Sore Loser by Simon Case
So I’m supposed to be walking their dog while Mr. Fred and his lovely wife, Mrs. Fred are off on separate business trips only Mrs. Fred isn’t on a trip. She’s right here and we’re walking the dog together, in the biblical sense. She is beautiful, smart and sweaty with desperation. It’s a little sad, it’s a little cute – like an overweight lemurs. We’re lying in her king bed, I’ve got a Cuban in my mouth, one of her husband’s. Mr. Fred has them smuggled in through the U.S., even though they’re legal up here – he just likes the thrill of smuggling. She tells me stealing gets him off, especially when he’s not doing it legally. 9-5 Mon-Fri, he sits at a big desk and steals rubber and dye and cloth from poor African kids and sells it to poor Asian kids to turn into sneakers and sometimes he fucks his secretary. Then he comes home and he wants a change so he delves into other crimes to get it up, petty thievery, solicitation of narcotics, a pinch of conspiracy here and there.
She’s whispering this in my ear, up scary close and I try to realize where I will go wrong. I know my first mistake was getting into bed with her and hoping it’d be innocent. There’s nothing innocent about Mrs. Fred, she sold her innocence to whoever paid for her first cosmetic alteration. Maybe Mr. Fred, maybe not. She’s saying all this to tempt me, tease me, she thinks it’s kind of hot. It’s kind of having the inverse effect, I delude myself successfully. She thinks she’s got this one in the bag, mouth-ripe, figure that could be a portfolio for her surgeon and big wolf eyes vs a scared little college boy too weak to stop his tent and too young to know how to hide it subtly. I think she is too quick, too hungry. She’s got fuck-you-Mr.Fred, not fuck-me-Mr.Case in those eyes when she tells me about his exploits, venting what she hates about him while trying to rile me. I kind of worry and ask if he ever hurts her.
She says yes, but not much and she likes it, she thinks that will really get me going. She’s mostly wrong. Well maybe not, but I know it should sound like she is. I feel the flicker of a challenge here, the chance to resist. Stubborn bratty competitiveness ignored by that little white spark you get from doing the right thing. This bitch thinks she can take me? Please. I am better than that. I don’t even tell myself I could have better, younger, if I want. It’d be a lie and besides, I don’t need a girl. I don’t need anybody. I should just kick her out and jerk off, I’m too nice but I do threaten to demote her to the couch and lock myself in the bathroom. She whispers something naughty about at least getting the satisfaction of hearing me moan through the door. She’s pulling out the heavy-hitters now, batting her big eyes, pouting her big lips.
It’s a close match, back and forth, touching, licking, seeing who can hold out the longest. She’s fighting playfully, young kinky sport, but I am playing for dear life, the underdog and thirsty for the title. Fuck sex, Victory is the money-melon. Every time she gets close to beating me out I tell myself that I will not, she can not, and besides that it’s not the right thing to do. I win round after round, it’s almost dawn before she starts to get frustrated. Upset. I enjoy it, she’s getting a little teenager-ish herself, coming at me cheap and dirty, easy to resist, even easier to enjoy though. She gets genuinely upset and masks it with forged sadness, pretends she’s sad she can’t be with me when she’s really mad she can’t use me. I get over-confident and then she drops her knock-out punch, catches me right here it hurts.
“Do you want me to beg?”
I go down for the count. The bout is hers, she can have me. To hell with fidelity, to hell with my immortal soul, everything melts and quivers and reforms inside me when she says that.
She’s a graceful winner, she could have easily drawn the fight out, teased me until I was prostrate or just walked out without finishing me off, doubling the injury of being KO’d with the insult of not actually getting any despite caving in. Instead she keeps her stance and plays the sad housewife who likes it rough but really just wants me but now the pity for that in me is all drained away, gone with the will to fight. Fuck being a man, fuck the right thing, fuck victory. Fuck Mrs. Fred’s mouth. She could easily of tortured me for fighting back, could of made her bitch. Instead she lets me keep the pretense of being in charge. Somewhere deep in spine I think this is all a sick little charade but most of me uses her and enjoys it. She says she likes it that way, might as well ride the boat. right? Her eyes say fuck-you-Mr.Fred-and-fuck-you-Daddy-and-fuck-you-too-yes-you. I am embarrassed and bitter and resentful but her mouth is so warm and her eyes so goddamn sad and hungry. I don’t take long after all the teasing. Once all the horniness is gone the hate and bitterness and poor sportsmanship spread like a government-designed disease.
It’s morning now and time to get up. I slip on my shirt and she goes to the bathroom to clean up. At this point, I have lost everything. She has no doubt gotten perverse but very hot pleasure out of being the puppetress while I poorly simulate a dominating personality. The only thing left is for me to hand over the physical prize to compliment the mental thrill of victory. I tell her we shouldn’t, lacking motivation. I delight in the pure selfishness of what I am doing. She senses that I might be one of those really childish sore losers. She awakes for a kiss, I tell her I never liked making out, she says that’s not what she meant, I blush.
She says
“Please.”
I say
“No.”
What can I say? I’m a sore fucking loser. I buy her breakfast, at least. Pretend to treat her nice, we chat about things. She tells me a story of seducing someone famous I’ve never heard of, trying to ease the sting of failure. She smiles at me over coffee and French toast; we will never speak again.
