Short Story Interlude

So I got back from my first trip to Vegas yesterday. I'm still processing the experience but I'll have lots to write about in the days to come. 

Unfortunately I don't have anything written yet so I thought I'd share a short story I wrote a few years ago.

About this story: 

• It's 1,414 words long, so longer than my average blog post;
• It's actually the prelude of a full-length novella I intended to write but never got around to;
• I originally wrote it to show my friend an example of the voice or style I thought she should use to write her own story; and
• It's filthy and dirty. If you're offended by anal sex, for example, don't read this.

If I had to sum this story up I would say it's like a harlequin written by Chuck Palahniuk. Enjoy!

The hotel room is small and cramped and smells faintly of mould and cigarettes. Tucked away in the nowhere states of Idaho or Wyoming, it's exactly the sort of place I would expect Karl to pick for a secret rendezvous. 

He jumps to his feet the moment I open the door. His eyes are bright with relief, with a smouldering kind of pleasure.

Karl doesn’t have the capacity for love so I guess this is the next best thing.

He takes my breath away just for a minute: six-foot-something, blonde, with eyes too blue to be real and the jaw-line of a fifties  movie star. His arms are sculpted and his neck and shoulders stretch his t-shirt taunt, the result of military service and a failed career in cage-fighting.

Not failed, sorry. That would imply past success.

Not career, either. That would imply making money.

He looks at me standing in the doorway framed by the dull glare of the dusty mid-western sun, and he says, “I knew you’d come.”

I drop my bag by the door and squint at the darkness inside the room. The curtains are drawn and the air conditioning is blasting. It’s like a frozen tomb in there. A quick scan reveals a half-empty bottle of Jack and an ash-tray crammed full of scrunched-up little filters.

Karl, staring at me with a puppy’s devotion, he says, “I knew I could talk sense into that thick fucking skull of yours.”

If by talk sense he means “blackmail,” then yes. The way he says “thick fucking skull” with fondness in his voice, it makes me all warm and fuzzy inside. 

He’s gorgeous but not much in the way of coherent thoughts. He’s like those hot guys on the cover of all those shitty paperback harlequins you see at the pharmacy.

No substance. Just a pretty face.

“Well? What the fuck are you waiting for? Get in here.” The love in his eyes hardens into something else—impatience, the seed of anger. I take two steps into the room and close the door behind me. 

I can feel the grit and filth of the carpet through my shoes.

He embraces me in his big muscular arms and presses my face into his damp t-shirt. Aqua Digio overlaps the thin, sour smell of perspiration. Just sitting there, pressed up against the hard musculature of his body, I start to get a little wet. 

I won’t lie. He’s a caveman, crude, bad-tempered, jealous, a complete and utter failure in almost every sense of the word. He's good at two things: the first is how we met in the first place. The second is the reason I stuck it out with him for six months, flew him out to meet me, took him shopping, and bought him $100 steak dinners.

He isn’t gentle when he shoves me onto the bed, nor do I want him to be. The sheets don’t smell altogether clean but I don’t care anymore. By the time he tears my pants off I’m panting and moaning. 

“You don’t know how badly I been wanting to do this,” he groans into my ear, and me, I turn my head just a little bit and I tell him to stick it in my ass, to pound my ass so fucking hard.

“You bet your bottom dollar I will,” he says in his Nebraskan accent.

So unlike my husband, in every way.

It’s this exact thought that brings me back to reality. Not the reality of this shitty hotel room. Not the reality of this moronic redneck thrusting up against me, making this meaty slap-slap sound.

It’s the reality of my life. Of what I’ve done, what I’m doing, and what I’m about to do. The Holy Trinity of my fucked up life.

I decide I’m going to enjoy my last time with Karl. The certain knowledge that it's nearly over helps me to enjoy the sex a little more than I normally might. 

Don’t get me wrong, this sort of thing is a real treat. My husband, God bless him, he’s a much more reserved kind of man. A gentleman, loving, caring, sensitive, smart. 

Mention anal-beads and he laughs. Mention fisting or felching, golden-showers or role-playin1g, anything that isn’t good old fashion missionary, and he thinks you’re kidding. The whips and leather, the rough stuff, autoerotic asphyxiation, all of that belongs to a shady subculture my husband wants nothing to do with.

My husband, God bless him, he needs to brush his teeth and shower before we engage in any sexual activities. Doesn’t want me to taste his coffee breath or, heaven forbid, swallow a stray pubic hair while giving him a blowjob.

Karl makes me feel like a real woman. And by that, I mean like a real slut.

“Oh my fuck, I'm gonna cum so hard in your ass. Oh fuck—“ Karl is going harder, faster, and he smacks my ass so hard I swear everyone in this nameless little mid-western shithole hears it. He yanks my hair and I clench up in pain, in pleasure, and that’s all it takes to push him over the edge. 

I feel him tense and spasm and he howls like a mongrel dog at my back.

And then it’s over. Just like that.

If only my husband could see me now.

Karl gets off and burps loudly. “Fuck. I’m gonna hit the shower baby.”

I’m still laying there on the dirty mattress, wondering how many women have been sodomized on this exact spot. I wonder, half in a daze, my ass aching, how did I get here?

I grab my bag and pull out a bottle of wine. The shower’s on and I can hear Karl humming happily to himself. There’s no table in the room so I put the bottle down on top of the big TV set, pull out two plastic cups, and set them down.

I find Karl's gym bag and rummage through it. It doesn't take me long to find the compromising photos. 

When he comes out of the shower I’m sitting on the ratty love seat by the window, plastic cup in one hand, yellow envelope in the other. 

“Oh, hey,” he says, looking at the envelope. “Don’t get any crazy ideas. I made copies of those pictures.” He taps his temple with a forefinger to indicate the cunning of his plan.

I ask him if he really loves me. I mean, he must to go through all this trouble, to plan out this entire scheme, to threaten to destroy my already crumbling marriage. 

He thinks we can be together forever. In that fucked up mind of his he think he can blackmail me into spending the rest of my life with him.

“Are you dumb? Of course I fucking love you. Why do you think I’m doing all of this? You’re not smart enough to know what you want, what’s good for you. That’s why you need me.”

Me, with my masters degree and my 100k-a-year career, I’m too stupid to know what I want. 

It’s the most astute observation Karl has made during our time together. “Come sit with me,” I say. “Let’s toast.” 

I motion to the plastic cup sitting on the TV.

“To our life together,” he toasts. The beautiful moron. He chuckles and tosses back the wine in one swallow. Just like that.

More like our last time together, I tell him.

The mean look in his eyes stirs up all the emotions I've been feeling of late. I wouldn’t say I hate myself for doing all of this, for falling into this bizarre downward spiral that seems to never end. I could never hate myself.

But I can hate the things I’ve done.

Karl, his face is already turning red, and the look of anger is gradually transforming before my eyes. I watch in wonder and read the thoughts as they scroll across his ruggedly handsome features. First is confusion, the furrowing of his brow; then, suspicion followed by the bright light of realization. 

“No. Fucking. Way,” he croaks. He can’t believe it. He tries to lunge for me but his muscles, his perfectly sculpted muscles, they seize up from lack of oxygen. 

His throat is swelling shut. He stumbles, collapses, lets out an anguished cry, but it's a whisper compared to the sounds of our fucking just a few minutes ago.

I stay sitting on the couch and watch his eyes bulge grotesquely. His body twitches and shivers. 

I watch him die. And the last thing that skitters across my mind before he stops thrashing is, how did this start?

And, did I love you?