by Lord Malinov
It wasn’t a book she would have bought. It wasn’t even a book she would have read but she found it and until she got rid of it, it belonged to her. A drab cover suited the contents, an anthology of disconnected letters, poorly written and almost meaningless. They badly told tales of exquisite sex, sex as good as the letters were bad, sex that was good only because they told her so. “Damn that was great sex.”
The first three letters were bad, uninteresting, unarousing in any way. She suspected the trend would continue, letter after letter of big melons and monster dongs making sweet, sweet love in the back of a pickup or elevators.
The fourth letter caught her attention. I wasn’t well written, if anything the prose was worse than what she found in the previous letters. But it told the tale of a couple from different cities meeting in a beach town for a long weekend of sex. She remembered a weekend she spent with Ryan. Ah, Ryan. She missed Ryan.
They met at the airport and rented a car, then made out while driving to the hotel. She could imagine the reckless erratic meander of their vehicle while they kissed and pawed and maneuvered through traffic.
Ryan had picked her up from the airport in his sports car. There was no making out after a passionate greeting, instead they talked while he drove. She had been excited and nervous. Anticipation.
The letter said they went to their room, ready and randy but they’d made a dinner reservation so all they could do was dry hump and kiss his dick for a bit. They were certainly all about the sex. Kept apart for four months, the letter had begun, and they have no time for conversation. Just a dirty letter, she knew, but she knew people with those kinds of relationships, all about the fucking. She just couldn’t do that.
Not that she wasn’t a slut, in her own right. Her relationship with Ryan had been little more than just sex. But when they were together, especially when they had vacationed together, there was lots of dating niceties, the wining and dining and personal conversations to go along with the sex. Sometimes they got together, tore off their clothes and got squishy. Some of the best times, perhaps.
The letter became predictable at this point, a series of going back to the room, fucking madly, taking a break at a restaurant, the pool, the beach, night clubs, lusting after the occasional waitress or dancer or room service guy, but trading simple reality for complex schemes, they went back to their room and screwed.
She and Ryan didn’t consider threesomes with the locals or at least never spoke of such things. Having been apart so long squelched any desire to expand the cast. Maybe after a year of screwing, they might have arrived there but their extended separation put their focus squarely on each other.
And, even at their horniest, they had never managed to fuck eight times in one day. She counted the letter’s claim for Saturday and there were eight different episodes, many involving multiple male orgasms. Slut she might be, she had never seen anyone go at it so long. She cringed to imagine the chaffing that would inevitably follow.
She didn’t think she and Ryan had done it eight times over the whole weekend. She counted and came to six. That had always seemed beyond the pale. The letter boasted no less than fourteen episodes, depending on how you kept score. That sounded ridiculous. Crazy kids.
And then they said goodbye.
Ryan had since gotten married. So had she, but that was over.