Tiny Johnson

                          Tiny Johnson



It was a chilly fall night in October when Tiny Johnson flipped the switch and stood in the darkness of their bedroom closet. He was in trouble; she must have forgotten something and returned home. He heard the front door opening. And as he listened to the sound of her bitch-click heels progressing down the hall, he began to tremble. Yes: big trouble was coming his way now and there wasn’t time to fix it. There wasn’t time to change back and fix it now. He was caught-caught-caught. Caught like a sweating, middle-aged fat-man posing in pantyhose and make up. Oh yes: real big trouble was coming his way. It wouldn’t be good, that was for sure; he could hear the talk already: ‘Tim (Tiny) Johnson, pastor of the Slaverin’ Baptists, caught like a rat in a trap. Caught by his wife, while wearing Big-mama Super-queen fishnets, and sportin’ Maybelline’s Sultry Mascara and Avon’s Kissable Lips. Caught, when she unexpectedly returned home from, instead of leading, her Tuesday night Women Aglow meeting – Women Aglow, why Tiny could lead that one himself. Ha-ha. Tiny Johnson: 257 pound queen – of the Slaverin’ Baptists. Har-dee-har-har-har!’


Her voice came from right outside their open bedroom door.


“Tiny? Hello…Tiny? Honey, where are you? I can’t find my keys to the office; I need to borrow yours? Sweety, are you in here? Dang it Tiny…where are you at? I need yoooou!”


She gave three little stamps, three little bitch clicks, on those last three words. He silently wished he could wear heels, too; but they made his back hurt. He wished she’d go; he hoped; he prayed…


He could feel the sweat rolling down his body and into the deep hairy cleft at his lower back. It seemed to be pooling around his knees somewhere -- these things didn’t breathe at all. Maybe, just maybe, if he was really quiet, she’d look in the other room. That might give him time enough to grab a pair of shorts, and run-jump into the shower.


He heard her turn and click away.


Tiny-eee where are you, Honey? I need to borrow your keys. Tiny-eee…pleeeze Tiny, where are you-ooo? I’m late already, Honey?


She was in the living room; it was time to make his move. He slid out of the walk-in closet and made his way to the dresser; eased… gently, the drawer; grabbed a pair of tighty-whiteys eased the drawer gently again; slipped silently to the bathroom door; grabbed the knob and…


Tiny! What? in the name of God! are you doing?”


The sound of her voice was like an electric shock surging through him. He stiffened and threw his head back; then, his body relaxed: his jaw opened and fell to his chest; his arms dropped to his sides, A drip of his slaverin’ Baptist slobber eased slowly to his undershirt, mixing with the snot running from one nostril and the tears from both eyes. His tighty-whiteys dangled limply from one finger for a moment, slipped off the painted and manicured nail and hit the floor with a gentle plompt. Utterly dejected and defeated, he turned and looked toward the floor at her feet.


She’d taken off her shoes, as she walked through the house, hunting him. That’s why he didn’t her coming. Too late; too bad; she had caught him. He was in big trouble now. Oh yes: now he was in real big trouble. He could feel his bladder wanting to let go; he turned back and rushed for the toilet, barely having time to open the door, push down his panties, and his pantyhose. He felt more than heard her come up behind him; her voice was surprisingly calm.


“So this is the sum of 27 years of marriage: I come home unexpectedly and find my husband wearing pantyhose and what better not be… my makeup. Tiny, we have to talk; but right now I’m late for church, so give me your keys – car keys too – and I’m leaving.” 


Tiny, one hand full, turned slightly and pointed to his pants, crumpled on the floor beside the bed. She continued while she walked over and took his keys.


“I’ll be home in about two and a half hours. I want to find you here then, just as I found you here now; don’t you dare change clothes or wash your face; this conversation is nowhere near being over. Goodbye Tiny, I still love you, but God knows, we need to talk.”


As she found her heels and clicked her way out the door, Tiny felt a huge weight lift from him: she still loved him and that made everything OK. Maybe together, they could find a way to exercise his demons at the same time that they exorcised others.


Tiny Johnson

Cute story, I noticed that it's posted at Big Closet too under Billie Sue's name. Wonder if you'll continue the story.
May Your Light Forever Shine

Tiny Johnson

Billie Sue is writing this for me because she is my friend and allowed me to use her site.

If readers want more drivle, I will supply them all the slop they want. When I write, I write for myself and not anyone else, and I hope that, perhaps, a toad from the slop will turn out to be a shining prince.

I'm truly sorry if I am rude, but I write for myself and for no one else.


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