With Charlotte, it never felt like cheating because it never felt like love. It always felt like what it was supposed to be in the first place; an overpowering, unadulterated hunger for flesh with a genuine sadistic regard towards dignity that would spiral itself into an uncontrollable feeding frenzy of self-respect and warm body fluids; otherwise known as hot, throbbing lust.

She never played hard to get and she would never make him pay. She was the All-American whore next door. She was one thousand Penthouse Forum stories rolled into one rapturous page-turning novel. She was an unsuspecting, upper-class nymphomaniac who knew how to scratch an itch.

The sex was just that. Sex. It was wonderful because it was just what he had imagined, hoped and anticipated it would be and it was predictably average because it was what he had always imagined, hoped and anticipated it would be. It was uninhibited masturbation with the presence of a live body. The feeling was mutual and Charlotte was the ‘come inside and leave your condoms at the door’ kind-a-gal.  And there was never any spooning or sappy pillow talk or any gestures of gratitude. The gratitude being expressed, already, in various selflessly compromising acts; it was understood.

Rules were established in rapid accord. One rule was that the sappy pillow talk and spooning stay reserved for their significant others, the ones they each loved so dearly. There was no lip kissing other than when applied as a basic fundamental first move. Another rule was to stay focused on the main objective at hand: a couple of jarring orgasms delivered as quickly and as easily as possible. Making a day out of it would be a form of lovemaking and that was not what either of them wanted from each other. They had their significant loved ones for such things.

© 2011, 2014 Mark Rogers

Driftwood
(Book I)

In Case You Were Too Stoned
(A Retrospective)

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