Somewhat reluctantly, as the cloth absolutely stank of my wife’s shit and was smeared by her skid marks, I took hold of it at one corner as Libby washed her hands at the sink. I watched as she dried her them then she adjusted her panty lines around her bum, her knickers seeming to be riding up from when she pulled them up after finishing on the toilet.
“When you go to the supermarket Jeff, I need more sanitary pads for later this week,” said Libby. “Make sure you add them to the list. You know what brand I use.”
“Sure sweetie, did you need regular sanitary pads or overnight ones?” I queried.
Libby glared at me. “Isn’t it obvious, Jeff? I asked you to buy sanitary pads. If I had wanted you to buy me overnight period pads, I would have asked you to buy me overnight sanitary pads, wouldn’t I? It seems pretty fucking obvious to me that I need regular period pads.”
“Sorry Libby, I’ll get you some regular pads,” I said. “How about tampons? Do you need some more tampons?”
More glaring from Libby. “If I needed tampons, I would have asked you for tampons, wouldn’t I? Jesus Jeff, what is it with the fucking stupid questions you’re asking me? And this after literally scaring the shit out of me when I was on the loo? Fuck Jeff, just keep your mouth shut and stop fucking annoying me! It would be less fucking irritating if I got fucking fiberglass up my cunt!”
“Again, sorry Libby,” I called out after my foul-mouthed wife as she flounced out of the laundry and presumably back to the kitchen.
I looked at the cloth used to wash Libby’s bottom when she finished on the toilet. I felt like taking the cloth in its current state around to Todd’s place. If he saw and smelled what had come out of Libby’s arse this morning, maybe he would keep away from her vagina from now onwards, given the close proximity to Libby’s anus.
But of course I did not, and for the second time in three days I set to work cleaning something that was covered in my wife’s shit. On Thursday night it had been the toilet in the ensuite, and today this washcloth. There were roses on the dirty cloth, and while roses smelled nice, this cloth sure as fuck didn’t.
Cleaning away Libby’s excess poop from the soft floral flannel and disinfecting it, I threw the washcloth into the washing machine, then put Libby’s bras, knickers and other light colored clothes into the machine, put in some powder and set the cycle. After the laundry it would be the busy Saturday morning supermarket.
Still, it had its advantages. Libby wasn’t going to be there, sometimes we did go grocery shopping together but this was infrequent. And if I timed my shopping run right, I would meet a certain young lady and her two fathers who also did their own shopping at the same time …
*
My luck was in this morning. I was in the supermarket aisle which most guys try to avoid, the one where the feminine hygiene products were kept when around the corner came Brad and Will pushing a shopping trolley, Montana beside them. And there was an added bonus. Accompanying the fathers and their daughter was the daughter’s best friend, pretty redhead Bailey.
Like Montana, Bailey was a theater kid at school and the two BFF’s shared the same taste in retro clothes. Today Montana was still dressed in her cute knee-length denim overalls, white tee-shirt and sneakers and socks, while Bailey had donned a polo-neck shirt, cargo pants and sneakers. Seeing a hot teenage girl wearing cargo pants took me back to the late 1990s, and to my delight as Bailey turned around as we all said hello to get some tissues, her cargo pants had a visible panty line. I obviously couldn’t see what color Bailey’s knickers were, but from the shape they were the same bikini brief panties favored by her BFF and by coincidence, my wife.
We all said our hellos and were talking about the weather and the like, and I remembered that I had better get Libby her period pads before I forgot. The brand of napkins she wanted was right there on the shelf next to me so I reached across to pick up a packet, and experienced the most awkward moment possible as Montana reached up at the exact second and put her hand on the same packet of sanitary napkins.
Montana and I looked at each other, with Bailey, Brad and Will looking on with amused expressions, and I pulled my hand back and fast. This would have been embarrassing enough had it happened with some random girl, but this was my secret crush young enough to be my daughter, right in front of her fathers and her BFF.
Immediately I blushed, and then began babbling. “Sorry Montana, you go ahead, I’ll get another packet for me. No not for me, I’m a guy, I don’t need them. They’re for my wife, my wife Libby Larson, you know Libby my wife, the one with blonde hair, my wife who is a woman, the fitness lady. She needs them for next week because she’s going to be menstruating.”
A stern-faced looking grandmother with her two grandkids came into the aisle, and was clearly concerned about a middle-aged man standing next to the feminine hygiene products babbling to two teenage girls and two gay men about his wife’s menstrual cycle. She took the two kids by the arm and led them away from the crazy man.
Montana seemed amused as she took the packet of pads and placed it in the trolley. “Thanks Jeff, I think I already worked out they were for your wife not you. Like these ones, definitely for me, not my two fathers.”
Will laughed and said, “Yes, next week is the week that Brad and I are walking on eggshells all week trying to prevent Little Miss Montana’s hormones getting overworked.”
“Will, make sure you get our daughter plenty of chocolate from the confectionary aisle,” Brad joked.
“I’m not that bad am I?” Montana laughed in response, as Bailey reached over and also took a packet of sanitary pads, a different brand to the ones Montana was buying and the ones I was getting for Libby, placing the napkins in the basket she carried.
“Well, it’s double trouble when I’m over next week,” Bailey quipped. “Our cycles are synchronized, remember? It often happens with friends.”
“I guess neighbors too, if you count my wife,” I said.
“Bailey and I have always gotten it at the same time,” said Montana.
“We’re kind of like sisters like that,” agreed Bailey. “My brothers don’t understand, nor does my Dad and Mum is one of the lucky ones who’s never had any female problems. All they know is that next week their sister and daughter will be replaced by some angry redhead who eats chocolate like it’s going out of fashion, snaps their heads off if they look at her the wrong way and cries over sad girly movies.”
Bailey’s sister’s comments was quite accurate for her and Montana’s friendship. With Montana an only child and Bailey having three brothers — one older, one twin, and the other younger — the girls had sort of become the sister each never had to the other.
Bailey laughed once more. “My Dad and three brothers still act like I’ve got TB, rabies or leprosy when I’ve got girls’ problems.”
With all this talk about periods, I had ironically forgotten the thing I came into this aisle to buy, and that was period pads for Libby. “I’d better not forget these,” I said, picking up a packet and putting them into my trolley with a laugh. “Libby isn’t very forgiving when she gets PMS.”