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Carolyn Smuts
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Having a Ball at the Pub

by Carolyn Smuts

 

Fucking. Bitch. That’s what she was.

I sat there nursing my warm beer. Hell, it was barely beer, it was Michelob Ultra—95 calories and 2.6 carbs of unsatisfying, barely alcoholic swill. But hey, 95 calories and I was still on my first one! I’m not exactly dog meat but I could stand to lose a few and until I do, it’s a strict regimen of two Ultras per night. Period.

Then the bitch showed up. Holy fucking shit, you’d think no guy in the bar had ever seen boobs before. I don’t know how she even walked on the slutty platform Salvatore Ferragamo shoes and her Prada dress, the one that barely hid her vagina, probably cost more than I make in a month. Her makeup was high-end and expertly applied; it definitely wasn’t Revlon. If I wasn’t completely jealous, I swear I’d have been attracted to her. She threw back every single free drink the desperate dopes bought her. Skinny little bitch.

“Oh, my gosh! That is soooo cool of you! Thank youuuuuu!”

Then an air-kiss near the cheek.

Effer-fucking-vescent. Charming. Polished.

Puke-inducing.

Look, I had nothing against her; it was the way guys I knew, guys who should know better, were making asses of themselves fawning over what was clearly a stripper. Women can spot a fraud; guys are clueless in matters of the cock. And why did she get all the free, fattening drinks full of scrumptious, syrupy sugar and ambrosial alcohol and why did none of those calories show on her ass? So fucking unfair. Seriously, her butt was the tight, skinny kind seen on 13-year-old boys.

Whatever. It was about time to down the last of my Ultra and have the second at home.

I watched her move in for the kill on one of the guys. When her mouth approached his ear in an intimate whisper, his face went from euphoric to confused then back to euphoric. He sheepishly shook his head and she understandingly and apologetically patted him on the leg. Turning to another admirer, she leaned in and applied the same whisper.

Fuck, she was not a stripper; she was a real pro, a damn hooker! I had to see the rest. Screw going home; this show was too good. I ordered my second beer.

This second dude was totally into her. They retired to a corner pub table and chatted intimately, him laughing at every line she administered, her stroking his inner thigh and leaning in to hear him speak like he was the most fascinating sage ever to walk the face of the earth.

He got up and walked to the cash machine. They were totally gonna close the deal. This was a lot more entertaining than whatever I would have been watching on HBO.

She turned to her left and reached for her purse, legs uncrossing and opening as she grabbed it.

That's when I saw them. Two freshly shaved balls tucked up inside that $3500 Prada dress.

 

 


ihatedavemathews.jpg
Art by Cindy Rosmus 2017

I Hate Dave Matthews

by Carolyn Smuts

 

Bad sex ruins good songs.

When I first heard “Crash into Me” by the Dave Matthews Band, I liked it, but stoner sex got it blacklisted even though it’s a sexy damn song. 

In 1994, I wore my hair in “The Rachel” style. I was engaged to Kevin and teaching at South Torrance High School near LA. I carpooled daily with one of my colleagues, an idiotic pothead named Marcus.

He was physically hot as hell—a swimmer with well-defined muscles and gorgeous skin.  Mentally, he was a box of rocks, a condition not helped by the weed he smoked daily.

Yeah, I was engaged, but Kevin and I had zero chemistry. I already felt trapped by his sterile sexuality and we weren’t even married. Marcus potentially offered zero commitment, no-strings carnality without the threat of liking him too much. We engaged in a few months of fun, back-and-forth, flirty talk in the car which eventually evolved into hand play of every sort during our drives. God, his skin was amazing.

We never kissed in the early days but when we finally did, things progressed past the point of no return almost immediately. 

After school, I followed him to his house and we screwed while Dave Matthews soulfully crooned “Crash into Me” in the background.

It was awful—the sex with Marcus, not the song.

Stoners are the worst in bed—flat and selfish. There was nothing erotic about the way he moved; he pretty much just wanted to stuff his cock in me.

And that he did with zero art or style. He buried his face in my shoulder and thrusted lazily, grunting each time. Too tired to prop himself on his arms, his shoulder pinned me to the mattress. I couldn’t move if I wanted to, which I did not.

Within ten seconds, I couldn’t wait for it to be over.  Sadly, the bong on his nightstand reminded me his senses were dull as hell and I’d probably be there a while. It was the longest twenty minutes of my life and listening to Dave Matthews on a loop made me feel like I was trapped in some kind of torturous fun house—the sexy song punctuating the silence and the actual sex as gratifying as nails on a chalkboard.

The guilt was worse. For years I could not hear the song—the tawdry, secret fuck song—without feeling literal nausea. I learned to love my steering wheel volume controls because they allowed instant silencing of Dave’s plaintive voice without having to reach up and turn the dial.

I can’t help but wonder: If the sex had been good, where would I be today? I’d never have “been” with Marcus—the stupid, beautiful, stoned swimmer—in any real way, but I’d probably never have married Kevin had I known good sex.

Last Friday, I heard the song for the first time in a decade—certainly for the first time since Kevin and I divorced. I forced myself to listen. It was enjoyable and nostalgically sexy in a ‘90s sort of way. There was no nausea, only an excited, sick adrenaline twinge in my solar plexus—it was good; maybe how it was supposed to make me feel, had it not been ruined by pot and guilt.

 



Carolyn Smuts taught history before trading academic life for corporate America. She’s been writing for business and pleasure more than ten years with recent fiction works published by Intrinsick, Prolific Press, Jitter, Dual Coast, and The Dirty Pool. She spends weekends studying weird local history, running, drinking, and hiking the hills of Southern California with her family.

In Association with Fossil Publications