"Kane's really funny, wait till you hear the one about the priest in a titty bar."
"Kane's acting weird honey. Did the two of you set him up for this?"
Then, from Kane: "You never told me Jack is hung as fuck!" Oops, my bad.
"We're going to D'Zara!" Great. D'Zara was known as a place with a notorious cruise-y vibe. Maybe they could soak up the atmosphere -- quick -- and get home earlier than planned. Then I forgot to check my phone because there was a cops crew at the door.
The next time I was free it was already three a.m. -- one of the cops kept crying about missing his mom in faraway Seattle, and kept asking for more donut refills -- my phone was eerily silent. My last message was of them going to D'Zara. I pulled up the GPS locator of my husband's phone. Strange: it was firmly planted at our house.
I did not know why but that fact did not comfort me. It should, it meant my husband was back safe and sound in our house, probably half-drunk from alcohol. He was probably smoking his last cig for the day, his habit after being home from bar-hopping. He loved to smoke, but knew I did not tolerate them well, so only had them rarely when I was out of the house.
Suddenly unbidden a vivid picture came to my mind: Kane and Jack my husband dancing the night away in D'Zara. Both slightly intoxicated and warm from the alcohol running in their veins, sweaty from the heat of the dancing crowd, the glistening flashes of ropy muscles and musky pheromones clouding judgements of husbands and friends. I imagined them standing close together, the song probably one of those slow songs crafted to make couples sway gently -- my husband's favorite was Careless Whisper, with its sexy sax solo opening -- hands holding skin on skin, ever so slightly humid from the sweat, my husband holding Kane's bountiful ass, his big bubble -- a point of pride for the guy -- in my Jack's large masculine hands. I imagined them running their bulges across each other, my husband's gargantuan blob dwarfing Kane's, him smiling seductively at my husband at the sensation of bulge on bulge.
My shift's ending in fifteen minutes. I contemplated leaving early -- I had the kitchen cleaned, and people from the next shift were having their breakfast in the pantry room, but decided to be the good colleague. I sent off a message to Jack: "Hope you had a good time babe!" and to Kane: "Thanks honeybunch I owe you big xxx."
Both of them blue-ticked my messages, but did not reply.
My apartment was only a few blocks away from the diner so I walked the sleepiness off. Along the way I bought a few pastry products from my husband's favorite baker, just across the street from our building -- a reason why we chose the apartment in the first place. When I passed Mrs. Baum our next-door neighbor on the stairs she seemed flummoxed and even a bit shy to see me. She sure scurried in faster than a surprised kitten after she fetched her newspapers, giving me little time to say good morning like a neighborly person.
What surprised me was the fact that my husband was as fresh as daisies this morning. I had expected him to be relentlessly hungover from last night's adventures, but apparently alcohol reacted different ways with Italians. He was upbeat, standing on his tiptoes, generous with his touches and his kisses, warm, the lovable oaf.
Much like how he would behave after a night of sex.
The other thing was the fact that Kane had stayed over the night before. He was sitting at the table, sipping his morning coffee from my good china with the pinkie all straight up like a rich bourgeois bitch boy. Apparently he -- they, my husband and him -- had crashed and slept the excesses of the night in our apartment.
I watched the two banter over breakfast, the talk flowing easy between the two men in my life. What were the chances... no, they could not have. Even the thought of the two clutched in flagrante delicto was too much, too cruel to even contemplate. Breakfast proceeded uneventfully, and Kane took his leave soon after.
After breakfast and Jack's leaving for work I decided to get caught up in laundry. I was going through every room, collecting socks and shirts and whatnots, when an article under our bed caught my eye. It was a white jockstrap, a size too small to be mine -- I wore jocks only rarely, if ever, if Jack wanted to be naughty or when we were on holidays -- anyhow, this one felt too small to be mine, and the pouch was all wet and sticky, like someone had came inside it. Which brought my mind crashing back to Kane.
Why was Kane's jockstrap here, under my bed of all places? Didn't he sleep in the guest room? And why was it wet? And why was the cum patch -- assuming it was cum -- felt fresh?
Later after laundry was done I packed the jock and ordered an Uber to Kane's downtown condo, intent on sending it off with a big bowtie as a joke. I had the key to his house, like he had mine. We always had each other's back, Kane and I, going back to our college days, even if the guy could be a tad obnoxious, much too conceited and a bit ornery sometimes but he was my shoulder to cry on whenever I felt everything was too much. Now I had my husband, which I was grateful for, but Kane was -- and ever would be -- my rock.
