It wasn’t supposed to end up like this. Sex with a stranger inside a cheap hotel room along Interstate 40. The town was one of those places where the only dreams a girl inspired to was working at Walmart or the local strip joint; then partying like it was 1999 getting laid and spreading it like peanut butter jelly. If she wasn’t on birth control then an unplanned pregnancy by her high school sweetheart or a military guy she met at the local club would take care of her for the rest of her life; at least she hoped.
Claire was on a mission down the road most traveled; at least this highway-mainly truckers, modern day hippies whose home was an RV, the occasional drifter, or the traveling professional salesperson. She had met this young college age black girl in the local Target. Smacking her gum and playing with her braids; bored as hell like the city she lived in and whom a former POTUS might hit on and find a place to light his cigar-Littlerock, Arkansas. Claire found a Diamond in the Rough; ready to be polished and adored. “You’re not from around here are ya,” said Diamond as she proceeded to ring up some gum, Cherry Coke, tampons, turkey jerky, and some bras and panties. “Love your pick, same size and color as the ones I’m wearing, seeeeee” as she pulls down her red polo slightly just to tease revealing a lavender floral print and a hint of a tat over her left breast. It was more of a saying or affirmation perhaps in a different language; as if she was branded and claimed by some handler already. Claire didn’t have a chance to respond in words as Diamond already handed her an Avon business card and her home address. “Just text me, I’m off by 8 pm tonight baby.”
I’ve been along that road; that interstate of broken dreams. Been with that lonely girl who has given up all hope and just needing her nightly fix of sex to make it through another day. I am that wanderer of the night, speeding down the highway to hell; blasting AC/DC at top volume while making out with this damsel in distress: kissing, fondling, fucking, sucking…you get the big picture. As if texting and driving was the mortal sin next to drinking and driving…try fucking and driving and you see where I’m headed…the perfect fuck-more like fool’s gold, that freak midget dressed as a leprechan at the end of the rainbow; no pot of gold, silver, four-leaf clovers, or even ganja here. Just a bad case of herpes, the twisted luck of unsafe, stranger sex-be it a clown, midget, homeless bum, midget dressed as a clown, you get where I’m headed at…life is a circus, some of us girls and guys just wanna have fun. We can’t all have the perfect fucked up relationship as Justin Bieber and Selena Gomez or Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie. But we can all pretend to love the one we are with, through hell or cold water, better to have loved than never to have known what love is…
Claire was in search of that Marquise Diamond even making Tiffany jealous and wanting to join in, like that cross necklace Diamond wore around her chest or the gold ankle bracelets glimmering in the soft candlelight that surrounded the pure white sheets as our bodies forged a more perfect union, our kisses sealing the deal.
Someday I will come up with a conceptual manifesto-tentatively titled “The 7 Habits of Seducing A Girl On The Road Less Traveled,” or maybe “The Sex Principles-How to Get It On from Where You Came to Where You Should Come Next.” The Art of Sex is much like the Art of the Deal, in that you’ve got to take a chance and Always Be Closing. ABC as easy as 123 with a homerun for the game.