User:Slyfordtrabbit/Jack and Jillian

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Jack and Jillian

Author: Slyford T. Rabbit

He’s doing it again.

He thinks I can’t hear him, that I’m asleep as soon as my head hits the pillow. Here I lay on the top bunk, head surrounded in my pillow, trying to block out the sound, but try as I may the sound is still there. I hear the one rusty spring on his mattress squeaking in that all too familiar rhythm: squeek-a, squeek-a, squeek-a squeeka squeek.

I try not to think about what Jack’s doing down there, all alone.

We’re roommates, Jack and I, though not by choice. If I had any say in the matter I’d move out without hesitation, but hey, sometimes you can’t change things. Rent is rent, after all.

Jack’s a porn dog and a womanizer. Three nights out of the week he’s got a woman in the living room. He’s got a taste for blondes; such a taste, in fact, that he likes them buffet style. It’s always a different woman in his bed. A real sixty minute man.

I can’t stand him. Sure, he’s got the looks to pull in those women like flies to a bug zapper, but I just don’t get how he does it. Some strange sort of juju. (“It’s all in the smooth talk,” he tells me, but I still think he’s full of shit.) Try as I may, they just don’t go for the strong silent type who wants a meaningful relationship with romance on the side.

Like they say, nice guys finish last. That, or they finish listening to their roommate get themselves off on the bottom bunk of the bed. I’m not sure anymore.

At least those “scores” don’t have to be around on the nights where he doesn’t get any; if they knew how much a horn dog Jack really was, maybe they wouldn’t be so ready to spread their legs for the guy. Maybe he’d be more apt to share if I threatened to start telling on him.

Maybe that was the solution.

Maybe I just needed to score.

Maybe I just needed my life to change.

Jack finished with an almost silent groan, and the squeaking stopped. Only then did I manage to close my eyes and get some sleep.

Jack is an early riser.

He says it’s a ladies’ man’s trick of the trade. You get up and cook breakfast for the girl after you lay her – they go ga-ga for that. Then, if you want to go for a repeat performance, they’re more apt to give it up. He’s up an hour before I am, frying eggs and listening to Sportscenter blaring on the TV. I try to sleep in a while longer but give up when he turns to MTV and starts singing along.

“Morning, sunshine,” he tells me when I walk out of the bedroom. “You should take my advice, man. Getting up early is _key_.”

I grunt an acknowledgement and start flipping through the mail.

“Any luck on those applications?” he asks me as I eye the return addresses. Bill. Bill. Credit card app. Bill. Jury duty.

“Not a single reply.”

“You need to be a bit more ambitious, Jillian” Jack tells me. “Take me, for example. No one thought I’d make it as a professional poker player.” Try hustler, I think to myself. “But I’m persistent about it, man. I play every night; lots of places to go in Reno. You push and you push and stuff will start happening for you.”

”That’s not my thing.”

“God, Jillian, I swear. You’re impossible.” He grumbles something unintelligible under his breath. “If there’s one thing you learn from me – one thing! – it better be how to act like a man. Reach out and grab life by the balls. Leave that him-hawing to the women.”

You mean the disposable fuck-sticks you bring home night after night?

“I think you and I have different ideas on what makes a woman,” I tell him.

“Whatever.” He leans against the counter with his eggs in one hand, fork the other. Real macho look. “I’m just saying that you need to grow a pair and get out in the work force. Hound some managers about your application. There _has_ to be someone looking for a magician, eh?”

“Yeah. They want six feet of Latino with a thick accent and hips that look good in tights.”

“This opposed to a five-foot nothing, middle-age white guy with a bald spot you can see your reflection in.”


“Well, you could always go for a magician’s assistant,” he tells me. “After all, if Teller can make a living off this stuff...”

“It’s been done before.” I stand up from the table and walk toward the bathroom. “Look, I’m just going to get cleaned up and do some street magic. That’ll cover rent for the week.”

“Sure.” Matt shrugs. He doesn’t give two shits about my magic career; if it’s not poker or women he’s not interested. “I won’t be here when you get out – big tournament down at the Nugget. Pot’s supposed to be ten G’s.”

“And you never win the big pot,” I counter.

“First time for everything,” Jack tells me, chuckling. He tries to make a poker joke, but shut the bathroom door in his face. Cocky sonofabitch. I still don’t see what the omen see in him.

The shower feels good on my skin. I mean, it feels really good. My skin’s silky smooth under the water. I chalk it up to fresh salt in the softener; landlord’s a bit lazy about putting new salt in the tank. I stay under the water a good thirty minutes, just washing up.

I dry off and wrap the towel around my chest. Dunno why. Putting it around my waist just isn’t doing it for me today. Maybe it’s the landlord’s laziness to keep the pilot light lit on our heater. When it’s freezing balls outside the shower you don’t want to go out with your chest bared, right?


When I get out, Jack’s already gone. Great. I breathe a sigh of relief and duck into the bedroom--it’s a little warmer in there. I reach into the drawers on my half of the closet and dig out the essentials for the day; boxers, socks, undershirt, jeans with inseam pockets (tailored by yours truly). Then, when I reach back into the closet to find my performance shirt, it’s not there.

It sits, presently, at the top of the communal laundry basket, covered in white sock lint.

Well, so much for the performance shirt. White flecks on a black shirt just didn’t do it for the slick street performer. I start digging deep into my closet, searching for something loose, quick, easy to move in...

And it’s about then that I find the blouse.

It’s a slick black number, with a button-up collar. The fabric is sleek and chic, a kind of satin that flows off the body in all the right places. I can tell by the low neck line that this is meant to hug tightly to a woman’s breasts – I’m sure it’d look good on any woman _I_ had ever met.

It’s this or stay home on a Saturday. With the rent due, the latter isn’t an option.

On goes the blouse.

It doesn’t look terrible on me. A little roll here, a tuck there, and the blouse actually does look like a fancy magician’s shirt. My mind reels with all the stuff I can hide in the sleeves, and a new bag of tricks open up to me.

I walk out of the apartment, not feeling too terribly self-conscious. The blouse makes me look more like a performer than that little black polo shirt ever did, I think.

I come back home in the wee hours of the night. Jack’s already there; he left the tournament early, but didn’t come home empty handed. I hear them giggling and squirming around on the couch under a leopard-print blanket. Great, I think to myself. I try not to look as I slip through the living room, around the kitchen, and into the bedroom.

At least I won’t have to listen to him squeaking tonight.

The clothes come off, and I realize that it’s really cold in the room. Colder than usual. I mean, my boobs are up periscope, it’s so cold in here. I wrap my arms around my chest to fight the chill as I slip out of my pants and underwear.

I think about taking a shower until the image of Jack and his bimbo come to mind. Nah. I’ll just wait until morning. For now, a quick change’ll do. I root around my drawers, looking for something to sleep in. I come up with a pair of shorts just fine, but the underwear drawer comes up lemons.

My drawer is filled with little cotton dealies, sin pisshole. Ladies’ underwear. Panties.

What a joke, I think to myself. Jack’s just a great guy when it comes to pulling the wool over my eyes. I should stomp out there and demand to know what he did with my underwear, but no, I won’t give him the satisfaction. I grab a pair from the drawer and throw them on.

Besides, nobody will notice. They’re my underpants, and they’ll be just that – under my pants. Then tomorrow I can look for my underwear. Q.E.D.

I remember hearing some story about Ed Wood wearing lady’s underpants on the beach at Normandy. Whatever. He still turned out famous. It worked for him; maybe it’ll work for me. Yeah. At this point I’m desperate enough to try anything.

I lay down to sleep, but it’s still too damn cold to feel anywhere near warm in here. Finally, after fighting the covers for an hour, I give in and pull a shirt out from the closet. Now covered up, I finally get to lay my head down and get some rest.

I wake up to find myself wearing a pink tee. Not that I care, really. It doesn’t look half bad, and the kitten print on the front is kinda cute.

The sun is shining outside my window. I step out of my room, itching my chest. (Must have been mosquitoes out on the strip yesterday; I think it’s been a while since they’ve sprayed the place down.) Then it’s a quick turn and into the bathroom, where I sit down and relieve my bladder. Wipe, wash hands, step out into the daylight – you know the drill.

“Good morning,” I hum to Jack. “How was poker?”

He whips around to look at me and fumbles on a response. “It... it went okay. Didn’t make it past the second table, but I came home with rent money anyway.” A pause as he shakes the cobwebs out of his brain. “Interesting shirt you have there.”

I do a little turn for him and giggle. ”I know. Isn’t it cute?”

The girl sitting at the table is staring at me, slack-jawed. Little codfish, she is. Probably full of crabs, the little golddigger. I still don’t know why Jack shoots so low. He has the body to catch any woman he wants, and he keeps bringing home casino crud. Someone needs to teach him discretion.

Oh well. I’m sure he’ll be in the dark until The One falls into his lap. Some people just learn better by doing.

At least the guy’s a gentleman enough to cook his one-night bride breakfast in the morning. How sweet. I’ll keep it in mind for the next time I end up in that situation.

“This your roommate?” the bimbo asks Jack. No response; he’s hunched over the stove, cooking up a storm. Probably hiding his embarrassment. I could never figure that out about him; every morning it’s the same; when I step out of the bedroom he gets quiet, like he doesn’t want to claim me.

Someone needs to teach him how to treat women.

“Hello,” I say to her as I hold out my hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Name’s Janet, miss.” She leans in close as she says it, like she were talking to one of her old gossip buddies. “Yours?”


Her hand jerks back toward her body. “Oh. I’m sorry about that.”

“Sorry about what?”

“Oh, nothing.” She loses herself in my shirt for a while.

“Isn’t it pretty? I found it in my closet today – didn’t even know I had it. I like the kitty on front.”

“Yes, it’s nice.” Her face snarls for a split second before looking to Jack for a rescue. Little bitch couldn’t hold a conversation worth a crap.

Jack finishes cooking, but spends a few seconds collecting himself before turning to look at me. When he does it’s with a look of concern. “You okay?” he asks me.

“I’m fine. Why do you ask?”

He shrugs. “Oh, nothing. Just thought you looked different today.”

“Don’t worry about it,” I tell him. “I’m just a little beat. I had a good run last night; strip was hopping. Maybe you’re seeing performance afterglow.”

“Maybe,” he says, but I’m already getting out of my chair and heading toward the shower. ”Aren’t you going to eat?” he asks me. I shake my head.

“No thank you, Jack. I’m not terribly hungry. And besides, I’ve got a brunch show lined up for today.”

Jack looks at me sidelong. “No shit.”

“Yeah. I’m supposed to be semi-formal. Should pay pretty good, I think.”

“Whatever you say, ma’am.”

“What was that?”

Jack chokes on a bite of food. “Oh, it was nothing. Don’t worry about it. Go get ready.”

I step out of the shower and the bimbo is gone. Probably got pushed out of the house and on her way by my favorite sixty minute man—better off she doesn’t see me, he always seems to think. No big deal. I’ve got a gig and nothing he did was going to change that.

I wonder how he makes love to those women. Probably one of those idiots that tweaks nipples like a car repairman wrenches radiator hose. “I love you, I love you,” he says as he pounds into her like a two stroke engine, compression, exhaust, compression, exhaust. Then he’s spent and the woman’s sleeping on half a wet spot.

Back to the bedroom I go, with a towel around my chest and a towel on my hair. (It’s still freezing cold in the apartment.) Inside the warmer bedroom I pull off the towels and dig through my drawers. Still only ladies’ underwear. No biggie – the Ed Wood thing may end up working out yet. I throw the cotton number on and dig around my closet, looking for my formal wear.


Oh, there’s another blouse in the closet. (God knows where this stuff keeps coming from; probably forgotten stuff from when my sister came to visit.) I pull it out and hold it up; black and stretchy. The vertical stripe pattern becomes me pretty nicely, I think.

So on goes the blouse, no big deal. I just needed to find some pants to match it.

Nothing clean. Last night was laundry night, but the lovers were in the way of the machine.

Digging a little deeper brings some good news. I find one hangar at the back of my closet: it feels like slacks. When I pull it out I find a little black skirt. Tasteful skirt, I should say—my sister is a decent girl, after all—but a skirt nonetheless. I stare at it for a moment, wondering what to do.

The brunch is in an hour.

I hold the skirt up to my waist. It doesn’t look half bad. Heck, with a little tailor work I can break a few hems, slip in some trick ropes, and try performing some of my old rope tricks. Yeah. That’s the ticket.

I throw on the skirt and do a little turn for the mirror. It flows and flutters along with me. It looks great on me, and really brings out my legs. I walk a little bit and find that I like how the thing flows around my legs. It works so well for me...

Okay, I can play the part. Ninety percent of magic’s in the act, after all. Besides, it might set me off as a cut above all the rest. Teller’s a mute, I’m in a skirt. Everyone’s got their thing.

I pick a pair of black sandals out of the bottom of my closet – leftovers from an old high school act – and saunter out into the living room, all smiles. Then I rooted around in the cabinets for my sharp scissors, ready to rip part of the hem away.

Jack is too busy with Sportscenter to take any notice for the first minute. When he hears me giggling as I try to finagle the ropes into the hem, he turns the TV off and stares at me.

I return the stare. “What?”

“Nothing. Just... nothing.”

“How do I look?” I strike a cute little pose for my friend: knees bent in, hands on chin, goofy smile on my face. I look like a Japanese schoolgirl.

“You look cute... I guess.”

Close enough. “Thank you, Jack! I best be on my way now; after all, I don’t want to keep my public waiting!” Another giggle, and I’m bouncing out the door.

It feels good to get a little attention from time to time.

I can’t get out of the brunch fast enough.

It’s not that the gig isn’t going well. Everyone there _loves_ my magic tricks, and they thought the ropes tricks were phenomenal. Not one person makes fun of the skirt – why should they? – and I even get some compliments on my looks. It’s the best gig I’ve ever performed.

No, when I come home I just want to lie still for a while. All that moving around rubbed my chest raw! Jack’s still home, watching his show, but I don’t feel comfortable taking my shirt off around him. (I’m not one of those “macho men.”) So instead I walk into the bedroom before undoing the buttons on the blouse and slipping it off.

My chest looks looks pretty good when it’s under the blouse, I decide. When the top comes off each pec sags a little, falling into a teardrop. Not that I mind. They’re kind of cute and pert like that.

I dive into my closet looking for something to take care of the problem. My first instinct leads me to my undershirt drawer; those are pretty tight, I think, so maybe that’ll keep my pecs from moving around so much. At least that way my nipples won’t hurt so bad, I think.

Then I feel wire under my fingers.

I come back from the drawer holding onto a satin bra. (Great. My sister’d be ready to move into this place, she left so much stuff behind.) I hold by one strap for a second, considering it. There’s no reason for me to wear something like this, I think as I hold it up over my chest.

It has to be better than chafing my nipples all day long.

It takes some doing to get everything situated in the thing – the hooks are hell if you’ve never done it before – but before long I was in the thing and much relieved. My breasts were cradled in soft satin, and the feeling was more than a little pleasing.

I throw on the blouse again, much relieved. Then, without a word spoken to Jack, I slip back outside and onto the strip. Might as well do some street magic and make some extra dollars. I need a few more bras anyway.

I get back early and try to beat Jack to the punch. Almost as soon as I get in the door I slip into the bedroom, kick the sandals off, pull off the skirt and blouse, slip into a nightie, and bury myself in the bed. I’m right on the edge of dreaming and reality when Jack throws open the door, alone and half-naked from his night of Skinimax shows.

He stretches out on his bed and I close my eyes, hoping against all hopes he’s going to change.

Squeek-a squeek-a squeek-a.

I groan and turn over in my bed. The sound pierces my brain in ways I never thought possible. Try as I might, I can’t get the thought out of my mind. My friend was taking care of his nasty little habit right under my nose, and all I can do is lie in my bed, breasts pushed against my chin as I pull my knees under my nightie and try to shut out the thoughts.


I imagine him laying down there, sprawled out, writhing in pleasure. I see him palming all seven inches, moving around as he pleases. I imagine what twisted little sexual fantasies he’s dreaming up, and how I could possibly fit into one of those little dreams.

And, for a split second, I actually like it.

The next morning I slip out of bed a little later than usual. Jack’s in the kitchen fixing himself cereal and reading the paper when I step outside the room. I smooth the front of my nightie and sit down beside him, where he’s left a pile of mail for me.

“Take a look,” he tells me, smiling. I sit down and thumb through the mail with dainty fingers. Bill. Bill. Bill.

Hand-addressed letter.

I rip open the envelope so fast that I almost tear the letter inside. “Dear Jillian,” I read aloud, “We are pleased to request your services for Don Giovanni’s show, ‘Magic at the Meteor.’” My heart skips a beat as I turn to Jack. “I’m hired!”

“Go on,” he told me with a grin.

“Enclosed is a small form we would like you to bring to our tailor, who will be fitting you for costumes and onstage props. For the sake of efficency, we ask that you fill out cup size, waist, and a few other measurements ahead of time, so that Mrs. Jackson doesn’t have to start from scratch...” I look to Jack again. “How big _is_ this show, Jack?”

“Trust me,” he says softly. “With you on the bill, it’s gonna be big. You look great.”

I giggle a little. “Oh, Jack... you’re just saying that.”

“Seriously,” he ensures me. “Really, dear. I’m proud of you, Jilly. It _is_ okay if I call you Jilly, right? Jillian is just such a... a masculine name.”

I melt a little inside. “Sure thing.”

He doesn’t skip a beat. “You had your doubts from time to time, sure, but you pulled through nicely. I told you things would change for you if you just let it happen!.” Jack chuckles a little. “So, how about a lunch on me, dear? You deserve it.”

I reached over and hugged him tight. He smelled like morning dew mixed with sweat – a real man’s scent. “That’d be great,” I whisper in his ear. And, hand in hand, we leave the house for a little lunch date together.

Life finally is changing for the better.