Oh man ... Sunday morning. His time.

Mother had picked up the wife, Cindy, and along with Billy, they were safely at church. He finally ruled his roost– he shrugged– for an hour anyway...

He put an extra scoop of coffee in the machine– he liked it strong, Cindy didn’t. He found the jar of peanut butter he had hidden in the back of the cupboard– Cindy thought it was poison. He pulled out the pack of smokes that he kept hidden in his jacket. He’d have his coffee and cigarette on the back deck– she’d never know. He thought of the Herald.

With the coffee happily brewing, he locked the front door to the ranch-style and headed across the street.

“Good mornin’ Gov...”

“The Herald please, Amos,” Jack asked. He had bought the Sunday paper from Amos for as long as he could remember.

“Comin’ up, sir,” Amos said with a flourish. “Give me a moment, just to break the seal.” He hoisted a stack of newspapers onto his bench-top and looked about for his penknife.

Jack used the delay to peruse the magazines that Amos hung from the rafters of his news stand. He skipped over People and Sports Illustrated and slyly looked along the side wall where Amos kept the good stuff. He had the national publications: Penthouse, Hustler, Playboy. But he also kept a small inventory of the really raunchy crap: the tawdry publications sold in sealed plastic sleeves. The stuff printed in grungy print-shops located in the back alleyways of the more desperate areas of the City. It was the stuff the vice-cops watched for.

Amos didn’t keep a lot of it around. He liked his vendor’s permit, after all. But there were enough issues to attract a man’s attention. Amos was muttering under his breath; still searching for his knife.

There were four magazines hanging from the rafter and Jack briefly scanned the covers. He hesitated, backed up to study the nude on the third publication. The photo was of a middle-aged woman, lounging, her head tilted back; her face was upside-down to the camera. God. The woman was the spitting image of Cindy. His wife.

“She’s a looker, that one.” Amos had returned to the counter with his paper.

Jack felt the heat rise in his neck. He had been caught– looking. But even so, he couldn’t pull his eyes away. It was hard to tell, what with the angle of the woman’s face, but if his wife had a twin, this woman would ring the bell.

“Yes,” he stumbled the words out, “she’s quite attractive.”

“Mmm. Not what you’d expect from them types of magazines. You seem interested, Gov...”

“It’s just she reminds me of someone, someone I once knew. How much for me to take a closer look?”

“Five bucks, Gov, and she’s yours. Take her along home with yuh.”

He was not a big purveyor of pornography and looked fervently over a shoulder, half expecting to see the cops swooping in, or worse, Cindy. He pulled bills from his pocket and Amos reached up and plucked the magazine from its clip. He passed it across.

It was called Neighborhood Tits Magazine and featured photographs of local women. The attraction was obvious: A guy might be at the local supermarket and recognize the check-out girl, or Suzie perhaps, the neighbor’s teenage daughter, featured among the pages of the current issue. The titillation factor was huge.

Jack loosely twisted the magazine in his hands, concealing the cover, and tucked the roll under his arm. He turned then, headed for the privacy of home. But he only made a couple of steps...

“Hey Gov! You forgot your newspaper!”

He groaned inwardly. Oh Christ! And Jack retraced his steps.

He closed the front door and dropped the Herald onto the sideboard. He listened intently. Nothing. He still had the place to himself. Jack hurried along the hallway to his home office where he unrolled Neighborhood Tits under the desk lamp. He turned the magazine until he saw her face the proper way ‘round through the plastic wrap. His insides seemed to slip downward, toward his bowels. There was no mistaking it. He would have recognized that overbite, those diminutive breasts and pert nipples anywhere. He was looking at a photograph of his wife. And for the first time, he saw the billiard ball– his billiard ball, balanced on her navel. What the hell was she doing with that?

He was just picking up the scissors to find out when he heard the front door open and the scamper of a six-year-old’s feet. “Jack, we’re back. Mom bought Chinese.”

Jack tossed the magazine, still in its plastic sleeve, into the desk drawer and headed for the kitchen. He poured beer and sat at the table with his mother but his attention was riveted on his wife.

He was watching Cindy with renewed interest. She would never win a beauty pageant but she was a nice looking woman all the same. Cindy had a pleasing face; her eyes were clear and bright and she had a sensual mouth that could cause a man to falter. And at thirty-six, her long body was still supple, a body that had served her well, and would continue to do so– for many years. He watched her move about the kitchen, spooning out General Tso Chicken, with sweet and sour sauce, over rice with mushrooms. She had a fine behind.

Jack hardly tasted his meal. He had an overwhelming desire to get back to his office and lock the door. “Can you take Billy to his ballgame?” Cindy interrupted his thoughts.

“It’s Sunday...”

“Yes-s-s. And he has a ballgame at two.”

“I can take him,” his mother offered.

“No mom. You’ve done enough,” Cindy said with a certain finality. “You stay here with me and enjoy your afternoon. And besides, it’s baseball, a guy-guy thing.”

Jack had been outmaneuvered. “I’ll take him. But I need a few minutes. Just to finish off a letter I’m writing for work.”

Cindy shrugged and checked her watch. “You’ve got fifteen minutes.”

Jack hurried back to his desk and pulled out the magazine. He noticed that Cindy had shaved for the cover-photo. Christ, when had that happened? The thought of her taking a razor to herself gave him a queer feeling; like taking her clothes off wasn’t enough? She had to bare all of it, right down to the raw skin? He sliced through the plastic.

There were four more, full page photographs of his wife. Cindy’s photo spread was artistically positioned between an interview with a retired stripper and an ad for electric-blue condoms. Jack studied the first photograph. A naked Cindy was sitting in one of their lawn chairs and holding up the black billiard ball between thumb and forefinger. Cindy had a coy expression about her lips and was looking directly into the camera. She was touching the ball with the tip of a pointy tongue. Oh boy!

Jack turned the page.

He felt a stir in the front of his slacks. His wife was holding the lips of her vagina back. He saw the inner flower of her sex where it swirled about a deeper, darker treasure. Cindy held the billiard ball in the opposite hand, poised for insertion. In the next photo, across the fold, her eyes were focused down as she maneuvered the ball into the gape of her vagina, pushing with her fingertips.

Jack turned another page and found he was looking at a photo of his wife masturbating. Her mouth was open, her head tossed back as she worked at the clitoris-bud with slippery fingers. And below, looking like the belligerent eye of a great whale, the black billiard ball peeked from between the folds.