Observations of a Dumb Polack #4

The Shirt Off Your Back


(page 2 of 3)

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.”

“Donnie’s there.”

“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.

There were no signs of life in her house as the perpetually squealing breaks of my Pontiac T-1000 heralded our arrival. Even the brake lights of Donnie’s truck were extinguished from where it sat between the elm trees in the front yard.

“Be real quiet,” she whispered, as if I wanted our sexual rendezvous to be dashed by Donnie’s appearance.

She unlocked the back door and we carefully descended the cellar stairs. As soon as the soles of my snakeskin boots touched cement floor, I broke into a tingly sweat. She’d cautioned against turning on any lights which, given the complete and utter darkness enveloping me, I’d have been hard pressed to locate my own left knee, let alone a light switch.

Anything could happen to me down here, I realized. She could knock me on the head with an ancient bas relief and sacrifice me to Cthulu. Donnie could be standing just out of reach, intending on sodomizing me with a chair leg. There could be spiders dangling. This rush of morbid thoughts had the effect of making my cock really really hard.

Observations of a Dumb Polack #4 continues...
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About Karl Koweski


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Karl Koweski is the 342nd resident of Alabama to have read a book and he's accomplished this feat 32 times. He's published widely throughout the internet, small press, and porn mags. His alter ego The Polish Hammer hosts The Polish Hammer Poetry Hour sporadically. Archives can be found at www.blogtalkradio.com/karl-koweski
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