FabGuys.com forum: Bank holiday broken dreams.

By *ocalsucker OP Man
3 days ago

Launceston

The bank holiday Monday dawned with a soft, lazy light filtering through the curtains, promising a day of blissful nothingness. I stretched under the duvet, the warmth of my wife Jan beside me, her breathing slow and steady. The plan was simple: coffee strong enough to wake the dead, endless doom scrolling through the cesspool of the internet, and, well, a generous dose of marital recreation. No alarms, no obligations, just us and the glorious void of a day off.

The clock on the nightstand read 7:45 AM, and I was already fantasizing about the first sip of that dark roast when Jan’s phone shattered the peace. The shrill ringtone cut through the quiet like a knife. Jan groaned, rolling over to grab it from her side of the bed. “Who the hell’s calling this early on a bank holiday?” she muttered, squinting at the screen. Her face shifted from sleepy annoyance to resignation as she answered.

“Hello? Yeah, what’s up?” A pause, then her brow furrowed. “What? Are they okay? Shit, alright, alright. I’ll sort it out.” She hung up, tossing the phone onto the bed with a sigh that carried the weight of a thousand inconveniences.

“What’s wrong?” I asked, propping myself up on one elbow, already sensing our perfect day slipping away.

“One of the staff at the store,” she said, rubbing her temples. “Fell off a ladder stocking shelves, twisted an ankle or something. They’re fine, but they can’t work today. I’ve got to cover the shift.”

“Seriously?” I groaned, flopping back onto the pillow. “Can’t someone else handle it?”

She shot me a look, half exasperation, half apology. “You know how it is. It’s my store, my mess. No one else can step in last minute.” She swung her legs out of bed, the duvet sliding off her like a reluctant curtain. “It’s a long one, too. Ten till eight.”

“Ten till eight?” I repeated, the words sour in my mouth. “That’s the whole bloody day.”

“I know,” she said, already pulling open the wardrobe to grab her work clothes. “Believe me, I’m as pissed off as you are.”

I watched her move, the familiar rhythm of her getting ready for work kicking in despite the early hour. She yanked a black polo with the store’s logo from a hanger and tossed it onto the bed, then rummaged for her least-hated pair of black trousers. The air in the room felt heavier now, the lazy promise of the morning replaced by the grind of responsibility. I dragged myself out of bed, more out of solidarity than necessity, and shuffled to the kitchen to at least make her a coffee before she had to face the world.

The kettle hissed as I filled it, and Jan appeared in the doorway, half-dressed, her hair still a mess from sleep. “You don’t have to get up,” she said, but there was a flicker of gratitude in her eyes.

“Figured you’d need caffeine before you deal with whatever chaos is waiting at the store,” I said, scooping grounds into the French press. The rich, earthy smell started to fill the kitchen, a small rebellion against the day’s derailment.

She leaned against the counter, watching me. “This was supposed to be our day,” she said quietly, almost to herself. “Just us, no bullshit.”

“Yeah, well, the universe has a crap sense of humor,” I replied, pouring the hot water. “You want toast or anything?”

“Nah, no time,” she said, glancing at her watch. “I’ll grab something later. Maybe.”

She disappeared back to the bedroom to finish getting ready, and I stood there, stirring the coffee, feeling the weight of her absence already. By the time I pressed the plunger down, she was back, fully dressed, her hair pulled into a hasty ponytail. She looked like she was heading into battle, which, managing a retail store on a bank holiday, she probably was.

I handed her the travel mug, steam curling from the lid. “You’re a hero, you know that?”

She snorted, taking a sip. “I’m a sucker, that’s what I am.” She grabbed her keys from the hook by the door, then paused, turning back to me. “Save some of that doom scrolling for me when I get back, yeah? And maybe the other stuff, too.”

I grinned despite myself. “Deal. Go be a boss.”

She gave me a quick kiss, her lips warm from the coffee, and then she was out the door, the sound of her car engine fading into the morning. The house felt too quiet without her, the bank holiday stretching ahead like a promise that had already been broken.

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By *ocalsucker OP Man
3 days ago

Launceston

I cradled the fresh mug of coffee, its heat seeping into my palms as I shuffled back to the bedroom. The duvet was still bunched from where Jan had thrown it off, and as I slipped beneath it, a faint warmth lingered, carrying her scent—something soft, like vanilla and clean laundry, mixed with the faintest trace of her perfume. It wrapped around me like a ghost of her presence, a small comfort against the long, empty day ahead. I propped the pillows behind me, settling in with the mug balanced on my chest, and let her parting words replay in my head: “Save some of that doom scrolling for me when I get back, yeah? And maybe the other stuff, too.” Her voice, half-teasing, half-hopeful, hung in the air, and I couldn’t help but smirk. Even in her rush out the door, she’d managed to leave me with something to hold onto.

The coffee was strong, bitter enough to keep me grounded, but my mind wandered. I reached for my phone on the nightstand, the screen lighting up with a flood of notifications—news alerts, X posts, the usual chaos. Doom scrolling was tempting, the internet’s endless parade of outrage and absurdity calling like a siren. But I hesitated. Jan’s words weren’t just a throwaway line; they were a promise of later, a tether to the evening when she’d be back, when we could salvage what was left of this wrecked bank holiday. I set the phone face-down, resisting the urge to dive in. I’d save it for her, like she asked.

Instead, I sipped the coffee and let my eyes drift around the room. Her side of the bed was a mess—pillows askew, a stray sock peeking out from the sheets. It made me chuckle; Jan was a whirlwind, even in her sleep. The thought of her at the store, probably already barking orders at some poor delivery guy or untangling a customer complaint, sparked a mix of pride and pity. She was good at her job—too good, maybe, for days like this when it stole her away. I wondered what kind of chaos she’d walked into. A twisted ankle was bad enough, but retail on a bank holiday? That was a special kind of hell.

The warmth of the duvet started to lull me, the coffee not quite enough to fend off the lazy pull of the morning. I could’ve gotten up, done something productive—mowed the lawn, tackled the dishes piling up in the sink—but the bed felt like the only place that still held a piece of our original plan. I took another sip, the mug’s heat a small anchor, and let my mind drift to the “other stuff” Jan had mentioned. That brought a different kind of warmth, a slow burn that made the empty house feel a little less lonely. I’d hold onto that, too, for when she got back.

For now, though, I was stuck with the quiet. The day stretched out, long and shapeless without her. I glanced at the phone again, tempted, but left it untouched. Instead, I set the mug on the nightstand and sank deeper into the duvet, letting Jan’s scent and the faint echo of her words keep me company. I’d wait, not just for her to come home, but for the chance to pick up where we’d left off—a coffee-fueled, doom-scrolling, tangled-in-each-other kind of night.

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By *ocalsucker OP Man
3 days ago

Launceston

I lay there, sinking deeper into the duvet, Jan’s scent still clinging to the sheets like a quiet promise. Her words kept looping in my head: “And maybe the other stuff, too.” That teasing lilt in her voice was like a spark, and my imagination took it and ran. I pictured her coming home, exhausted but wired, kicking the door shut and tearing off that stiff black polo with the store’s logo, buttons popping, her eyes locked on mine with that look she gets when she’s done with the world and just wants me. She’d climb onto the bed, all urgency and heat, and fuck me senseless, the kind of reckless, desperate release that’d make us forget the whole ruined bank holiday. The thought sent a jolt through me, my pulse quickening, the warmth of the duvet suddenly not the only thing making me flushed.

Then the phone rang, shrill and jarring, yanking me out of the fantasy like a bucket of cold water. I fumbled for it on the nightstand, heart still thudding, and saw Jan’s name on the screen. A mix of irritation and curiosity hit me—why the hell was she calling already? I answered, trying to shake off the lingering heat of my daydream.

“Hey,” I said, keeping my voice casual, though I was still half-caught in the image of her tearing that uniform off.

“Hey, love,” Jan’s voice came through, softer than I expected, laced with guilt. “I’m so sorry about this. I feel like such a shit for leaving you on our day off. You okay? What’re you doing?”

I leaned back against the pillows, the duvet still warm around me, and let out a small laugh. “I’m fine, just… lying in bed, drinking coffee, trying not to let the day go completely to hell. You okay? How’s the store?”

She sighed, the kind of bone-deep exhale that told me she was already knee-deep in chaos. “It’s a bloody circus. The guy who fell? He’s fine, just milking the drama, but now I’ve got a skeleton crew and a queue of customers acting like it’s the end of the world because we’re out of some stupid sale item. I just… I hate that I’m here and not there with you.”

Her voice had that raw edge, the one she gets when she’s torn between duty and wanting to say fuck it all. I could picture her in the back office, probably surrounded by boxes and clipboards, her ponytail coming loose, looking like she could punch something or cry, maybe both.

“Don’t worry about me,” I said, shifting the phone to my other ear. “I’m just keeping the bed warm for you. And, y’know, saving some of that doom scrolling like you asked.” I paused, smirking to myself. “And the other stuff.”

She let out a short, tired laugh, and I could almost see the way her eyes would crinkle at the corners. “Oh, you’re holding me to that, are you? Good. Keep that thought. I’m gonna need something to get me through this shift.”

“Deal,” I said, my voice dropping a little, still half-caught in the fantasy from before. “Just don’t let those arsehole customers wear you down too much. Save some energy for when you get home.”

“Promise,” she said, and there was a flicker of that playful tone from earlier, like she was clinging to it as a lifeline. “Look, I gotta go—someone’s banging on the office door. I’ll call you later if I get a second. Love you.”

“Love you too,” I replied, and the line went dead.

I set the phone down, the room quiet again except for the faint hum of the world outside. Her call had grounded me, but it also left me aching for her to be back already. The bed felt emptier now, the coffee in my mug gone lukewarm. I glanced at the clock—barely 9:00 AM. Eleven hours until she’d be home. I pulled the duvet tighter, her scent still there, and let my mind slip back to that image of her walking through the door, uniform in a heap on the floor, her hands on me like the rest of the world could wait. It was a hell of a thing to hold onto, and I’d damn well make sure we picked up where we left off when she finally got back.

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By *ocalsucker OP Man
3 days ago

Launceston

The duvet had gone from cozy to stifling, and my coffee was long cold, sitting forgotten on the nightstand. My mind, still buzzing with thoughts of Jan and that promised “other stuff,” eventually drifted to the mundane. Bills, errands, the usual noise of life crept in, and I figured I should at least pretend to be productive. I grabbed my phone, intending to check emails and messages—nothing urgent, just the usual spam and a couple of “hope you’re enjoying the bank holiday!” texts from mates who clearly didn’t know Jan had been dragged into work. I cleared the notifications with half-hearted swipes, but the pull of the internet was too strong. Before I knew it, I was neck-deep in doom scrolling, sucked into the endless vortex of X posts, news rants, and viral nonsense.

Two hours vanished in a blur of outrage bait, cat videos, and heated threads about politics I barely cared about. My eyes were starting to glaze over, my thumb moving on autopilot, when I decided I’d had enough. I was just about to toss the phone aside and maybe drag myself out of bed for a fresh coffee when a post caught my eye, screaming in bold, unapologetic text: “My husband wears lingerie.”

I froze, thumb hovering over the screen. It was absurd, the kind of headline that’s half clickbait, half car crash—you know you shouldn’t look, but you’re already hooked. I’m not proud of it, but I tapped the link, curiosity getting the better of me. The page loaded, and I was greeted by a wall of text, some anonymous woman’s story about discovering her husband’s secret stash of lace and silk. It wasn’t salacious, not really—just raw and oddly earnest, like a diary entry someone accidentally posted online. She talked about the shock, the questions, the weird mix of betrayal and intrigue, and how they were navigating it. No judgment, just her trying to make sense of it all.

I leaned back against the pillows, Jan’s scent still faintly clinging to the duvet, and let out a low whistle. “Bloody hell,” I muttered to myself, scrolling through the comments. They were a predictable mess—half supportive, half vicious, with a few creeps thrown in for good measure. But something about the post stuck with me. Not the lingerie itself, but the way it peeled back a layer of someone’s life, exposing something private, something real. It made me think of Jan, of us, of the little secrets we all carry, even in a marriage as solid as ours.

I glanced at the clock—11:15 AM. Jan was probably elbow-deep in stockroom chaos or defusing some Karen’s meltdown over a mispriced sale item. I wondered what she’d make of this post. She’d probably laugh, call it “bonkers,” and then give me that look, the one that says she’s already three steps ahead of whatever I’m thinking. I saved the post, not entirely sure why, but figuring it might spark a laugh when she got home. Or maybe something else. That “other stuff” she’d teased about was still simmering in the back of my mind, and this weird little glimpse into someone else’s world only stoked the fire.

I set the phone down, the screen still glowing with the post, and stretched, the duvet sliding off. The house was too quiet, the day still too long. I could’ve gotten up, done something useful, but instead, I let my thoughts drift back to Jan—her coming home, uniform in a heap, that fierce, hungry look in her eyes. Only now, thanks to that damn post, my imagination had a new twist to play with. I shook my head, chuckling at myself. “Get a grip,” I muttered, but the smirk stayed. I’d keep that post in my pocket for later, when we could laugh about it together—or maybe, just maybe, see where it took us.

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By *ocalsucker OP Man
3 days ago

Launceston

I hauled myself out of bed, the lingering haze of that X post still rattling around in my head, and shuffled to the bathroom. After a quick piss and a shower—hot enough to scald away the morning’s lethargy—I felt marginally more human. Towel around my waist, I wandered back to the bedroom, the air cool against my damp skin. Jan’s scent still hung faintly in the duvet, but my eyes snagged on her dresser across the room. Specifically, the top drawer. Her lingerie drawer.

For no fucking reason I could pin down, I walked over and yanked it open. It wasn’t like I’d never seen her stuff before—she’d modeled plenty of it for me over the years, usually with a grin that promised trouble. But this was different. I started pulling things out, one by one, holding them up like some clueless detective inspecting evidence. Silk slipped through my fingers, smooth and cool, a deep red thong that I remembered her wearing on our last anniversary. Then lace, delicate and black, the kind that made her feel like a badass. A pair of cotton boyshorts, practical but still sexy in their own way. And then, buried at the back, some latex-spandex hybrid, shiny and daring, the kind of thing she’d bought on a whim and only worn once, laughing the whole time.

I stood there, a half-damp idiot in a towel, my mind circling back to that screaming headline: “My husband wears lingerie.” I wasn’t that guy. At least, I didn’t think I was. But the question crept in, sneaky and persistent: What would it feel like? My brain flashed to years ago, Jan’s wicked grin as she’d wanked me off with a pair of her panties, the soft scrape of silk against skin, the way it had driven me wild. That was as close as I’d ever gotten to… whatever this was. Beyond that, I had no fucking clue.

I held up the latex-spandex ones, the material glinting under the bedroom light. They were ridiculous, bold, the kind of thing that screamed confidence. Jan had pulled them off—literally and figuratively—but me? I tried to picture it, the tight stretch, the way they’d cling. Would it feel like armor, or like a costume? Would it be hot, or just fucking weird? My pulse ticked up, a mix of curiosity and something else I couldn’t name. I wasn’t about to try them on—not yet, anyway—but the thought alone was enough to make me feel like I was teetering on the edge of something.

I dropped the panties back into the drawer, not bothering to fold them, and shut it with a soft thud. My phone was still on the bed, the screen dark but that post still lurking in my mind. Jan’s voice echoed again—“And maybe the other stuff, too.” Fuck, she had no idea what kind of rabbit hole she’d sent me down with that line. Or maybe she did. She always seemed to know when I was spiraling before I did.

I glanced at the clock—12:30 PM. Hours to go before she’d be back, before I could toss this whole bizarre morning at her and see what she made of it. I could already imagine her laugh, sharp and bright, maybe followed by that look, the one that said she was game for anything. I pulled on some jeans and a t-shirt, the towel discarded on the floor, but my mind was still in that drawer, still on that headline. I wasn’t sure what I was chasing, but I knew one thing: when Jan got home, we’d have a hell of a conversation. And maybe, just maybe, I’d ask her to pull out those latex ones again. For science, or something like it.

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By *ocalsucker OP Man
3 days ago

Launceston

I shook off the weird energy from the bedroom and decided to make myself useful. Jan was stuck at work, probably swearing under her breath at some entitled customer, so the least I could do was sort out dinner. Tesco it was—grab some gags (fuck knows what I meant by that, probably just snacks or some shit), a bottle of wine to loosen up the evening, and a couple of those fancy ready meals she liked, the kind that pretended to be proper food. I pulled on a jacket, grabbed my keys, and headed out, the lingering image of that lingerie drawer still nagging at the edges of my brain.

The Tesco was a madhouse, because of course it was on a bank holiday. People shoving trolleys like they were auditioning for a demolition derby, kids screaming, and the fluorescent lights making everyone look half-dead. I weaved through the chaos, snagging a bottle of red—some cheap but decent Malbec Jan wouldn’t scoff at—and a couple of ready meals, chicken tikka masala and a posh-looking pasta thing. I tossed in a bag of crisps for good measure, because who doesn’t need crisps after a shit day?

With my basket full, I cut down what I thought was an empty-ish aisle to get to the checkout, ready to escape the mob. Except it wasn’t just any aisle. I stopped dead, realizing I’d wandered straight into the fucking lingerie department. Rows of panties, bras, stockings, slips, and even some slinky dresses hung on racks to the side, a riot of colors and fabrics screaming for attention. Lace in every shade—black, red, pastel pink—silk that looked like it’d slip through your fingers, and shit I didn’t even have names for, all shiny and stretchy and bold. It was like the universe was taking the piss, throwing that X post back in my face.

I stood there, basket dangling from one hand, feeling like a right twat just staring. My mind flicked back to Jan’s drawer, to that latex-spandex number I’d held up like some kind of perv investigator. Now here I was, surrounded by more of it, and I couldn’t help but wonder again—what the fuck would it feel like? Not just to touch, but to… y’know. The thought was ridiculous, but it stuck, like a song you can’t unhear. I glanced around, half-expecting someone to clock me gawking and think I was some creep, but the aisle was quiet, just a couple of women flicking through bras a few racks over, oblivious.

I stepped closer to a display of panties, some lacy black ones catching my eye. They weren’t far off from that pair Jan had used on me years ago, the memory of her wicked grin and the soft drag of silk making my face heat up right there in the bloody Tesco. I reached out, then stopped myself, hand hovering like an idiot. What was I even doing? I wasn’t about to buy anything. Was I? Nah, fuck that. But I couldn’t shake the image of Jan coming home, finding me with a Tesco bag full of surprises, her laugh turning into that look she gets when she’s intrigued.

I grabbed the basket tighter and forced myself toward the checkout, the lingerie section burning a hole in my peripheral vision. The wine, the meals, the crisps—they’d have to do for tonight. But as I queued up, scanning the self-checkout like it was my lifeline, that headline—“My husband wears lingerie”—kept flashing in my head, and I knew I was fucked. Not because I was actually going to do anything, but because I couldn’t stop thinking about it. About Jan. About what she’d say if I brought it up, half-joking, half-serious, over a glass of wine and a reheated tikka masala. I paid, grabbed my bags, and headed out into the grey afternoon, the promise of her coming home—and maybe that “other stuff”—feeling like the only thing keeping me from losing it entirely.

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By *ocalsucker OP Man
2 days ago

Launceston

Fuck it, I thought, the Tesco bags weighing heavy in my hands as I stepped out into the car park. The day was already a write-off, and I wasn’t ready to go back to the empty house just yet, still buzzing from that lingerie aisle and the goddamn X post that wouldn’t leave me alone. There was a Costa across the way, its warm glow like a beacon for the aimless. A coffee sounded better than moping in Jan’s lingering scent, so I trudged over, bags swinging, and ordered a latte. The barista handed me a scabby old newspaper from the counter, probably left by some other poor sod killing time, and I plopped into a corner seat, the plastic bags crinkling at my feet.

I flicked through the paper, not really reading, just letting the pages blur—headlines about politics, some footballer’s scandal, an ad for car insurance. My eyes only lifted to sip the latte, hot and frothy, a small anchor in the middle of this weird fucking day. On my third gulp, I glanced up, scanning the room out of habit, and my gaze snagged on a suited gent a few tables over. He was all polished—crisp white shirt, navy tie, laptop open like he was closing some big deal. But then he shifted, crossing his legs with a casual flick, and fuck me, his trouser leg hitched up just enough to flash a pair of pink fishnet stockings clinging to his ankle.

I nearly spat out my latte. The guy caught my stare, and instead of looking embarrassed, he gave me a quick, knowing wink, like we were in on some secret. Then he uncrossed his legs, the stockings disappearing under his trousers, and went right back to typing, cool as you like. My jaw was practically on the table. Pink fucking fishnets? In a Costa, on a bank holiday Monday? It was like the universe was doubling down, rubbing that damn headline—“My husband wears lingerie”—in my face like a cosmic prank.

I tried to go back to the newspaper, but the words swam, useless. My brain was stuck on that flash of pink, on the guy’s unbothered confidence, on the way it made my own curiosity feel less like a fleeting thought and more like… something. I stole another glance, but he was deep in his laptop now, oblivious or maybe just playing it off. I wondered what Jan would say if she were here. She’d probably nudge me, whisper something filthy and hilarious, and then dare me to go ask the guy where he got his stockings. Fuck, I missed her.

The latte was half-gone, cooling fast, and the Tesco bags sat there, the wine bottle poking out like a reminder of the night we were supposed to have. That wink stuck with me, though. It wasn’t sleazy, just… bold. Like he knew something I didn’t. I shifted in my seat, the memory of Jan’s lingerie drawer and that Tesco aisle mixing with this stranger’s fishnets, stirring up a restlessness I couldn’t shake. I wasn’t about to go full nutter and buy myself a pair of stockings—not today, anyway—but the thought of bringing this up with Jan later, over that Malbec, maybe teasing her about what she’d look like in fishnets, or hell, what I’d look like… it made my pulse kick up a notch.

I drained the last of the latte, crumpled the newspaper, and grabbed my bags. The suited gent didn’t look up as I left, but I could still feel that wink, like a challenge. Back home, I’d wait for Jan, crack open the wine, heat up those ready meals, and maybe, just maybe, tell her about the pink fishnets and the wild fucking rabbit hole this day had become. She’d laugh, she’d tease, and then—knowing her—she’d probably drag me to bed to see where the night took us.

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