Things Unbecoming of A Lady
February 16, 2011 § Leave a comment
I’ve always had a thing for fucking a guy in a hotel room while the person he’s rooming with tries not to watch. I’m not a quiet lover, but I don’t go all oooooh yes daddy yes, and if a man doesn’t like it I’m more than happy to have his hand over my mouth.
I met you on a night after my sweet mamma’s boy of a date had led me to an alley to try to pop one off on my ass. I was dressed right for it, and I might have been ready to give it a try, except I couldn’t get over the California cockroaches crawling on the restaurant grade queso box next to the dumpster.
I’d left that date and stopped at the AMPM to refuel when you and your work friends asked me if I could call you a cab. You were from out of town, just in for some beer brewing event, and in your drunken stupidity you miscalculated the length of the walk.
“Hop in,” I’d said, watching the fear on your faces as you considered what I might do to you in my SUV. I moved the booster seat to the hatch back and the four of you hopped in, anyway.
A whole lot of whiskey later, we were mid-fuck in your hotel room. I caught your co-worker peering at me so I held eye contact with him while I held you inside of me, and I thought about your wedding ring, and I thought about his stupid bowl haircut, and I thought about the way you pronounced beer with too many syllables for my taste. None of it was doing me any good, so I pushed you off and dressed slowly, listening to the way you were holding your breath and the way he was breathing fast enough for all three of us.
I didn’t leave you my name or my number, but I don’t think you cared all that much. This was LA, and I was just a part of your city experience. The tourism bureau should have sent me a thank you card.
When I drove back into the city, I realized there was no reason to sleep, so I stopped off at this early morning joint I knew would serve chili any time. I hate their chili, but that’s the sort of place I wanted to go. While I was there I met this cop. I spent the next three days with him, didn’t think of you once, wrote a story about the alley guy that brought in a few dollars when it was published, and I danced. Weird. I never dance.