teflon

After the theater, Tewtie looks her tango best. I want to capture the moment, to add the images to the temple I built in my office.
I explain the simplicity of my digital camera to a total stranger. “Imagine that you are a professional photographer,” I instruct him.
He clicks away, striking me with sudden flashbacks. Daydreaming, I am transported back to California. We are on our way to the Bonfante Gardens. I am someone else, a masochist, a maniac overcome with fantasies for his trophy wife:

On that long drive, the maniac has made friends on the CB. He strikes a deal: “Let’s picnic, but you agree to take pics of us?”
“Sure thang, man.”

Tewtie blinks, and a hint of a naughty smile renders her primness into a girly brat. The maniac reaps this as energy, making out with her shamelessly, in sight of the families eating their mundane sandwiches. The bright orange monstrosity named Schneider Lines, Pumpkin at the wheel, pulls into the service area. Pumpkin finds their car, and, finally, them, the wanton swans.

Pumpkin is a salivating photographer. Tewtie enjoys fighting off her husband's explicit, seven-year's itch pawings. Deep in the Freudian domains of his mind, the lecherous husband is fantasizing of new extremes to their love.

He is surrendering her to the trucker. He is watching him maul her, having her on her knees, on the picnic table.
Under the shade of nameless trees, he has the vision: a rainy night at the truck stop. For the sake of his torturous fancy he brings her to the trucker’s cab, where the trucker plies them with coffee, shows them his sleeper cab and its bed. Tewtie's husband gives the trucker an illicit permission, a nod to kiss her hand, to stroke her shoulder, her neck, her thigh, to watch the Cargo Bull undress her, and then says to him, “Sorry, bud, we need some privacy. By the way, you mind if we go without a rubber?” and then drawing the curtain .

The thwarted voyeur does not know what to answer. A Yes is as just as cuckoldish as a No, except exercising more of the minute ownership over her that still remains. The thwarted voyeur opens the door on his way out. The masochist is torn between pain and pleasure, he steps out into the drizzle, he enjoys getting wet, he sits in his car, he cringes at the twang of the country radio singing of primitive loves.

The sleeper cab is a hunk of throbbing metal. The complacent cuckold would climb up to the cab, grab the handle, open the door, hear her whimpering, hear their bodily sounds, the sounds of wetness, of straining, of yielding, of the grunts from the cigarette-smoked throat, of the moans from the angelic mouth. Relishing his embarrassment, the cuckold would see the jeans. They have hugged the perfectly full, ballet thighs that he has so lovingly worshipped. They are slung over the huge steering wheel. The plain navy blue curtain pulsates: surely, it is being poked from the wonderful side by the man’s foot, or maybe by his brazen behind, or maybe even by her dainty foot as the calves press to those satiny thighs. What a shameless rhythm!

He could see through the thick cloth. From behind it the curious husband feeds on the adrenalin, the release, the embarrassment, the pleasure of humiliation, all adding up to helpless ecstasy.

This is intense. This is sick. This should never happen.
I shatter the image. I feel her, she is silent and crazy with desire. I press my left arm to my armpit. Nine Millie is there. My right arm leaves Tewtie's hip and instinctively reaches for Nine Millie’s grip. The truck driver has sunk deep into the voyeuristic trance. The daydreamer watches the trucker, leaves Nine Millie alone and leads Tewtie back to the car.
“Enjoyed taking the pics?”

The answer was left behind as we took off, and, driven by the gust of my passion, reached a Motel 6. In a dusty, smoke-saturated room that was still stranded in the tackiest days of the Seventies, I made her submit to the pain of my fantasies.

“Your obsession is flattering,” she said.
That was all I needed to rape my wife-like lover.

“Please, no more smoked rooms,” she begged me, when on the next stop in our wonderful travels I searched for lodging.
So I searched for a right room, a room with a view, no cigarette smell, and clean bathroom. It was a room at Bettrell’s Inn, overlooking the Russian River Valley.
“We need a room, please,” I said to the lonely frumpy librarian. She eyed us in silence.
“Are you Christian?” she asked almost whispering in a testy suspicion.
“No, but we are eligible,” I said.
“In that case, you get suite one ten. That’s next door to the office.”
Saturday afternoon we heard a hoarse organ play church anthems. That same evening, to the accompaniment of the saintly oratorios, we sanctified the bed with the duet from The Vandal And The Sabine.

Chris Miller

I enjoyed the piece. Well written. Erotic. Psychological.

A few editorial comments:

Seven commas! Very awkward. No need to be so obtuse here.

"maul"

One of the problems word processors have created for writers is that they allow us to work our sentences like clay. And we tend to build these great monstrosities when a few clearer, simpler lines would work much better. I think there is a tendency to confuse convolution with complexity and depth. I reccomend you simplify your structure. It will be less work to read and therefore even more enjoyable.

Nice job though. Thanks.

__________________
the fairwriting blogs

Barcelona Review story: http://www.barcelonareview.com/64/e_cm.html

teflon

Great thanks for the heads up. I did change things according to your suggestions.

I agree, this is the case of the word processors checking for spelling errors, and not for wrong words!

Regarding the convoluted, obtuse feel to the narrative. I think it really belongs in this story because of the state of mind, the stream of deranged thought, convoluted, and when not, tangential. Impulsive, cluttered. Applying the Stansilavsky method to writing, I'd say it comes from almost living through such a situation.

Thanks

gohn67

You got an interesting style Teflon. I like the mood you created in this piece, very dream like. Thats the feeling I got.

I enjoyed the dialgue parts the most. Great lines

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The Frowning Dog Blog

ms. vodka

Hot hot hottie hot... this is...

maybe a voyeuristic view of teflon's life through his writing?

I love your writing style, tef...

a bit rough here and there, but i imagine that could all be smoothed over if you wanted to...

vodka

Wyndstar

This is a nice piece of adult literature without being sleazy. I have to go with Ms. Vodka on this one about being a bit rough about the edges, but it makes it a bit gritty.

Made me feel a bit the voyeure...

teflon

Yea, it's rough here and there all right. I wrote it on the fly, with a little editing.

Maybe it's the product of voyeuristic playing with the ieads of "what if." Ever since my wife has become my sexetary, no other man has ever touched her. She also hates to shake hands.

Didn't I expand on this in the Bar? I'll look.