For the second day running the bright yellow pickup caught Billy McNabb's eye – the vehicle was clean, meaning no dirt, no marks. Owned by a perfectionist, he deduced.
He imagined the guy – late forties, divorced and no-one to play with so devoted his after-work time to watching sport on TV and drinking beer while eating steaks at hash-houses, keeping an eye on his prized possession parked across the street. He'd give that vehicle more attention than he'd give any woman.
Lucky bastard.
Billy lived with his mom and she worried if he were late home, didn't eat at home, insisted he owned a vehicle she was comfortable riding in and didn't like him drinking alcohol – but, thank god, she thought martini aftermath on his breath was the smell of peppermints.
A day later Billy was late leaving work and saw a long-legged woman enter the parking lot and wondered if she went with the yellow pickup.
Wow.
She was in her late twenties, really great legs, neatly dressed, black hair, big hoops for earrings and – oh yeah: nice ass.
Driving home in his black, comfortable and under-powered sedan with sheep-skin covered seats because his mom liked to be seated comfortably, Billy nursed a boner, thinking of those legs of that woman. It had been a while since he'd been with a woman who takes care of boners, so his focus was totally on this new woman in his life. This married woman. Oh crap, he fumed, why did you have to bring that up? Hey – but wait: some married women snatch a bit on the side.
"You looked flushed – coming down with a cold?" his mom asked. He rejected that possibility, asked what was for dinner but didn't listen to the answer, which was usual. Instead he wondered if his mom would serve his new girl-friend a meal if she knew this woman was having an adulterous fling with her son to relieve him of his boner problem. Probably not and he'd get a kick in the boner from his mom to put him right. Damn.
The 32-year-old fingered his luxurious thatch of auburn hair and sighed. Mrs Yellow Pickup would slip through his fingers because he wouldn't commit to attempt to date her. Most of his women came into his arms because he offered sympathy when they were distressed or so randy they'd take anything on two legs.
Twice during the night he awoke to find he had a raging erection. Hell, what was this - he hadn't been watching Big Tits DVD's. Then into his mind came the image of Mrs Yellow Pickup – he grabbed his box of tissues and stroked away, pretending the hand around his dick was hers.
Afterwards he cleaned up; it took almost two minutes to flush away the tissues – a whole box of them – a new record for him. He fell sleep resolving to make a positive move on Mrs Yellow Pickup later that day...
_ _ _
After settling in at work next day Billy called the janitor.
"Hi Charlie – Billy McNabb, internal audits manager, 11th floor.
"Is that so?"
"You disappoint me Charlie; I thought you would remember me. I'm the guy who helped you polish off all those half empty bottles of beer after last year's Christmas party and you kept a look-out while I polished off those two tarts from our word processing unit."
"Oh yeah, 'Big dick Billy' one of them called you. She could hardly walk."
"I think she'd had two many gins, Charlie."
"Whatever. What do you want?"
"Details of the driver of that yellow pickup who parks in Space 27."
"That's easy – it's the owner/operator of Heavenly Fashions – can't remember her name. Want me to look it up?"
"Not if you can tell me what time she regularly leaves the parking lot."
"Six fifteen, on the dot."
"Thanks Charlie – tell you what; I'll assist you prepare your next tax returns if you want."
"Thanks, Billy. I'll think about that. I really need someone I trust. Both of those women you shafted after the Christmas party were married, you know."
"Married – I didn't know that," Billy lied.
"Oh, sorry, I misjudged you. Perhaps I can trust you."
Right on 6:15 Mrs Yellow Pickup arrived at her vehicle.
Billy climbed out of his vehicle and spoke to her over the roof of his sedan – he figured she'd feel safer with him being that far away.
"Hi, been wanted to tell you how much I admire that condition of your pick-up."
"Is this a pick-up?"
"Pardon me?"
"Oh, take no notice. My humor runs away on me at times. What do you want?"
"Truly?"
"Yes, I suppose so."
"An invitation is sit behind the wheel of your pickup. To me it looks better than new and besides won't have the ghastly new vehicle smell."
"Okay – look, take it for a drive and we'll stop off somewhere for a drink. That is, unless you think your wife may object."
"What wife?"
"Oh, sorry, was it messy?"
Billy was beginning to wonder what drug this woman was on. She wasn't exhibiting any shyness, claimed to have a humor, an unsual claim for a woman to make and here she was lining him up to pay for her drinks. "What was messy?"
"Your divorce."
"But I've never been married."
"Oh, sorry. I never thought a manly looking guy like you would be in a gay relationship. You can still have a test drive but we'll skip socializing if that's okay."
"It's not fucking okay. If you were a guy I'd bust your ribs for calling me gay."
She looked mortified, and threw her hands up helplessly.
"I live with my mom but if you dare call me a mummy's boy I really will get mad with you."
The woman cried "Oh Oh" and came running around the car and fixing her big hazel eyes on Billy's green ones, placed her hand on his arm and said, "Oh, I am so terrible sorry. I've landed myself in a fuck-up, haven't I? My mouth habitually runs away on me."
Billy looked at her hand until she removed it hastily. "Look, let's forget about the test drive," he said. "We'll leave the vehicles here and walk across the road to Cliff's Bar and you can apologize, buy our drinks and talk nicely to me."
"Oh yes, what a wonderful idea. I'm Celeste Roper."
"What, the Olympic gymnast?"
"Oh that? That was years ago."
"Well, I remember – you were sixteen and a half. Absolute grace in motion. Oh, I'm Billy McNabb from the 11th floor."
