How can I set the scene for what it’s really like looking over at Jolene’s impossibly perfect body in my passenger seat?

Well, imagine you like hard rock music when you’re young. It’s something about the honesty your favorite artists can pack into their edgy sound, delivering unabashed feelings you know you connect with for real . . . feelings that make you feel alive. Then you get a little on in years, and tell yourself your tastes are changing. Eventually, it’s mostly easy elevator music that gives your steady, predictable life its soundtrack. But what if you were to turn a corner one day, and come face to face with your all time favorite artist from your youth, and they blast you suddenly with familiar chords so loud, and screams so raw and guttural, it tears your whole fake grownup facade away in a moment . . . and you’re that same kid again, brought back to fucking life, experiencing the only transcendent, spiritual power you’ve ever given the least bit of a shit about.

That’s what Jolene’s happy little carressable tits and the lickable line leading down between her legs is doing to me. It’s a full-on concert. Dude, it’s the fucking Beatles or Nirvana playing my whole adolescence back to me right here in my car.

It’s everything I’ve ever wanted. Indeed, this would be enough to keep living for.

But…

“I love you, Jolene,” I say. 

“Then fuck me. Just do it. Remember,  sex doesn’t matter that much to me. I like it, and I love you, so…” She lets her meaning make itself clear without needing more words.

“I don’t just want to fuck you,” I say. “I…”

“I don’t just want to fuck you, either, Uncle X!” She reaches across, and I watch her hand glide over and land just above my knee as if I’m having a full out-of-body experience.

It sucks I watch so much damn porn, though, because my eyes automatically tremor and wrench my vision to desperately scope the hint of her somehow milky-tan ass, which appeared as she turned slightly to touch me. 

Oh that ass… It’s gold at the end of my fucking life’s rainbow, man. And I yearn so deeply to have it lift and hover over above my eager old-man face.

My phone buzzes again, and I see the name Figgles and the words whoring, bro amidst other text on the screen. And somehow, the alert breaks my ass-hungering spell enough, and I take the biggest, deepest breath I’ve ever taken.

“Let’s run away together,” she says plainly. “I . . . I want to be with you. After today, I know. I could make you so happy. You deserve to be happy.”

“I want to,” I say.

I picture our life together, little Jolene and me. The niece of my then ex-wife, always looking at me with those cheerful, resolute eyes . . . so happy to see my lucky ass every single day. In my vision, we live somewhere cold and wet, maybe up in Washington, or some other country. I still work for LA county, of course, since it’s free money, and I can do that anywhere. I spend all my time beating down doors, kicking ass, doing whatever it fucking takes to get my beautiful Jolene the fame and recognition she deserves. And I spend hours every single day making the most loving kind of love to every inch of her with my mouth. I don’t even give the disproportionate amount of time to her ass my porn addiction would compel me to. Because it’s not just about me. It’s about us. We’re truly, madly, happily in love.

“I’m ready,” she says. “Let’s do it. Let’s go be happy.”

If I could cry, I might feel that old salty sting behind my sinuses. But I can’t, and don’t, so I just sit blankly, now looking forward.

“Uncle X?” She takes her hand from my leg, and covers her breasts and crotch.

“I can’t,” I say. “I can’t do that to you. I can’t take the best years of your life. It’s not fair. And I can’t do that to my wife.” That last sentence shocks me to hear myself say. But as I think, I find it’s just as true as the rest.

True, I might be trapped in a sexless marriage. I might give my left arm, leg, and nut for just a minute of quality time with tits and ass even close to the likes of Jolene’s. But as disgusted as I am with my wife’s fucked up body, I can’t just up and fucking leave her so I’ll be happy. Yeah, I’d really rather die than do that (I realize that now . . . and it’s sort of the whole point of this fucking story).

“I want you to find someone you can experience all the best and worst parts of life with together,” I whisper. “I can’t take all that from you . . . not for anything. I . . . I really do love you too much, y’know?”

“I know,” she says as she puts her feet back through her pants, and arms back into each side of her top.

Yes, my dick in this moment is probably hard enough to fuck its way right through the side of my car. I mean, it’s just been awakened from decades of slumber, and teased with the highest of world-class treats. But I also feel sort of good, strangely. Back to the whole rock music metaphor . . . I feel like I didn’t just rob this precious girl of all the priceless concerts she should fill this best time in her life with just so I could have a little more for myself. These are her glory days, not some sad extension of mine.

We don’t say much more as we exit Blythe.

I start to think more seriously about my suicide . . . going over actual details in my mind now beyond just the general wish.

My phone grinds against its holder again as I pull back onto the freeway. It’s surely more bullshit from Figgles about the joys of whoring.