Privacy Fence
I once again fell asleep in the yard last night and now my wife is real mad.
“Just because we have a privacy fence doesn’t mean you can act homeless!”
I’m sitting up now, my head heavy with last night’s drinks.
“Unhoused!” I shout back.
“You fucking twat!”
She slams the door and goes back inside. I lean to my right and quietly vomit into the grass.
I look around the perimeter of the yard at our gleaming white privacy fence. It came with the house. I would never erect a privacy fence unless my neighbors were super shitty or dog owners. Our neighbors are great. They’ve never accused me of being an unhoused person. They respect my quirks.
Unhousing myself was something that came naturally. I’m always at risk of losing everything, including my wife, so I’ve decided to ease into it. Practice, just in case the time ever comes.
I suppose I’ll start spending more time indoors when the weather gets a little chillier. I’ve never been one for the cold. The early spring and gorgeous weather is how this all started. I’d wander outside after my wife went to bed. She turns the air conditioning way down because she says she’s tired of waking up in pools of sweat. I stayed outside longer and longer, pounding beers, smoking cigarettes, and either muttering to myself or thinking really deep thoughts, dragging myself inside after she went to work so I could work from home writing hardcore pornography very few people read. I told myself it was an office and not a house.
This continues for several more nights—rain or shine. When it rains, I’ve found a spot under the garage eave with a large tree growing over it. It keeps me relatively dry.
One night I hear the back door open and my wife bellow, “Where are you, you disgusting piece of shit!”
I’m between a large bush and the privacy fence, masturbating slowly. Being outside, I’m usually able to take my time with it. Inside, I always had to furiously pound one out whenever I could find the time and the privacy.
I put my dick away but don’t respond to her.
Not yet.
She goes into the house and comes back out with a palm of cigarettes she sprinkles around the porch. I scamper out of the bushes to collect them.
I meet my wife’s gaze.
She’s not wearing a lot of clothes.
“I need a fucking,” she says.
I look longingly at the cigarettes in my hand. I don’t know why. I’d much rather be fucking my wife. Theater, I guess. Dramatic tension.
“After,” she says.
I follow her inside.
Later, as we both lie in my collective stink and smoke cigarettes in bed, I remember this unhoused thing was not really my idea at all. I leaned into her fetish with a ferocity I exhibit for very few things. She’ll delouse me and hose me down. Maybe pull off a couple of ticks. We’ll clean the house together. Go to bed together. In the morning she’ll seduce me again and tell me I clean up nice. Then I’ll go outside to do yardwork and it’ll start again.
