The Kings Of Cool

86

As they’re undressing for bed Stan asks, “So what do you think?”

“About the cocaine?”

“Yeah.”

Or about me kissing another man, Diane thinks. Nothing about that? We’re just going to let it slide? She tosses it back at him. “I don’t know, what do you think?”

“Do we want to be drug dealers?” he asks.

She knows that they can go on for hours like this, answering questions with questions with questions.

“We dealt grass,” she says; “is it so different?”

Stan unbuttons his denim shirt and hangs it up in the closet. Shucks off his jeans and hangs them on a hook on the back of the door. “Isn’t it? I mean, grass is natural-this is a powder.”

“That comes from a plant,” she says.

“So does heroin,” Stan counters. “Would we deal that?”

“No,” she says, impatient now, naked now, sliding into bed. “But is cocaine addictive?”

“I don’t know.” He gets in beside her. “It would be nice to have some money.”

“We could buy the house,” she says, thinking that if he says anything about “feminine nesting instincts” she’ll punch him in the face.

“But it’s drug dealing, ” Stan says. “Is that what we started out to be?”

“What did we start out to be, Stan?”

To his credit, he laughs at his own pretension. “Revolutionaries.”

Volunteers of America.

“The revolution is over,” Diane says.

“Who won?” Stan asks.

Diane laughs and then takes him in her arms, pulls him close. His body is warm and familiar, and he gets hard quickly. She knows that he wants to slide into her, but she rolls over and straddles him.

He looks up at her, his eyes shining, and she can see him thinking.

“You saw me kissing him,” she says.

He nods.

“Did it turn you on?”

He doesn’t answer.

She hovers, supports herself on her thin, strong-surprisingly strong-arms, her cunt just on the head of his cock. “You can’t have it until you tell me. Tell me it turned you on, watching your wife kiss another man.”

“Yes.”

“Yes what?”

“Yes, it turned me on. Watching you.”

She lowers herself down on him and he moans. She rises and then drops again, and then she says, “I’ll fuck him and you fuck her.”

“Who?”

“‘Who?’” she mocks. “The Hitler Youth waitress you were ogling.”

She leans over, rocks on him, and whispers, “I’m fucking him and you’re fucking her. You’re fucking her sweet little blonde cunt, you’re feeling her tits, her ass…”

Stan grabs her by the waist and turns her over. Pulls her up onto her knees and plunges into her. Uncharacteristically, ungently, he pounds her, bruises her ass and the back of her thighs.

“That’s right,” she says. “Take her. She wants you to just take her. That’s right, that’s right, that’s right, that’s right…”

Then she feels him go soft.

“I just…” he says. “I just want you. ”

Like the sex narcs are watching you, she thinks.

Later, he says, “I’ll talk to Doc in the morning.”