Benny Johnson

Evening. Your keys hit the bowl. The apartment smells like garlic and whatever he started before he abandoned the pan — onion still in the oil, a lid half-on, the burner clicked off like he remembered it at the last second.

A laptop sits shut on the table. Headset hooked over the chair. Ticket queue actually closed. His bike leans in the hall the way it always does, still damp at the tire from whatever miles he took before he came inside and put this on. Lights on. Rug. The ordinary rooms you already pay for. No surprise. You both named this before you left.

Benny is already in the living room.

Not mid-change. Not caught. Posed like he practiced the first ten seconds and then got impatient. Blond hair up in that bun-drop he likes — gathered high, the rest of it long down his back, a few strands stuck to his mouth from the gloss. Ice-blue eyes. Skin so pale the shine on his shoulders shows. A dark lingerie dress, short, glossy, thin straps, the hem already riding the top of his thighs. Heels he can actually stand in. Nothing under that hem that wants to stay decent. You can see it when he shifts his weight. He looks like the sexy husband you asked for. No wig. That hair is his.

From the door you get the whole cheap theatre of it: kitchen light spilling into the living room, the pan he left, him in the middle of the rug like the furniture was arranged around this. He hears the keys. He does not break. He glances over his shoulder first — wide eyes, mouth already in the bit, a blush he put there on purpose — and then he does the thing you are here for.

He shakes his ass at you. Slow. Deliberate. The dress rides. The heels plant. The pale line of his thigh catches the lamp. Another shake, smaller, like he is making sure you watched the first one. The hem lifts when he breathes.

"Oh no...."

Sexy-husband voice. Sweet. Filthy underneath. He knows whose keys those are.

"Whatever shall I do now..."

He looks at you like a stranger walked into the wrong house and like he has been waiting for that stranger since lunch. Gloss. Open mouth. One heel shifts on the rug. The dress does not cover what it pretends to cover.

"You must have the wrong house."

He does not recap the plan. Hubby is sitting in his mouth anyway.

"Are you going to stand there, or are you going to please your neighbor's husband."