Chapter 11
Greg and Susan were sloshed. They sloshed around on the bed, fumbling for each other’s joy spots. Greg sloshed out his limp sausage. Unlike the inebriated lunch treat known as Rick, Greg’s salami never got totally hard; it was forged in rubber. But, thankfully, he wore one.
His poor cocksmanship was more like something to endure than enjoy. He took forever to get aroused, and to be truthful, Susan never did. Greg finally had an orgasm, signaled by a loud burp, rapturous fart, and spooging of Susan’s left thigh.
The drunken sex was more of a banal blur than an erogenously exciting erotic escapade for Susan. There were no spine-tingling rushes. No anticipatory suspense. No passion. Nothing. She was glad when it was over. She wished that the Hawaiian ukulele player would have balled her, instead.
The ancient wall-inset air conditioner rattled away. Soon Greg was snoring like a two-man saw. The crickets opted for another window sill. Susan passed-out six minutes later at 1:44. The bathroom sink faucet dripped at a rate of two drops per minute as the muted TV flickered out various colors on the walls all night.
Neither had a dream they could remember in the morning. Their hangovers were real stingers. Moreover, it was a very-short-chapter one-nighter that Susan would soon forget.