2. THE ONE WITH HIS FUTURE WIFE
CHAPTER TWO
THE ONE WITH HIS FUTURE WIFE
WestParkerComedy: Sup, Boston? See you for night two @TheLaughHut... Is your mom coming? Does she want to?
Comment reply: Sorry, Mom can’t make it, but I’ll gladly come for you instead!
Laughter fills the audience, followed by applause as the opener takes his bow. “Now, put your hands together for the reason you’re all here, West Parker!” He waves as he exits on the other side of the stage.
I push my hair back and slide my University of Michigan hat on, getting into the West Parker persona.
Hunky hockey star. Playboy. Stand-up comedy’s next big thing.
I take an extra second to close my eyes, listening to the venue cheer. I can almost smell the fresh ice of a rink if I focus hard enough. There’s a moment right before going on stage where I get the same adrenaline rush I used to before a big game.
It’s a feeling nothing else in my life has ever given me.
Let’s fucking do this.
I open my eyes and take a step out from stage left.
The venue isn’t huge, giving the crowd an intimate experience at tonight’s show. One day I’ll sell out arenas, but for now I remind myself to live in the moment.
Enjoy every minute of your second chance.
The audience roars as I reach for the mic. “Boston, you sexy, motherfuckers!” I pull it off the stand, walking the length of the stage. “How are you?”
They answer with another round of applause and cheers.
“Well, it’s about to get a lot better, cause you’ve got allllll this”—I slide my free hand down my torso until I reach the button on my jeans—“for an entire hour.”
The ladies are the loudest this time.
I have not one bit of shame that my average age demographic is women between twenty and sixty. Bring your mama, your auntie, and your granny—whatever sells tickets!
“It feels so good to be back inside you.” I settle into the middle of the stage as a woman in the front row yells something obscene about my dirty mouth.
I laugh into the mic, wrapping the cord around my wrist and lean against the stool center stage, getting comfy.
“Who said that?” I point into the crowd where the comment came from.
The woman’s friends point at her, standing around their table to catch my attention.
The hat helps keep the stage lights out of my eyes enough to see the first few rows, but with the size of tonight’s venue, it’s not really needed.
A blonde covers her face and tries to sink low in her chair. “Oh, now you’re shy?” I lower my eyes at her as she peeks through her fingers. “You weren’t being so quiet when you told myself, and our audience”—I motion to the crowd—“that you were already wet.”
The woman is mid-forties, pretty, with fake tits spilling out of her low-cut dress. I don’t have mommy issues, but I’ve been known to love a good MILF or two.
My grin says it all—I’m eating this shit up.
“They dared me!” she calls.
“Listen, the last time I was in Boston I got in some trouble with a MILF.” I puff a tight breath through my lips, and she and her friends choke on their laughter, along with the rest of the crowd.
“This is a true fucking story, I swear,” I add.
My stage laugh breaks my sentences up at the right time, earning laughs from the audience exactly when I want.
Stand-up comedy isn’t just about telling the right jokes; it’s about putting on a show.
I have to act the part, have to give the people West Parker.
It took me some time to find my niche, but once I found it, everything else fell into place, and my fan base grew too rapidly for the small clubs I was used to performing in while I lived in the U.K for two years with my best friend.
This tiny club actually reminds me a lot of the one I started at in London.
Comedy saved my life, and I’m still in awe I get to fuck around on stage a few nights a week telling stupid jokes like this is high school biology and none of us are paying attention.
“I got caught leaving her house in the middle of the night by her daughter—adult daughter… That matters. And sure, sure, I know what you’re thinking.
” Waving my hand in the air, I push off the stool and walk closer to where the group of women are.
“What’s so bad about being caught by her adult daughter? ”
I pause for suspense, using it as an opportunity to scan the crowd from my new position, making a few mental notes on who to come back to later in the show.
Some people yell their answers, others sit, waiting with impatience in their eyes. “It’s bad when you get caught by the daughter… when she was one third of the threesome you had weeks earlier in a completely different city.”
The crowd loses it. Laughter has been what’s fueled me since the accident, making this the easiest job I’ll ever have.
I almost let myself laugh along with them. Almost.
Except the world stops spinning and everyone in the room disappears when my eyes lock on a pale and icy stare. I can’t tell what color her eyes are from here, but there’s one thing I do know: I’m going to make this woman my future wife.
All the blood in my body rushes to my dick.
Do NOT pop a boner on this stage, you fucking creep!
Her hair is dark, except for two platinum blonde pieces framing her face. It falls in loose waves past her breasts, which are sadly concealed behind an oversized T-shirt. Tattoos decorate most of the skin on her arms, and although I can’t see her legs from here, I imagine they’re covered too.
Her brow raises ever so slightly, and I snap out of my daze. The room and its laughter rush back the very second I’m able to drag my eyes away from hers.
What. The. Fuck. I chuckle an awkward, nervous sound, reaching to rub the back of my neck to play it off as part of the act.
The crowd's laughter subsides and thankfully, someone shouts, “I have a daughter you can date!” The remark gives me something to focus on besides the girl of my dreams sitting less than twenty feet away. “She’s single!” the woman continues.
I clock in on her location and notice a college-aged girl turning beet red in the chair beside her.
“Well, typically when moms approach me about dating their daughters, that’s not the first thing I ask.
” I’m not the dating type, and I’m certainly not about to get into anything serious at the turning point of my career.
“I usually wanna know if mom is single first… If not, I at least know what my future holds.”
Laughter fills the room, a big man in the back screaming, “Amen!”
I make a joke to the mom about meeting behind the pews on Sunday. “We can confess our skins after.”
Of course, one day I want to move home to Michigan, build a house on a bunch of land, and pretend to complain every time my hot wife brings home a new animal to care for.
But I’m twenty-fucking-five. I have time for that later.
I wonder if Tattoos over there dreams of chickens and kids running around in rain boots too… My eyes scan back to her. Goddamn it, she’s hotter than I remember!
I need to find a way to talk to her, but I can’t come up with a single idea on how to start. This has never happened before. Never. I flirt with women every night… and they pay to come see me do it.
The only logical explanation is that this woman is a witch, and she’s put me under her spell.
“West, give me your hat!” someone in the front row calls out.
I know where this is going, but I egg it on anyway.
I pause my movements, spinning slowly on my heels. “My hat?” I ask, eyes immediately falling on the girl leaning against the stage with her hand outstretched, fingers wiggling in anticipation.
“What is it with everyone and my hats?” I saunter to the edge of the stage, popping down on one knee to lean closer. “I can’t keep losing them to become trophies.”
She’s batting her eyes at me, twirling her hair, and resting her tits on the stage floor to give them a lift.
I should love the view. I would usually love this view… And yet, my stupid fucking brain starts to wonder if Tattoos is here with someone. I chance another glance her way, searching the table for someone who looks hot enough to be with her.
I have to multitask here, returning my attention to the girl in front of me with tight curls and bronze skin glowing under the stage lights. She’s beautiful and would have been someone I invited to some after-show fun…
“I just wanna see it,” she says, reminding me I have a job to do.
Be funny.
I lean even closer, giving her ample time to steal the hat from my head. She stands on her tiptoes and plucks it off. My hair is somewhere between dark blond and light brown, and I always keep it cut with a little extra length on top.
I’ve been told it’s nice to hold onto.
The girl pulls away with the hat, moving to sit down, but I don’t let her get that far before snagging it out of her hand. It earns me a proper pout. Hip popped, arms crossed—she covers all the bases.
I give her my best West Parker smile—dimples included—run my free hand through my hair and put the hat on backwards.
“You said you wanted to see it, and that’s fine.
I’ll let you, but I’ve gotta finish the show first, ya know?
” I nod to the audience. “I’m not really into the whole voyeurism thing, unfortunately. ”
No kink shaming here! I’ve got a laundry list of them myself, but being watched by anyone not involved isn’t one of them.
I’m rewarded with more laughs as I send the girl a wink and stand up. The stage lights are somewhat brighter now that my hat is facing the other way, but I can still see Tattoos.
The redhead beside her throws her head back laughing, smacking a straight-faced Tattoos on the arm. It’s almost like she’s inviting her to laugh along with her.
And that’s when it hits me… I don’t think I’ve seen her laugh yet.
Unacceptable.
Without my approval, my brain has already made up its mind.
It’s now my personal mission to make her laugh.
My eyes lock on her, and this time I know for sure she feels them there because she crosses her arms and leans back in her chair—her body language tells me to fuck right off, but her eyes… her eyes beg me to throw the line.
I walk to the edge of the stage, setting her in my sights.
I know she bites.
And I toss the line anyway.