On a Sunday Afternoon

Christopher Goss

The motel is sleazy,

the carpet threadbare.

We meet here every Sunday.

Out front, the sign is

a cowboy, like in Vegas

with the cigarette and

the thumb motioning

over and over again.

She likes my thumb when

I use it to stroke her

clit and my cock is

in her. I call her

Screamer, cause she

likes to yell when she

comes. She yells a lot

when she’s with me.

Over and over again.

The other patrons are

used to the yelling

by now. They pay it

no mind, except to

nudge each other and

wink. We finish round one

with the usual noise and

her gasping and shuddering

over and over again.

In the bathroom I’m

cleaning up, and on the

wall someone’s carved

fuck deeply into the

plaster. I smile as I

think, “I’m trying, my

man, I’m trying—

over and over again…

Then I take my straight

razor and carve blood

into the other wall and I

think of how many

times I’ll cut her and

how many times the

Screamer will scream

while the patrons

nudge each other and

wink…

over and over again…