golf-ball-mdLoose Impediment

by Beau Johnson

I have two loves in this life, golf and my wife.  I am bad at one and not so good at the other.  Until recently, I did not know this.  Not until my P.I. gave me the footage.

Truth be told, I never would have envisioned Sharon doing something like this, not sensible-shoe Sharon, the woman of my dreams.  Others, yes, but not the saucer-eyed redhead I met my sophomore year.  Looking back though, it gives you what they say: hindsight.  Fuck, does it.  I mean, the irony of this thing, it’s just a beast, like full fucking throttle and then some.

I’ll calm down now.

“We never do anything together.”  Sharon states, one of her favorites.  Another such gem: “Is this all there is?”  I realize the second statement says more about Sharon’s state of mind than I’d like, but this is what you do when it comes to people you love.  You make concessions.  Now that I think about it, this might say more about me than I’d like.  Does it matter though?  Now, after everything that’s been done?  I don’t think so, not in the greater scheme of things.  Saying shit like that, this is the shit that gets you punched, isn’t it?

Thought so.

So Dave is the guy.  Head Pro at my country club.  He wasn’t smarmy per se, but he did project that car salesman vibe; perfect teeth and such, always smiling in a way that seemed overly wide.  As for handshakes, he was absolutely that guy: over-hard and attempting to crush.  The piece of shit rarely called me by my name either, always giving me a “Skip” or “Ace” instead of what he should.  It bugged me, sure, but did I speak up?  Hell no, not once I’ve given myself the opportunity to downplay events.  This is nothing new, of course, as confrontation and I have never gotten along, not as we should.  I made up this last part, and only because I’m more of a revisionist than what one would call a classic avoider.  Take your pick though, because either is good for the reason I find myself where I do.  I will not take the brunt though, not the majority, and only because it wasn’t me who’d been found with another man’s dick down their throat.

Am I done?  No.  But I’ll go on. 

Me, I’ve always been bad at golf, awful, but I love it anyway.  Can’t get enough really.  Sharon, unfortunately, was worse than me when it came to the sport.  Long story short, I was informed that she and Dave would need a little more one on one time if she were to ever get better.  Stupid, I know.  But we never “did” things together, right?  And to tell you the truth, I think I already knew.  Deep inside is what I’m saying, like the shit that comes up in your dreams. 

Speaking of dreams—in one I see Dave as I always see him, there on the range, his perfect teeth so perfectly fucking perfect, but this time he’s right tight behind the woman I call wife, Sharon’s hair for some reason shorter and darker than she usually keeps it.  I notice her footwear as well—that it’s as far from sensible as the word can stretch.  (This scared me more than anything, and I’m pretty sure I know why.  What it represents, anyway.  I’m not saying I’m any type of Freud either, it’s just when the writing on the wall is that big and that glowing even I had to take my head from the sand.)  Dave’s arms come around her then; Sharon’s making their way around the club.  Moaning, they find a rhythm I seldom have, each practice swing like an orgasm unto no other.

Wait.  It gets better.

Two other things I see before I wake up: my wife’s face full of a pleasure I have never seen, not once.  The other is the bulge in Dave’s khakis.  I am not exaggerating when I say this: Baby.  Fucking.  Elephant.  Don’t get me wrong, I’m no jackhammer, but put me up beside what I was witnessing and man, even I felt gherkin.  Gherkin-esqe?

Do I say anything in this dream?  Stand up for what I thought of as mine?  Just as in real life, no.  As this is what it means to be me.  Therein lays the problem, I think, and quite possibly the root of my evil.  Maybe.  Maybe not.  Either way, it boils down to this: Did I deserve it?

I was about to find out.

It’s why I now had Dave in my garage, the man’s cargo shorts a little worse for wear.  Secured to a circular practice net like an X, he looked at me differently now, with slightly wider than normal eyes.  Many a night have I been out here plugging away, all to no avail.  Not in all my years, with all my practice, have I gotten better at this game I love.  Sucks hard, this, but I am at least man enough to admit as much.

“We going to be able to have a civilized conversation once I remove the tape, Dave?”  Dave nods yes, sweat-beads up upon his brow.

“Chris, dude, what the fuck?”

“Don’t Dave…just…don’t,” It’s here that I strike the right tone, as the man, still suspended, slumps forward, dejected.  It’s not like we were planning to is what he says next, although his voice is quiet now, reserved even.  I didn’t care, not really, just wanted a little bit of fear from the man, that’s all.  Pretty sure I was owed a little something along those lines.  Maybe a smidge more.

“So you know how you’ve been trying to teach me that draw, Dave?”  A draw is a right to left ball flight for a right handed golfer.  It is very hard to produce and highly sought after.  According to Dave, it’s what breaks or makes careers.

I didn’t let him answer.  I re-applied the tape instead.  Then I set up a ball on the practice mat ten feet in front of the man who’d been fucking my wife.  It is here I picture his dick from my dreams, the one bigger than God, and it’s here I envision it entering Sharon, filling her up from behind as only a man with a bigger dick than me could do.  It is enough.  More than enough.  It is the end.

“Thing is, I finally got it.”  I say, referring to what he’d been trying to teach me. “It’s funny though, you know—that it took what you and Sharon have done to ‘draw’ it out of me.”  A comedian I was not, but I laughed anyway.  Then I took a practice swing.  All loosened up, I took two more.  Done with those and it was on to the main event: 116 golf balls dead on until the man’s teeth were no longer perfect.  His orbital bones took a beating as well, each one ending up with their very own logo.  Pretty sweet seeing that.  For sure.

As for Sharon?  She of the sensible shoes?  With her it would have to be something different.  Something large and in charge. 

A slice, perhaps.


They said they could rebuild him, and they did, which is the entire reason Beau Johnson continues to write today. He lives in Canada with his wife and three boys, the oldest of which is as bionic as he.
<span>%d</span> bloggers like this: