I don’t understand the big deal; what’s he got that I haven’t got? I mean, I looked it up on google; my cock rates well up in the higher percentage on size, and she always cums before I do–well most times–okay maybe seven out of ten times or so, but she always claimed she was satisfied and if I finished first I never failed to use my fingers and tongue until I had her screaming how good it was, before she collapsed like a limp rag–so what the crap was wrong?
I was struggling with my tie and thoughts when Hurricane Pat swept into the room. “Aren’t you dressed yet?” She immediately set about to remedy that problem. Within minutes she had that stupid bow tie fixed like she thought was right, (Damn I hate those things.) my shirt re-tucked to suit ‘Her Majesty,’ my coat adjusted just so, and a fancy triangle of a handkerchief peeping out the breast pocket. (There’s a name for that damn thing, but I don’t know it and don’t give a sh*t.)
With five minutes to spare–her timetable, actually thirty minutes before anyone else, except “Mr. Jamison” would be there–we were backing out our driveway.
We pulled into the parking lot of the Carolina Pines, the hotel where everything was being held, just as Mr. Jamison was getting out of his car. He hurried around to open Pat’s door. I noticed his eyes were not on her face as she twisted her legs around to get out. Knowing how short Pat’s dress was, I’m sure he was getting a good look at an outstanding pair of legs.
I hurried around to escort my wife, but was only partly successful. I got one arm, he claimed the other, and with all the charm of a snake he offered his hand saying, “If I remember correctly, you must be Alfred, of course. Any husband of Pat’s is a friend of mine.” The bastard almost looked sincere.
Naturally I had to release Pat’s arm in order to shake his hand, and as I did he pulled her around so they were face to face as he hugged her tightly and said, “I don’t know how the business could run without this little lady.”
Taking his hand, I said, “My friends call me Al.”
“And I’m just plain Harry to my friends; and Al, I just know we’re going to be friends.”
The look on Pat’s face said she was just eating that crap up. When I tried to take her arm again to escort her in, she sort of pulled away–not blatantly, but I knew whose arm she was really on.
As soon as we got inside, Pat handed me a couple sheets of paper containing names and table numbers. “Al, will you check each table’s nameplates and things in general, just to make sure everything is perfect; can’t have any boo-boos on a big night like this.”
I double checked everything and even stuck my long nose into what the caterers were doing. Judging by the aromas filling the serving area set aside for them, they were doing a fine job. I guess I was making too much a pest of myself because before too long one of them headed my way menacingly waving a long handled ladle.
“Okay! Okay! I get the picture; I think I hear my wife calling anyway,” I said. I moved out of the area. I say moved because sauntered sounds too slow, and scurried sounds too undignified. At any rate I got the hell away from that spoon wielding character.