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January 20, 2018
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How I reacted when my friend blurted out, "'Why don't you tell your wife to get out there and sell her pussy?'"

My Wife’s Pussy: Off-Limits

Thursday, September 21. The following is a true story about a friend mentioning my ‘wife’s pussy.’

When I said my wife, Karina, had left her job as an architect due to stress-related health issues and that I was worried about our savings, a gruff but big-hearted Irish friend of mine, Michael Finnegan, said, ‘Why don’t you tell your wife to get out there and sell her pussy?’

What?! Did he just mention my wife’s pussy? I was shocked but laughed it off with a “Yeah, good idea, I’ll let her know,” pretending I wasn’t upset. My resentment molted in silence for a full twenty-four hours until I struck upon the idea of mentioning HIS wife’s pussy to HIM, you know, sort of sprinkle it into our next conversation. A younger brother, I am practiced at the kind of guerrilla ambush that sparks all-out war.

Some might call Michael’s wife, Slaine Finnegan, ‘a real sparkplug’ but I’d say, ‘tough, crazy blonde’. More-than-a-match for Finnegan, she is Irish Canadian, which is all messed up. She has 8 giant brothers, most of whom have underground ties to the IRA and is only five-foot-one but once threatened to mail me a letter bomb. Slainey’s always the life of the party like a cannon is the life of a fireworks display; As long as you’re watching from a safe distance, it’s exhilarating. If not, say goodbye to a limb,and it doesn’t matter if you’re friend or foe, priest or cad, coworker or the president of our company, as Michael can attest.

The next day I saw Mike coming out of his office down the aisle toward the copier and felt my arms pulsing. Stay calm, I thought, just casually mention his wife’s genitals after a few pleasantries.

“Hey Mike—How’s your wife’s pussy?“ I blurted out.

I noticed his big red face hitch a bit before choking out a laugh and saying, “Why do you ask?” I told him I was just curious if she uses it to provide extra income for the family. He said, “I don’t know. I’ll tell her you were askin,” and ended with a chinny challenge; “You’ve been thinkin about that all this time?” “Thinking about what?” says I.

I didn’t see Finnegan the whole next day but when everyone was gone, he slowly strolled up into my cube and said, "Hey, I told Slainey you asked about her pussy and she said she wanted you to have this.” He handed me a loosely-wrapped, cherry Tootsie Pop. The dark red wrapper looked like it had been re-wrapped…not by a machine, but by the small hand of a dangerous leprechaun.

I immediately calculated the odds as high that Mrs. Finnegan had inserted the very lollipop I was now holding into her vagina. I was confused: she’d never been passive aggressive, only aggressive aggressive, but perhaps she got a titillating kick out of the idea that I might somehow suck on said lollipop, or as the Spanish say, chupa el chupa-chupa. I imagined an early morning procedure on the bed, commenting to Mike as he dressed for work—more logistical than lustful.

I decided not to ever lick that lollilop but did keep it under my desk for a long time for some reason. Going down in the elevator with Finnegan the next day, I told him, “Man that was the best Tootsie Pop I ever had.“
"Oh yah?” said he with tense jaw.
“Yah thank Slainey for me. It tasted just like real cherry and I licked it slowly up and down for two hours.” He said, “Great…great, I’ll let her know.” We rode the rest of the way in silence.

In the end I feel like the joke was on him and that I had won. Luckily we now generally avoid the topic and have since stopped talking about our wives’ vaginas. Maybe in the final analysis, the line had to be crossed, before we both realized that our wives’ pussies were: off-limits.

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