With Sera Beth sharing a home with a husband and myself not exactly having a home, when the time came for sexing, we decided renting rooms from the cheapest, sleaziest motels festering just outside town. The early marathons of mattress olympics with Sera Beth in those motels led me to associate reverse cowgirls and standing 69s with the chemical burning scent of crystal meth cooking to this day.
My favorite part was returning to work the next night, listening to the stories from bemused co-workers, how Donnie came into work half an hour early and wandered dejectedly between Sera Beth’s silent machine and my own. I could just imagine the cuckolded lilt of his ineffectual mustache. His all ready bad posture corroding further with the weight of the knowledge that while he was lying alone in bed staring at the ceiling, his wife’s guts were getting pounded by the Polish Hammer.
The problem with motel sex, though, is eventually the money runs out. And I’m not built for car sex. The angles are all wrong in a Pontiac T-1000 and the dashboard hinders the long stroke.
“Can we go to your place?”
“Yeah… I don’t really have a place, you know. And Keith might get to feeling resentful seeing us exploring orgasmic nirvana on his couch while he’s perched on the coffee table, slaying the dragon on his Final Fantasy computer game.”
“I’m horny.” She said this with the finality of a woman intent on getting dick with or without me.
“Well, we can go to your place.”
“It’s late, he’s probably passed out by now.”
“Hopefully not in his truck.”
Sera Beth’s wicked ways with The Polish Hammer had taken a heavy toll on Donnie. For the last week, Sera Beth had returned home from prolonged drinking binges at Scarlett’s to find Donnie’s old Ford parked haphazardly on the front yard, often with the truck still in gear, his foot on the break, dead to the world. His humiliation had reached its apex, I thought, the morning he took off work and came to the bar, asking my permission to speak to his wife. Which, in his defense, his words did drip with sarcasm, sorta like the venom lactating from the fangs of a border collie. And I was benevolent enough to grant permission.
“Well,” she continued. “We can sneak into the basement. I got a remodeled bedroom down there for when my dad visits from Arkansas.”
“Perfect.” Meanwhile I was thinking of all the money I could have saved on motel rooms had this knowledge been made available to me sooner.
The Blooming Bead Trees of New Orleans:
by Kristin Fouquet