He fucked her hard from 11:11 p.m. to 12:17 a.m. It was the damn Viagra. After he came on her tits he rolled over, fell asleep, snored like a goddamn blizzard or tornado or old school wooden roller coaster. He snored like a sated old man with crusty nasal passages, that's what he snored like. She ran a hot bath, poured in some freesia bubble bath, closed her eyes as she soaked, thought about what she needed from Family Dollar. Cinnamon candle. Paper plates. Plastic spoons. Instant coffee. Mustard. Hot dog buns. Roach spray. Cough drops. Hair dye. Tweezers. Fucking god, the man had a meaty penis. Long and thick, a real anaconda. She had sucked on it a couple of times. “Don't stroke. Just suck,” he had instructed the first time. She was a quick learner.
At 5:11 a.m. his alarm went off. She never asked him why he set his alarm for 5:11 rather than 5:00 or 5:15. The man had his quirks. He only watched television with the sound down. He liked to make the characters say ridiculous things. One night they were watching a black and white Bette Davis movie. She cracked up laughing listening to him speak for Bette Davis and the lead actor. He gave Bette Davis a British accent and the lead actor a Texas accent.
“You are really testing your limit with me, sir. I insist that you refrain from pissing in my mouth.”
“Oh hell, darlin', I thought my piss made you horny.”
“It does not make me horny, as you say. It makes me lose all respect for you. It's loathsome behavior and I tell you it must cease.”
“Come on, buttercup. Piss is packed with protein.”
“I don't give a good goddamn what it's packed with. I don't want it in my mouth. Put it in the loo where it belongs or else pack your things and find a new place to hang your hat.”
“Shit. You're cute when you play hardball, baby doll.”
For breakfast she had six chocolate donuts and a glass of skim milk. She watched “Price is Right” with the sound turned up. She liked to hear the stupid cheering. She enjoyed listening to the wheel spin. Her phone rang. She flipped it open.
“Becky, this is your mama. Why haven't you called?”
“I haven't had much to talk about. No news to report. I'm not pregnant, I don't have cancer and I still haven't won the lottery.”
“Your sister just bought a new house in Muskogee.”
“Well that's wonderful. I thought she was in Tulsa.”
“Gerald got transferred to Muskogee. They got a pool in the backyard. Five bedrooms. Three bathrooms. And she's pregnant again. Baby's due on July 1st.”
“Damn. Ain't two kids enough?”
“You should be happy for your sister, Becky. You're just jealous 'cause you don't even have one.”
“Yeah. That's it. I'm jealous. I want to spend my time changin' shitty diapers and posin' for pictures and pretendin' to be the goddamn Easter Bunny and Tooth Fairy and Santa Claus.”
“Watch that mouth. How's Eddie? He still workin' at that potato chip factory?”
“Eddie is better than average. I think it's fair to say he's happier than a pig in shit or a leprechaun in clover or a Christian in a casino. Yes. He still works at the potato chip factory. I still stay home and paint my toenails and work crossword puzzles. I've got the American dream by its curly tail.”
“Must be nice. I'm workin' sixty hour weeks at the call center, takin' escalated calls from jerks who want to get away with maxin' out their credit cards and not makin' payments for six months or longer. I'm still havin' migraines and major depression. But I refuse to lay down and die.”
“With an attitude like that you can only win.”
“Oh when it comes to attitude I win the prize. I don't know what the prize is but I win it.”
“Mama, I gotta go. Someone's at the door.”
The Jaguar was Becky's dream car so when she loaded the groceries into her Kia then spotted the dark green Jaguar for sale across the parking lot she felt like she had been dropped into a delicious dream. “$4,500 for a Jaguar? You've got to be fuckin' kiddin' me,” Becky muttered. She called the number on the windshield right away. A man answered. He sounded like George Clooney.
“Is this George Clooney?” Becky asked.
“No. This is Oliver Johnson. And who are you?”
“Um. I'm nobody important. My name is Becky Lake. I just happened to notice the Jaguar for sale. What's wrong with it for it to be so cheap?”
“My youngest son took the car for a joy ride without my permission. He drove it from Oklahoma City to Los Angeles, didn't bother changing the oil, got stoned at one point and urinated in the front seat. You can no longer detect the scent of urine but the car needs a new radiator and it has too many miles on it for my liking. My son ruined that car for me. I want to get rid of it as quickly as possible. Would you like to come take a look?”
Becky made chicken fried steak and mashed potatoes for dinner. Dessert was apple cobbler. She poured hot sugary tea into Eddie's ice filled glass then sat down across from him at the scarred square table.
“We don't have that much money. Are you crazy?” Eddie said.
“Maybe I can work out a deal with the guy. He sounded really anxious to get rid of the car. It's bad luck for him. It's a cloud of rain and thunder hangin' over his head. He doesn't need the reminder in his garage that his son is an idiot.”
“You're gonna ask him if you can work somethin' out and the next thing you know you will be on your knees with his dick in your mouth. No ma'am. You got a car, anyway. You just wanna show off for your family. Who gives a rat's ass what your mama and sister and cousins think? We don't need status symbols in our life. This is real good, baby. I love the batter. You used the perfect amount of garlic salt and black pepper. I love you.”
“Don't you accuse me of bein' a whore then try to sweet talk me like that. You think I would suck strange dick for a damn car? You apologize to me right now or I'll toss out the cobbler.”
“Don't touch that cobbler. Look. Baby. I'm sorry. You know I don't think you're a whore. But the whole situation is lopsided and possibly dangerous. And there just ain't no sense in it. We don't have the money for the damn car. What kind of deal could you work out? Pay him off in hundred dollar installments? Come on. Get sensible.”
“You can go with me. I just want to test drive the thing. Think about it. Never again in this lifetime will we get the chance to drive a Jaguar. Doesn't that turn you on at least a little?”
“The wind turns me on. Everything turns me on. But I could care less about drivin' a car I cannot afford to buy. I'd rather turn on some Conway Twitty and screw you. Time is precious. Let's try not to slaughter it senselessly.”
That night they fucked in the usual way. Eddie on top. No words, just Becky's moans and whimpers. Becky imagined herself fucking George Clooney on the heated hood of the Jaguar. Becky wondered what kind of penis George Clooney had. She wondered if he took Viagra. Becky squeezed her eyes shut tight and clenched Eddie's dick with her pussy muscles. She came with a shriek. She dug her long orange nails into Eddie's sweaty ass as she came. She glanced at the clock. It was 11:49 p.m.
Misti Rainwater-Lites is the creator of several messes, most of them in book form. Bullshit Rodeo, a novel, will be available from Epic Rites Press in July 2013. Follow Misti's sporadic madness at http://