He rolled over away from her, the thick and damp lint-invaded plaid fleece clinging to his naked, red, sweaty rolls. He liked to light a cigarette after their sessions to push the musty and personal smell of body parts out of the room. After the first anxious drag of the hot mesmerizing tobacco, his stomach would growl empty after the panting and tiresome cardio. That would be her cue to disappear to the kitchen and make him a BLT (bacon, lettuce, turkey). By the time she’d return with the sandwich, her money would be laid out across her clothes which he would pluck from off the dark cherry wood and spread on the bed for her to speed up the process. They always spent too long on foreplay in the beginning, because he refused to take Viagra because it made him feel ancient and ugly, and would cut dangerously close to when his wife would be home.
She would return to the dim-lit guest room with his sandwich and he would be sitting in a chair, facing the bed, in his expensive robe killing the life of his cigarette. He liked to watch her young and tight naked ebony body perkily bounce with joy as she carried his sandwich to him. Two pieces of bacon, four slices of turkey, a slice-and-a-half of cheese, two full-sized pieces of lettuce, mayonnaise spread thin across both slices of bread, and the sandwich cut diagonal. Not vertical or horizontal, diagonal. And if she made the sandwich perfectly, he would throw in an extra ten bucks.
She would walk back to the bed and snatch the money up quick. She always said he didn’t need to pay anymore, but she never stopped stuffing the horny hundred dollar bills in her socks. She used to be a tutor to pay for her computer science degree, but she found out she could make four times her old salary with just forty-five minutes of fake orgasms and endearing, gritted compliments in male ears.
He liked to eat his sandwich while he watched her put her clothes on. That’s why he put the new recliner in the corner by the window. One last taste of her sexy youth before it all disappeared behind the clothes he brought her. She slipped on her dress, goodbye happy nipples, and shoved her bra and underwear in her backpack.
She watched him with a smile as he inhaled the sandwich. They both had different drugs of choice– his was sex and sandwiches, hers was him.
For my writing class, she wanted us to take one of our favorite books and write in that author’s style. My favorite book at the moment is Crimes in Southern Indiana Stories by Frank Bill, so that’s the inspiration for this post! Don’t forget to comment your thoughts below! And I would love to hear about your favorite book, writer, or writing style! And subscribe right below!