Frankie

Frankie probably still hates me.

When: August 1988

Status: Married four years, no kids

Occupation: 7-11 cashier

Meetings: 14

Age: 27
Quotable:  "You make me sick!"

Note: Apologies for the small size of the font. Once in awhile, Blogger glitches up and won't let me use my usual size for some reason. It was either this or a really huge font which is so obnoxious I might as well type in all caps while I'm at it. Hopefully, the next entry will get back to normal.

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You remember the following passage from the Cheri entry?

My total spiral into debauchery came to an end in the middle of August. I was fucking a married lady in her bedroom when her husband got home. I heard the door, pulled out, grabbed my clothes and bolted out the window. There's something about a screaming six foot, five inch guy chasing you through backyards and over fences until you put enough distance between you and him that makes you wonder if you're making the right choices.

Run naked through a backyard, through your clothes over a fence......run through another one.....clothes over the fence....etc.... Luckily, I was faster and a lot more nimble than the enraged husband. A nice head start didn't hurt either. Man, that guy was pissed. So was I. I forgot to grab my shoes on my way out. That was an eighty-dollar pair of Nunn Bush shoes I left behind. I still remember his loving words to me: "You motherfucker, I'm going to kick your bitch ass and beat you down like a dog, you piece of crap!"

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Well, the chase didn't quite end there. But the tail's wagging the dog here. Let's go back to how I ended up getting chased through Montclair, California that hot August day in the first place.

After my first breakup with Cheri, I had been whoring around like crazy, just to get her out of my mind. That and I liked fucking, of course. As I mentioned in the Cheri entry, I had been placing and answering a lot of personal ads in fuck rags. That's how I met Frankie.

One day in August, really having had a great time in recent weeks, I went to my PO box and got my mail. I sorted through some of the responses and came across hers:

Hi Ryan,

I'm Frankie. I'm 27 years old and have been married for four years. I'm originally from Raleigh, North Carolina. My husband and I moved out to Cali a few months ago. I've never cheated on him before, but admit that I'm interested. I've enclosed my pic and could you send it back if you're not interested? Thanks! If you are interested, just write me back with your phone number and we can arrange to meet!

Take Care,

Frankie

I likey-liked what I saw (the pic she sent is the one right above her stats above). So I wrote back, included an uneditied pic and gave her my digits.

Literally. I don't have my fingers anymore and have to type these entries with my elbows.

Frankie had some major potential. She was cute, and she worked overnight at a local 7-11 while her husband worked at a warehouse in Rialto, which was about twenty miles away. They had moved out to southern California a couple of months earlier and she hadn't had the opportunity to make too many new friends. Wicked awesome for your favorite poacher, right?

She called me a couple of days later, on Friday. She was cool and we decided to meet the following Monday at the food court at the Montclair Plaza. Then we'd see if we wanted to take things further.

On Monday, we met at the food court (how "Fast Times At Ridgemont High" is that?) and had a couple of burgers. She was mega-cute and definitely a girl I wanted to fuck. Her personality was okay. She was fairly pleasant, but since I didn't want to slide Mr. Happy into her personality, I didn't really care.

Frankie wasn't getting along too well with her husband, Jason. She didn't like California all that much and was homesick. Jason's buddy had gotten him the job at the warehouse and really didn't give Frankie too much of a voice in whether they were going to move or not. I also detected that there were a lot of other issues going on with them. Just moving usually doesn't get a wife to start fucking other guys.

Whatever, right?

We finished up and decided to get busy at her house. It was close by and we were both ready to have some fun.

We walked out to Frankie's car and kissed for a couple of minutes. I played with her ass and she rubbed my cock. I wanted to bang her right there. But what's a couple of minutes?

Frankie pulled her car into their garage and we went inside and went straight to the bedroom. This may have been the first time that she cheated on her husband, but she was definitely committed to it. I appreciate it when married women make that commitment so quickly.


We started kissing and feeling each other up for a minute and helped Frankie take her shirt and bra off. Then I laid her on her bed and she lifted her ass up and I slid her jeans and panties off. I moved up and kissed her and sucked on her nipples while rubbing her pussy.

Yum.

I kissed my way down to her pussy and started eating her out. She was already wet and I slid my finger into her pussy as I ran my tongue over her clit. She moaned and said, "Fuck...." and I knew that she was close. I pulled my finger out of her pussy and she grabbed my head and pulled it hard against her, gyrating her hips.

My hands were locked onto her hips and I kept eating her pussy, licking up and down and sucking her clit. Soon she groaned and came. I stayed where I was while she recovered. After a minute or so, she smiled and said, "I wanna suck your cock."

I stripped out of my clothes in a matter of seconds and straddled her chest. Frankie took my cock into her mouth and started blowing me. I groaned a little and reached back and played with her pussy as she sucked me.

I must've been leaking a lot of precum, because after a minute she said, "I can taste you, baby.....you taste good....." I replied, "You want me to cum in your mouth? You want to taste all of my cum, honey?"

"Fuck yeah. And keep rubbing my pussy.....please......"

Hey, I don't need to see a woman's pussy to perform the Palm Pilot. It's all a matter of feeling your way around, so to speak. I was tilted back and rubbing this girl's wet pussy. It was a little tough keeping my balance in that position, but I was able to make the necessary adjustments.

Concentrating on the backwards Pilot kept my from blowing my load thirty seconds after my cock entered her mouth. I was determined to make her cum before I did. So I pulled my cock out of her mouth and got onto my side, in my normal position.

Frankie was bucking her hips as I worked the Pilot. I leaned over and kissed her hard. It didn't take long to bring her to another orgasm.

After she came, she laid her head on my stomach and started sucking me again. "Come on, baby....come on....right into my mouth....wanna swallow....." A minute later, I was filling her mouth with my cum. She swallowed my load and fell back onto her pillow.

"Fuck. That was hot."

We didnt' want to push our luck, time-wise, so we didn't lounge around too much. We had a couple of Cokes and wanted to get back to business. Frankie straddled my face and started sucking me again. I was still soft, but knew she'd take care of that. I licked her pussy to get her wet.

She then grabbed a rubber and rolled it onto my cock. Frankie then straddled me and slid down my cock. She started sliding up and down and I would thrust my hips up to met her on her way down. We established a great rhythm and after a couple of minutes, Frankie came.

Frankie got off me and laid on her back and spread her legs. I mounted her and slid into her wet pussy. She grunted a little and wrapped her legs and arms around me and said, "Fuck me as hard as you can."

I buried my face in her hair, held her shoulders tight, and had at it. Shit, I can still hear that crappy box spring creaking as I repeatedly thrust my cock into her fast and hard. "I'm cumming...I'm cumming......"

I increased my pace and soon she was yelling out, "FUCK...SHIT....YES.....BABY....." I didn't let up after she came and soon was sending another condom to the scrap heap.

Stockings are hot.

"Care to make this a long-term deal?" I said.
"Definitely. That was incredible."

We met a couple of more times that week and continued seeing each other into the next. Frankie worked the overnight shift and a couple of times, I'd go visit her at work.

I'd park in the back of the 7-11 and she'd come out and meet me on her lunch break. Then we'd crawl into the back of my truck and fuck. Then she'd go back to work and I'd go home and go to bed. Then it was back to her house the next morning.

After a couple of weeks, though, I started to get a weird feeling about fucking her at her house. Surely, one of the neighbors would notice that a guy was visiting the place so many times. And who knows? One might leave good old Jason an anonymous note. Or maybe Jason would just get a gut feeling that things weren't right.

Either way, like Kramer said on Seinfeld, what does your little man say? You have to listen to your little man. I didn't. Instead, I listened to another little man, Mr. Happy, who reassured me that everything would be just fine.


The last time we met, I told Frankie that maybe she should just come up to my place. I have no clue as to why she didn't want to, but I guess she just felt comfortable in the routine we were in. After a meeting with a client, I drove over to our usual meeting place and she picked me up and drove me to her place. We fucked for about two hours and were relaxing in bed and kissing.

Then we heard the front door open and close.

Uh oh. Hubby was home. Thanks for the great advicde, Mr. Happy. Well, I guess I could reason with him about being in bed with his cute little wife and everything would work out for the best.

Fuck that shit.

I reached down, grabbed my balled up clothes, and crawled out through the window, throwing my bundle out ahead of me. I picked my clothes up and bolted. I was climbing the fence when I heard, "Hey, asshole!". I hauled ass to the fence, threw my shit over, scaled it, and kept running and repeated the process when I reached the next fence.

When I scaled the fence again, I looked and saw him still climbing the first fence. That's when I heard him scream his intentions at me.

I knew I could outrun this dude. I ran across another yard and climbed another fence. Then I stopped to check on his progress. We were separated by two yards (and six degrees of Kevin Bacon).

I looked at him and shot him the bird. Oh yes I did. I went there. He just stood there. Then he turned and walked away. I knew something was up, but knew I'd be able to get away from Angry Husband Dude. I decided that it might be smart to stop running around bare-ass naked and quickly got dressed.

That right, fellow poachers. Speed and brains trump muscles every time. I went out in front and looked around. The Montclair Plaza was a couple of miles away (give or take), but hey, a good, very brisk walk after a panicked trip through an obstacle course is always fun.

I was really pissed off that I had left my Nunn Bush shoes in the house. That pair of shoes was a huge favorite of mine. But favorite or not, no way was I going to go back and get them. So I had my dress socks. And that was it.

These socks were made fer walkin', and that's just what they're gonna do.....

Walking though, would be the last thing I'd be doing. I was just walking out of that back yard when I I heard the worst thing I could hear: the sound of a motorcycle starting up.

Oh fuck, oh shit, oh fuck, oh shit. A car is easy to lose. A motorcycle isn't. So I tore off full blast, headed left, and hid in some bushes on the corner house on the next street. I heard the cycle come up the alley and waited, hoping he'd turn right. He did.


Oh, and this gets even better.

A few seconds later, I was still crouching in the bushes and I heard a car driving up Frankie's street. It turned left and I recognized the driver--it was Frankie. YES! Saved!

I stood up and waved at her to get her attention. I figured that she had come to save my ass. Well, she wasn't too interested in saving my ass at all. She slowed down, looked straight at me, and kept going. I was speechless. My quickie getaway has just left me there shoeless.

I was on my own. I was in Poacher no-man's land.

So I ran down to Moreno, running on the grass whenever I could. It only took about a minute to get down there.

Then, I had a decision to make. Moreno was the street the Montclair Plaza was located on. I could cross the street and head straight there or stay on the side I was on. Or I could walk all the way down to the south side of the plaza. There wasn't much traffic, so I bolted across the street and set a course to the Plaza.

I figured I'd be better off taking the most direct route possible. I didn't want to be out there west of the plaza, on a quiet street. And I figured the less time I was walking around, the better. Plus, there were some people around that I could kind of mix into.


I moved cautiously, but deliberately, towards the plaza, half-walking and half-jogging. I had left my truck in the parking lot right by the Broadway department store (kind of like a Kohl's). I kept my ears and eyes open, but never saw him.

If I had to guess, I think he must've kept going east after he turned out of the alley and kept looking for me in that neighborhood. He might've even gone up Central. Whatever the case, I was happy to finally have reached my truck.

I got into my truck. I was pouring sweat. It was fucking hot--it must have been in the high 80s. I laid on the seat for a few minutes with my air conditioner on. Finally, I got up and drove back home.

THAT was way too close. WAY too close. I've never been that scared. Shit, Paula's boyfriend hit me and that didn't scare me all that much. But this guy meant bid'ness. I have no doubt he would've either strangled me or beaten me until I was in a coma (at best).

When I got home, my fear had turned into anger. That bitch had left me there.

Okay, I know what you're thinking: I had originally left her there when I fled. Okay, I'll address that.

Gigantor wasn't coming for her ass, at least not at first. By running, I gave Frankie her own chance to escape. Sure, I was totally looking out for my own ass, but enraged husbands always go after the poacher first--always. It's a hard and fast rule.

I knew that when I was flying out the window he wasn't going to stop and just let me go. No, I didn't care too much about what happened to Frankie--I was saving my own ass. But at least she was smart enough to take advantage of the moment and get out herself.

But yeah, I ran like a weasle out of the chicken coop. Had he started doing something crazy to her, I would've stopped and found a phone and called the cops. But he did what any husband would do: he went after the interloper first. Like I said, it's just the way it works.

The drive home was long. All I could think of is what could've happened had this guy gotten his hands on me. What if he had a gun? Shit, I had to be way more careful. I was lucky that I had gotten into the habit of putting my clothes all together and knowing all possible escape routes out of apartments and houses.

But still.

When I got home, I took a shower and checked my messages afterward. One was from Frankie.

"Hey, Ryan? You there? He's fucking pissed right now. I was able to grab some clothes while he was chasing you. Fuck, I can't go back there, I can't.....need a place to crash, baby. I'll call you back in a few. I need help, baby! I know you got my back!"

Yeah, where was MY help? I was out there being hunted by a large, angry man who could snap me in half with two fingers. I was two miles or so away from my truck. Frankie hadn't been too fucking concerned about that, was she? She didn't have my back then. If she was pissed that I had run out when she drove by me, fine. But don't ask for help now.

And not only that, but I didn't fucking want her at my place. I didn't want her to know where I lived. Fuck that shit. For all I knew, she and her husband would make up and she'd tell him. No way. Sorry. Thank you, drive through!

I called the phone company and put in a request to change my number. What a fucking pain. I'm just glad I wasn't stupid enough to give her the number to my business line. Anyway, it'd run me forty smackers and there was a wait of a couple of days, but hey, so what? Anyway, after talking to a very nice customer service rep, I headed off to bed and passed out until seven.

I got up and there were some more messages. All were from you-know-who.

"I know you're home. I got a busy signal when I called before. Answer the fucking phone, Ryan. You owe me that."

The next: "Ryan. I'm at Don Jose. Have me paged there. I need a place to crash. Come on."

The final one: "Thanks, you dick. Thanks a lot. Maybe when he puts me in the hospital, you'll be happy. I'll go sleep in the park tonight, not that you care, asshole."

You kiss your momma with that mouth, Frankie?

Boo hoo. Honestly, had she not abandoned me, I would've tossed her some scratch for a couple of days at Motel 6 or whatever. But she fucking stared at me--and bolted.

About two weeks later, I received a letter from her that she sent to my P.O. Box. It was postmarked from Raleigh.

"You are a fucking pussy. I can't believe how you ran away like a scared little girl. Is that what all guys are like in California? YOU are coward. YES YOU!!!!

You left me there to deal with Jason. YOU ARE NOT A MAN!!!!!

He was so fucking pissed and you just ran away! You wouldn't return my calls and even changed your number. I needed a place to crash and you couldn't even do THAT for me! Thanx for nothing!

Oh, I'm back in NC now. You broke up my marriage.

YOU MAKE ME SICK!!

Frankie

She did add some extra compliments on the other side of the napkin.

Yeah, she wrote it on a fucking napkin. It actually is kind of funny.

And there was no return address. So Frankie got the last word. But since this is my blog, I guess I should respond, even if it has been over 20 years.

You're right, Frankie. I'm so sorry that I didn't hang around to let your husband rip my dick off and shove it up my ass. You're the one that said it was safe to fuck at your place, not me. I'm sorry your decision to fuck another guy broke up your marriage.

Fuck you for hanging me out to dry. Fuck you for not letting me get into your shitty, white trash jalopy Pinto. Fuck you for even thinking of asking for help after driving off.

On the plus side, it was great plowing you. I hope your subsequent 14 marriages have been as rewarding as your first one. I hope your dream of owning your very own double-wide came true!


As for my PO Box, I kept it. For the next few weeks, though, I was really careful about getting my mail. I was worried he might've discovered the letter I sent her and decided to stake out the post office. I went when I knew it'd be busy and did my best to disguise my appearance. He never showed--or if he did, it wasn't when I was there.

I don't know how he found out. My guess is that a neighbor tipped him off and called him at work. Then again, if that was the case, Jason would've been there a lot faster as he only worked about a half hour away. There's no way of knowing.

And I don't particularly care to find him and ask. Trust me, I'm sure that guy is still pissed. He just had that look of a guy who wasn't going to forget the guy he caught in bed with his wife.

And I'm sure that the fact that I lost my Nunn Bush shoes was much consolation for the guy.

For Frankie's pictures, click here (members only).