Kneeling

This hotel room smells like every other hotel room in the world. She smells like cigarettes, Chap Stick, and lots of old buried abuses. I’ve poured what must be a gallon of beer into her, and fucked her silly three times already. That only seems to increase her appetite. She thrives on that, and I love her. My wife and this woman’s husband are back at the house for the night. Regardless, this woman’s head is overflowing with dream analysis and other whimsical things. She’s got lots of bad memories and good reasons. Her ass is perfectly round, and there is not one hair to be found around her anus. I can’t determine whether it is naturally that way, or if she has groomed it thus. Regardless, it looks cute when she’s bent over on her knees, and I pull her hips closer.

Since the four of us who had formed this group had all been thoroughly blood-tested for diseases and had all agreed not to stray from our tight little square, we had all quit using condoms. Both of the women were on birth control pills. It probably wasn’t the safest way to operate, but it made everything that much more intimate. The idea that we should actually spend this night in two separate places was mine. It started off as a lot of fun, though by morning I missed my wife and felt mildly ashamed of myself for hatching such a depraved plan. I didn’t feel badly about anything that had happened. We’ve each fucked plenty of other people in front of each other before. Jealousy really wasn’t a factor. I just felt like an asshole for wanting a night away from her. Thus far, we had only spent evenings in separate rooms, under the same roof, or all in one big pile. Our close proximity to each other had always been a point of security for us. My plan had compromised that, even if the only person bothered by it was me.

Wilted Bouquet

The garbage can beside my bed is a wilted bouquet of used condoms and wrappers. The woman in my bed is not my wife. My wife is out in the living room, on the fold out couch, fucking the husband of the woman in my bed. We met them at State College about a month ago. He’s a nice guy, good-looking, courteous, well-mannered, respectful, and polite. He’s the kind of guy that you can let fuck your wife without any apprehensions. Apparently, I am also that type of guy. We’ve made an unspoken game out of trying to make the other man’s wife cum louder and more frequently. I don’t think that anybody is actually keeping score, though.

Too Good to Be For Me

God never wanted me to have anything this good. If he had found out, he would have taken her away. I felt like I’d done something dishonest to have her. I felt like I was undeserving. She was bright traffic lights reflecting off the pavement on our way home, drunk in the backseat, enjoying the night. Her legs were tied around my head like a blindfold, and I drank in the night. She was a good buzz and a wispy brown mohawk wrapped around her pubic bone, leading down in between her legs. Hot and salty, she tasted like the meaning of it all, and I was her puzzle. I was 1,000 tiny interlocking pieces, all looking the same, but subtly different. I was a casual toy, a frustrating novelty that gradually revealed itself through sustained effort. Miles of complexity to recreate a simple image. I was (and still am) a colossal waste of time, disguised as an intellectual exercise.

Wife Swapping in State College

The night ran long and dirty. It was a hedonist marathon in a generic hotel in the middle of Pennsylvania. We had all just met in person for the first time about two hours earlier. The first order of business had been to get some dinner and booze in our bellies. The night was freezing fucking cold, and the four of us walked in tight proximity to try to conserve heat on our way between the hotel and the restaurant and back to the hotel again. Conversation was great. We all had a lot in common, similar convictions and values. The meal was wonderful too.

After all that we found ourselves back at the room. They had had the foresight to bring a CD player. We had the foresight to bring a few bottles of something. I can’t recall exactly what. David Bowie was playing, stories were exchanged, and things got moving pretty quickly. This woman loved to dance. She flitted all around the room in various states of undress. While removing the last bits of her clothes with my big clumsy hands I accidentally broke her belly-chain. She was a small, light woman, and I could flip and toss her around like a pizza. After the first round, we left my wife with her husband so they could be alone in the room. We walked out to the stairwell where we could talk alone and she could smoke. It was beautiful.

We returned and left the room at intervals a great deal that night. At one point we all just did it in one big pile. There were so many cigarettes, so much alcohol, and so much sex, in lots of combinations. We were running amok around the hotel. She was an irrepressible, mischievous, little nymph of a woman with a camera, innocently provoking and photo-documenting everything. I can still taste her strawberry-flavored Chap Stick.

The night was a hazy, golden thing. It was food for the soul. It revealed all of the magnificent potential for honest joy that life holds. She took the chip off my shoulder. Sometimes you can’t grasp just how miserable you have been until you see how happy you can be. There is no shame in happiness. It needs no moral justification, reason or explanation.

Walking With the Devil

The devil’s not a bad guy. He just gets bad publicity. He’s a great travel companion and good drinking buddy. Ironically, he’s got soul, much more so than God. He knows what it means to be betrayed, and he knows what it means to suffer, and what humiliation feels like. He’s been judged from an ivory tower by a zealous despot, and made his own kingdom with other misfits and rejects. God resonates with all of the sincerity and soul of a spoiled rich kid having a temper tantrum.