Matt’s Big Show
It was 10 a.m. that fateful Monday morning, the day that will now forever go down in history as the day I lost that last shred of dignity I still held. A day that my wife Mia has not—and will not—ever let me forget.
I had a well-intentioned idea to cheer up my sleep-deprived, child-carrying wife, since I knew she was feeling a bit low. At least I succeeded in doing one thing—she certainly hasn’t stopped laughing, or smirking, or jibing for a good two weeks now.
Thinking I was still the young, virile man I used to be, I locked the door of my office, my phone in one hand, hard dick in the other. I looked down to make sure my cock was looking his best and pressed the “take picture” button on my screen, proceeding to scroll through my contacts, selecting Mia, and sending said phallic photographic masterpiece to my dirty-mouthed, filthy-minded nymphomaniac wife, just as my best friend Jason called out to me through the door.
Zipping myself up, I slipped my cell into my back pocket, unlocked the office and stepped outside to see Jason.
It wasn’t until thirty minutes later, when I was in the middle of overseeing a plumbing inspection, that my phone vibrated, signaling a text message. Then it did it again . . . and again. Thinking it would only be Mia’s no doubt sassy—and dirty—reply, I ignored it and continued until the inspector left the building site.
I made my way back to my office, pulling my phone out and taking a seat behind my desk.
The minute I unlocked my screen, I knew I’d fucked up. Ten messages, all from my good friend’s wife in various stages of freak-out.
Mac: You did not just send me that.
Mac: Shit, did you really just send me a dick pic?
Mac: Mia is gonna freak out when she finds out you sent me this.
Mac: I shouldn’t be staring at a photo of your purple-headed womb ferret, Matt.
Mac: Shit, fuck, damn, Jared did something and synched my phone album to the cloud and now your dick is on my 60-inch TV.
Mac: Help! How do I get it off?
Mac: Not get you off, or it off, I mean REMOVE IT FROM MY TELEVISION.
Mac: I think my daughter just had an impromptu anatomy lesson. Thanks for that.
Mac: Well, there’s nothing mini about you now, is there?
Mac: Is that eight inches . . . I mean, because your brother was very blessed in that department too. Must be in the genes.
Mac: I think you’ve just given me my new screensaver.
“Do you think my husband might want to see this, or is true that guys sneak looks in the bathroom so he’s probably taken a peek at some point over the last ten years we’ve known you?”
All of these messages were from Mac, who obviously went from freak-out to enjoying the fuck out of my mistake in the matter of minutes.
When I got a text from Mia, who I affectionately call Legs, I knew that I’d really fucked up. Not by accidentally sending a dick pic to someone who wasn’t my wife—no. My biggest mistake was scrolling to the person above my wife’s name. Mac is not malicious, nor is she vindictive, but she sure enjoyed sharing the news of my manhood.
And the photo.
To all the women in our extended group of friends and family.
Mia: I know you like to boast about your size, Taylor, but next time, you might wanna double check who you’re sending that piece of man meat to.
Mia: P.S. I hear you’re Mac’s new piece of art on her TV. Kate giggled; Dani asked me how I could let that monster anywhere near my downtown playground. Sam was impressed. Zoe said she didn’t need to know that about her brother-in-law. Abi said she might get it printed on canvas, and Amy says you’ve got nothing on Thomas. So there’s that.
Mia: This is the best laugh I’ve had in ages. I’ll get acquainted with you and your anaconda later.
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