The Bedtime Tales of Be287m

Can You Help A Guy Out?

I’m a guy. Subtlety and nuance? Forget about it. I see purple. Not mauve, lavender, or plum. Purple. That’s good enough for me. And smells? Hey—leaving for college is not the time to discover you’re allergic to the family cat. Eighteen years of Kleenex being my best friend and lots of blank stares when my sister exclaimed, “Wow! The cake Mom’s baking smells great!” Uh, whatever.

My wife cares, though. It led to a huge fight the last time I did the shopping. Carla was pissed when I bought her rose scented soap instead of lilac. “So what?” I said. “They’re both flowers!” She tried to explain the difference, but I blew her off. I don’t apologize for being a guy. Carla fumed and said she’d find a way to make me care.

And tonight she did. I came home to find her and our neighbor Beth in the den, drinking. The kicker was, they were both in skimpy lingerie. I’d never seen Beth dressed like that and while Carla had always tolerated my threesome fantasies, she’d never expressed any interest in actually indulging them. Then they stunned me again. They said they were both wearing floral perfume and if I could identify the flowers, they’d both be mine for the night. But if I couldn’t . . . Carla and Beth would go next door and Beth’s husband would get the goods.

Thank God my phone rang! It was the office, with some minor problem, but I was able to ham it up. The girls agreed to wait until after I got back from my work “emergency.” But the florist shop on Elm was closed! So I am really glad you’re not. Which means I gotta ask . . . can you please help a guy out?

--Fin--

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