With the toilet clean, Libby put the brush and cleaning supplies away and washed her hands in the laundry. I followed her into the kitchen as she strode in front of me still in a huff, and I thought about how foul mouthed my wife actually was. When at work she had to be all sweetness and nice, but she sure as hell made up for it at home and she had no filter on her potty mouth, barely able to put a sentence together without using a four letter expletive starting with S, F or C.
It was another reason I was glad Libby and I never had children. If we did, we would probably up the school all the time to deal with complaints about our kids swearing, having picked it up from listening to their mother’s foul mouth. When I first met Libby I was turned on by her bad language when we were enjoying ourselves in bed, but now more than 16 years later I wished that when Libby was a kid her mother had dragged her into the bathroom and forced her to eat soap to punish her daughter for fucking swearing in every second fucking sentence.
In the kitchen, Libby flung open the refrigerator. In there were a number of bottles filled with a nasty looking green mixture — Libby’s health shakes, which she blended herself and stored for later. There were lots of things that went into the blender that I thought should never be used in the same sentence as shake; kale, kiwi fruit, cucumbers, spinach, celery, cabbage, sprouts and fuck only knew what other disgusting combinations of fruits and vegetables.
To give herself an energy boost before hitting the treadmill, Libby drained one of her shakes, holding the bottle up to her mouth and sculling it, wiping the green residue from her mouth with the back of her hand and washing out the glass bottle.
She passed me as she went out of the kitchen, opened her mouth, and belched a massive burp into my face, continuing on her way without excusing herself. I was left getting the smell of various vegetables, plus the evidence that Libby hadn’t brushed her teeth from some hours, out of my nose. The consumption of the green health juice had a decidedly unfortunate effect on Libby’s digestive system, and as well as swearing like a sailor she could easily beat a group of beer-swilling male bogans down the pub having a burping contest. Libby would sometimes burp in my face to amuse herself, sometimes it would be to assert her dominance over me as no way would she ever put up with me belching in her face and other times she did it because she was pissed off with me. Tonight was definitely in the latter category.
There was one thing for me to be happy about however, and this was that at least that this time it was from that end of Libby’s digestive system, and not the other. I was premature in my relief. In the kitchen doorway, Libby casually farted as loudly as she could, the sound of my wife passing wind probably audible all the way across the Bass Strait to people in Tasmania.
Again without excusing herself, Libby left the kitchen. When I first met Libby, I would not have believed that she actually farted, but now she had no restraint on farting in front of me at all, not embarrassed by the noise or the smell. I wished she would give up the green health shakes which were a major cause of my wife’s gas issues, but there were so many other foods she ate that caused her flatulence that I don’t think it would have solved the problem completely.
As the terrible smell of my wife’s fart filled the kitchen and went up my nose, I thought of Todd. Did Libby berate, belittle and swear at him if he did something that irritated her? Was he also subjected to my wife’s burping and farting? One thing was probably true. The way Todd fawned over Libby, I think he would only smell pleasant things like roses, jasmine or freshly baked cookies if she farted in front of him.
*
If found myself on the wrong end of Libby’s temper again today at dinner. We were eating lasagna — not proper lasagna, vegetarian lasagna with zucchini taking the place of the pasta when I happened to look at my wife the wrong way and commit the terrible sin of staring at her while she was eating. Libby banished me to the kitchen to finish my tea in there, and afterwards buried herself in work in her downstairs office.
I went to my office upstairs, but was not doing work. The room was in complete darkness, allowing me to see across into the neighbors’ house and into Montana’s bedroom. Montana’s curtains were open allowing me to see into the teenager’s illuminated bedroom from my positon peeking through the blinds at her. There wasn’t much to see, Montana was still wearing her school uniform and absorbed in her study books. Being 18 and in Year 12, she had plenty of study.
Most nights I wished Montana would forget to close her blinds and would undress in front of the window, me getting to see the young girl in her bra and her panties, then completely naked, but so far she had never messed up in this regard. I continued to spy on Montana studying in her bedroom, until she got up and left the bedroom. I then saw the light in the small frosted window next to Montana’s bedroom illuminate.
I knew what that room was; it was the toilet. Our house and Brad and Will’s house had a similar design, two toilets upstairs and one downstairs in the laundry. The toilet next to the main bathroom was the one that Montana mainly used.
A few weeks ago, Brad, Will and Montana had invited me inside their house and upstairs to look at some new artworks they had purchased recently. While the art was nice, I kept discretely looking into the small room that housed the toilet next to the main bathroom, weird and perverted thoughts running through my mind.
I looked at the toilet seat, thinking about how Montana’s bare bottom sat on it whenever she went to the toilet. The roll of toilet tissue on the holder next to the toilet was Montana’s toilet paper that she used to wipe her bottom. When Montana finished on the toilet, she would press the handle on the cistern to flush her business away. On the cistern sat a can of toilet freshener for the teenager to spray around to get rid of any smells she left behind herself after a visit to the loo.
In the adjacent bathroom I looked at the vanity and sink, imagining Montana’s bare breasts reflected as she did a monthly examination on her mammary glands to feel for lumps. I looked at the bath and the shower, imagining Montana’s naked teenage body either immersed in the tub enjoying a soapy bubble bath or having a shower.
Tonight I obviously could not see Montana while she was on the toilet, but my imagination took me into the house of her gay fathers and into the upstairs toilet, where Montana was sitting on it, her little tartan school skirt up around her waist and her white knickers down around her ankles clad in knee-length white school socks and black school shoes. I imagined looking down at the saddle of Montana’s panties, and seeing the creamy colored pussy stains from her vagina self-cleansing during the day.
I wasn’t sure if Montana only needed to pee in which case she would turn off the light soon, but she must have needed a poo because she took more than five minutes, my erection throbbing as I imagined the teenager doing personal and private things on the toilet, and pondering if she scrunched or folded her toilet paper when she wiped herself. I would never know, but I had fun speculating, my erection proved that.