyway. They did have quite a bit to drink, all of them, and they did channel their conversation into some kinky directions so far. Two young gentlemen approaching a bunch of ripe women (loud, somewhat indecent women, at that) politely asking whether they could join, pointing out at the crowded tables around them etc., well, that sounded logical at the moment.

If we are to throw any accusations at Susan, reliance on logic should be one of them. Dressing like a slut and getting drunk and somewhat foul-mouthed is one thing. Believing that there is an undercurrent pattern in the world that will protect people who fail to protect themselves is quite another. Every day spent on Earth means you learn a difficult lesson. Susan will just pay for the lesson considerably more than the usual fee.

Mick and Shane, both apparently of Irish origin (which may or may not account for the thin moustache of the former and the wild, curly hair of the latter) were apparently quick to assess the situation and adjust their tactics accordingly. Susan smiled in her mind. They were young and horny. They probably knew that they had no chance with a bunch of married women in their forties. But they decided to give their best under the circumstances. This is amusing, Susan thought, this is getting better and better.

It did get better. Or worse, depending on the perspective. Susan could notice Mick's and Shane's gazes repeatedly skim over her breasts, legs and face, in quick feverish bursts. Boys will be boys, apparently, she thought. She smiled again, this time not only in her mind. Let them have some more, why not?

Next time Mick's eyes went downwards to get another shot of her long, slender legs she looked straight at him to show him she knew what was going on. Then she smiled (pre-emptying his possible reaction of panic and embarrassment) and crossed her legs, slowly, seductively, just for him.

He noticed. He couldn't have not noticed. Everybody noticed anyway. Shane noticed it, and her friends noticed it. That should have made her feel self-conscious in a less than positive way but it didn't. Instead, it made her feel sexier and sluttier than before. The evening just got nastier than she had hoped for. And it felt good.

Is there room for accusations here? Certainly, what Susan did crosses over into immoral territory? Then again, it just went on so naturally. As they say, one thing leads to another.

And another. And another. How many drinks were there in the end? Susan will not be able to tell. Not tomorrow, not ever. Either way, there will be more serious matters to occupy her mind. The things kept leading one to another with seamless ease worthy of a good pulp novel.

The conversation at the table gradually found itself confined in a triangle between Mick, Shane and Susan. The rest were locked out. Realistically, there wouldn't be room for one more as sexual innuendo, of a subtle and less subtle kind, got passed between the three of them. Susan was looking at the men's faces as they grew more and more aroused with her ambiguous suggestions, half-jokes and the way she kept changing the position in her seat. They want to fuck me, she said to herself. They would like to strip me and fuck me right here if the circumstances allowed. They probably never hoped to find a woman my age here, looking the way I do, acting like a sex crazed whore, like I do. I am sure they both have raging hard-ons in their baggy, faux-military style trousers.

Susan crossed her legs once again, slowly, loving every second of it. Yes, just as they must have had erections, so were her panties wet with the excitement the evening provided. It was better than she had hoped for. She'd hoped for quick glances from men around her, perhaps a name or two thrown at her in the street by youths acting bold in front of their friends. That would have been enough. What she got here was so much better, so much more arousing. Two young men drooling over her, a verbal fuck session just barely disguised as a café conversation between almost strangers. Susan loved it. She will go home soon enough. She will go home and tease her husband until she admits it was just a proper night with the girls. She would fuck him too. But if he is not ‘down' with it (as Mick and Shane would put it), she had her vibrator ready. Oh, yes, that will be a perfect punchline to a good evening. An orgasm concluding hours of deeper and deeper arousal and shameless, hot flirting with strangers half her age.

Let us discuss guilt now. It wouldn't exactly be true to say that Susan didn't feel any guilt. After all, some of the things she said would make her blush quickly in any other situation. Some of the looks she directed at Mick and Shane would make her husband very angry if he were there to witness them. But, she thought, after all, this is just childish flirtation. There is no deeper meaning to any of this. I know that, they know that, there is no chapter two, no bad consequences. There is no harm in this.

If there is one thing that Susan takes away from this night, which she can use later in life, let's hope it is the knowledge of harm. Harm is always there. Harm is always around, infinitely patient, just awaiting an invitation. Susan produced a king-size invitation, complete with golden print and calligraphic handwriting. No matter how drunk, horny and desperate one gets, accepting a ride home from a pair of total strangers usually sounds like a bad idea.

Susan usually knew bad ideas when she saw them. And, it is fair to say that she knew Mick and Shane offering to give her a ride home was a barely disguised suggestion of sex. She did refuse at first. Then they argued. More jokes. More innuendo. More pleasant tingling between her legs. These guys wanted her so bad. She could see the bulges in their trousers. Why not prolong the fantasy a bit longer? As long as she is in control, it will be fine.

Control. One thing Susan was not in control of was that pair of long, slender legs, dressed in those slutty stockings and those fuck-me shoes. She did accept Shane's help in getting up and leaned on him on their way out. Her friends cheered. At least she thinks they did.