Free The Funny Man by John Warner

and the soft, interior lighting of the limo to create a small, dark, inviting triangle at her crotch.
    The funny man puts his hand there. He is thinking of a different kind of need. She puts her hand firmly on top of his and smiles at him.
    “The windows are dark,” he says. “There is a soundproof divider between us and our driver. No one could possibly see.” The funny man runs his hand up the inside of his wife’s dress, claws at the panty liner of her nylons. He has done some fine work there, in that space, with this hand, and the other as well, and sometimes even his tongue. When they first met, he knows he was pretty bad with all that, first shaky and unsure, then too rough and too quick, unskilled but eager labor, but she had guided him and he had improved. He is very good now, he thinks, you can’t fake some of the things he’s made his wife do (back arching, uncontrollable shudders, wetness) when he’s working well down there, and what a night this is going to be. Shouldn’t this be bracketed by some limo sex? Before and after the performance? This isn’t even daring, rather the kind of thing expected—nay, demanded—of a celebrity. And he is a celebrity. Millions have seen his picture in the magazine, and then the performance on the late-night show. (Okay, the late, late-night show.)
    His hand retreats, drawing a small circle with his index finger inside her knee, first gently, then more forcefully, trying to part her legs. He is sly, his touch perfect, impossible for his wife to resist. Soon her lips will part, her breathing will both quicken and deepen and they will finish this business he has started just as they arrive at the theater and emerge from the limo panting and rumpled, and the dressing room attendants will notice the sleepy look on his face for what it is, the look of a man who can have sex in a limousine.
    But his wife’s knees stay locked together, very firmly. She works out, sometimes with weights. She pats his hand. “Not here, I don’t want to get messy.” Her look is not unkind, and the funny man removes his hand, strokes his chin. She makes sense, of course. This is not only his night, but hers as well, a partnership, an equal partnership. She has made sacrifices too, and he should honor her wishes on this. Of course she makes sense. She has always been the sensible one, had even warned him off the massage chair before giving in, admitting that he deserved an indulgence. He should have listened then like he’s listening now.
    The funny man turns to look out the window and rests his chin on his hand and he sulks. He doesn’t think of himself as a sulker, but he is, he is, always has been. His mother would say so and his wife as well. He tries to banish the limousine sex images from his mind.
    No! the funny man thinks. She does not make sense. She is absurd! Look at her! She is hot! There should be limousine sex! Images of his wife’s legs thrown over his shoulders dance through his head, her feet thumping against the window glass. With all these things he now has, with the massage chair, with the heated floor in his bathroom, with the part-time (okay, one day a week) personal assistant (who is actually the babysitter most days) who will pick up his dry cleaning without complaint (not quite true, he has to add a tip to the total), is he really being denied limo sex?
    Seriously?
    On the way home, when they reprise this limo sex, when he is triumphant, he envisions his wife pouring champagne down his back as she rides him, giggling together at the waste. When they exit the limo, finally back at home, he will wear her torn pantyhose as an ascot and tell the driver that the manager (there is now a manager in addition to the agent) will take care of everything, which is true! That’s true! His manager would take care of everything! This is almost tragic, he thinks. How many times does this happen in a person’s life?
    From behind! He will take her from behind! He will open the