Julie
I’m standing in the motel parking lot at 9:47 PM, keys digging into my palm like they’re trying to remind me I still have a husband waiting at home.
Vincent is probably already asleep in his recliner, mouth open, TV blaring some old western rerun. He hasn’t touched me in eight months despite being my husband. Not really though, the last time he tried, he got halfway hard, wheezed through three pathetic thrusts, then blamed his “spasms” again and rolled over snoring before I could even pretend to be satisfied.
I’m thirty-nine, not dead.
My thighs rub together under the thin sundress I wore “just because.” No bra and no panties. The night air kisses my bare p***y every time I shift my weight, and I hate how wet I already am from nothing but the idea of what I’m about to do.
