My wife’s sister’s name is Sallyanne. And I’ll just say that if my wife’s body is a rotting, overripe apple that got dropped and bruised and squished into a not-so-funny shape, then Sallyanne is more like a squat, compressed pear . . . huge fucking compact hips and ass rising through a healthy, acceptable amount of grabbable flab to cute little breasts way more like Jolene’s than Dee’s honking monstrosities. 

I sit across a table covered in dollar-store decor, staring slack-jawed at two generations of tits, Sallyanne’s and Dee’s . . . both sets cradled tight and basically on display for me to not quite feel bad for ogling (since I’m gonna die and all soon anyway).

My wife’s at the end of the table rabbiting on about some diet program that would surely sooner shit bricks than have her as their afterphoto model. Fuck she’s loud. She’s always loud . . . always been, and always will be. No one’s really listening to her, I don’t think. To the others, she’s background noise. To me, it’s like a constant cringey reminder that, yes, I let my life get swallowed up in this particular noisy mess, and, no, I ain’t fucking happy about it.

Jolene’s in the living room watching Rick and Morty, laughing, all cool and fun and shit. I glance over, and start to wonder about the baggy sweatpants and hoodie she’s wearing. Compared with her mom and sister, she’s a pure diamond Cinderella pushed aside by wicked weird-shaped relatives, but more than happy to keep her treasures hidden in these rough-ass surroundings. She doesn’t need me and the other assorted loosely related guys in the room to know she’s the hottest of the hot (and trust me, Sallyanne and Dee are both more than just fuckable in my book). Jolene’s pure cool.

Fuck.

Anyway, everyone else is having these little side conversations. And every now and then, Sallyanne says something to me. She’s got this squeaky little voice, and wide eyes, as if she’s innocent. But I know she sees me pining to follow the beaming line of her cleavage all the way down and in. 

So, how the fuck am I supposed to sit here, digest her damn words, and have a conversation when we both know I’m this uncouth animal barely contained by general rules or whatever . . . though clearly not held back at all in looking and longing?

I can’t talk. I just sit all quiet and hunched up like a scarecrow ogre, completely incapable of being a person like everyone else here is.

Dee stands, and I quiver like a lost schoolboy. She turns, and alarm bells form a chain from my eyes, to my mind, to my cock. She bends for no apparent reason, and I wonder how suspiciously long I’d need to stay locked in the bathroom to rub one out to this new jackpot spank-bank image like a treasure I wish I didn’t want.

My dim mind cries for sanctuary, and just to be the least bit free (y’know, like my trainwreck wife is, sitting there, going on and on about herself).

Dee knows I’m staring at her, of course. She knows it even (way) more than Sallyanne. Even back when I wouldn’t let myself openly stare, I can’t deny how damn obvious I’ve been.

My mind swims through every remembered tight squeeze in a hallway when I “had no choice” but to brush against Dee’s protruding, space-hogging, uncontrollable behind . . . every family photo when I’d happen to be in back of her, pressing in real close and tight.

I’m looking at her. Yes, she knows I’m looking. I don’t know if she knows I know she knows.

And I’m sure no one here knows I almost legit ran away with Jolene.

I smile, and Sallyanne smiles right back. So does my wife. Dee doesn’t, but then she’s still acting like she’s not supposed to see my face or where it’s aimed. They probably all think I’m smiling the same way they are, like I’m happy, and happy to be here, and enjoying connecting around this big warm table and all, the way families are supposed to. But I’m not smiling the same as them. And only Jolene could probably see the difference if she was close enough to look. I’m smiling because I’m seeing myself in an all new way now, sitting here licking my lips at the prospect of Sallyanne’s treat-like tits, or Dee’s fresh-loaf-of-soft-cake-bread ass (my all time favorite). I’m smiling because I’m a fucking psycho monster. Or, I would be if I let myself act out my inclinations a little more.

Maybe I will let myself, but that’s not the point.

I’m smiling, really, because I always thought I was the exact opposite . . . this hard-done victim fucked by life and choices . . . a good guy in a sad state due to never sticking up for myself. Now I see the truth. I’m not good, not at all (I guess that’s one thing sweet Jolene was wrong about). Hey, without any consequences . . . say, if everyone else was unconscious and would have no recollection later . . . I know the unspeakable things I’d do to almost every single female in this room. 

That’s why I can’t talk. That’s why all I can do is sit here, this silent unnoticed monster who’s got everyone convinced I’m essentially harmless.

Man, I want to die for a whole new reason now.

Dee sidles over to the living room, and plops her ass down on the couch next to Jolene. I imagine tasting both their asses, back and forth, comparing. 

My phone in my pocket trembles and fuzzes, and I know who it is . . . fucking Figgles . . . the only one who texts me. Sure enough, his latest reads: Whores are waaaaaaay better than wives, eh? You should come whoring, bro!

I roll my eyes for different reasons. Mostly, I roll them at myself.

Returning my attention to assessing the two sisters’ near the TV, I think, No, I don’t deserve to live. 

It’s not like I thought before . . . like, that I wish I could live, but know I’ll never really get to. No, I shouldn’t get to live. Not at all. Not with the crazy, perverted, sick-ass shit parading around in my lowlife degenerate brain.

Fuck me.