A few days before the trip, The Texan started with his normal (highly annoying) texts. No way something could be deeply wrong. As Erin said, it was probably a wife thing. I’m paranoid he’s going to find my website and Instagram account, so when he gives me the silent treatment, I immediately assume that’s what it is. Although, he’s not the silent type and I’m sure if he ever did find my writing, I’d hear an earful immediately. I decided not to ask him via text. I’d wait until we were face-to-face and high as kites. He asked me if I wanted a room with a Jacuzzi or one with two beds. He knew the answer, but was hoping I’d have an un-Sita moment. We never use the Jacuzzi’s anyway. I didn’t recall any of the rooms having Jacuzzi’s where we usually stay in San Antonio so maybe it was a new joint. None of it matters. This was my last Texan visit before I went to the cabin. My heart was already there.
The motel (not hotel) turned out to be a dive along the freeway we had stayed at years ago. I didn’t recognize it at first, but once we walked by the sad pool, my grey matter kicked in, and it was familiar. His buddy—whom I’ve hung out with numerous times—was in the car with him when he picked me up from the airport. We dropped off our belongings in our perspective rooms, I did a quick get ready, and we went to a nearby strip club. The club was awesome. It was dead, but awesome. We ate dinner there. I took a couple photos in the bathroom and even posted one on Instagram. I know The Texan hates it when I “disappear” for any length of time, but I figured, hey, he has a friend with him and he’s up at the stage, tipping chicks, why can’t I have my own fun? When I got back to the table, like clockwork, he gave me shit and said I was gone for thirty minutes. More like eleven, but whatever, chill, dude.
After being at the club for only forty-five minutes, he started pressuring us to leave. He’s been in a rush a lot as of late. Rushing is my “favorite”. He rushes his buddies too. This guy came down here to party for one night only and the damn Texan is rushing us. It’s ridiculous. I’ve learned to mostly ignore it. I should point out that he never seems rushed when he’s standing at the stage like an ass getting the most out of the poor dancer for a fucking dollar.
The club had one of those punching bag games. I made his buddy play it with me. Can you picture one of those things in a strip club? It was bizarre, but I love those things. I bet the girls beat the shit out of it on trying nights. I know I felt like punching something. His hurrying to get back to the room to fuck isn’t fun. We used to go out for hours and have a grand ol’ time before heading back to the room. Not anymore. Ah well. He’s a big, horny baby, what can I say? An aging one who can’t party like he used to. Back at the motel, I got undressed and into something cute. We did a small amount of drugs and he pulled out all of his porn DVD’s, asking me to help him clean and categorize them. This was a riot because I wrapped up the room the next night and I just shoved them all back in the carriers with zero regard to the Sharpie rating system. We had a fun night. Nothing crazy and no drama.
He got up early in the morning to play in a golf tournament that was an hour away. He left spending money for me like he always does, but I had no plan to leave. I planned on reading the book I was engrossed in and ordering a pizza. I was going to stay in my pajama’s all fucking day in our dark motel room. He text me from the golf course a couple of times asking about my plans. Nothing, you dodo bird—reading and taking photos for my followers. He can’t fathom this. He hates being alone. I wasn’t in a drinking mood, which never works in my favor when it comes to him, but thankfully his day got delayed, which gave me more time to myself. The only down side was that he was hammered from his many hours of drinking. I hate when we are unmatched in that department. He was playing golf with another friend, his closest friend whom I’ve only met maybe once or twice, but who’s heard way too much about me. The three of us were going to have dinner that night. As I was getting ready and trying to stomach swigs of the too sweet bourbon he’d bought, he text asking me to find a restaurant close to the motel. Oy. I knew this meant no frills and no fun. I found an Outback Steakhouse three miles away. The bourbon was a tough sell for my system, but I tried. I miss my Soma’s. Fucking government.
When they finally arrived at the motel, they were beat to shit. They had endured a long day, which included a two-hour break due to a thunderstorm that rolled through during the tournament. I think their drunk had already worn off and now they were just tired. We went to Outback. The mood was odd. I was way too sober and they were too quiet. The hostess sat us in the tightest booth known to man. I really didn’t have much to say to this guy and The Texan wasn’t helping much with the social hole-filler, so I just kept asking him questions, appearing to be genuinely interested in the answers. When in doubt, ask questions. Most people like talking about themselves. I ordered two drinks during our time there, but they were basically just buckets of sugar and empty calories—not the lube I needed. We ate and filled the space and then got the check. I easily could have stayed in bed. This is why strip clubs exist. It’s loud and there’s crap to keep men’s attention. Not that I needed to blow the socks off his buddy, but I felt a little pressure to be the entertainment. Granted, with all the stories he’s heard about me and my time with The Texan (both real and embellished), I probably could have sat there and drooled...as long as a little cleavage was showing.
His friend made fun of him for having me at such a shithole motel. It was cute. He doesn’t know how little “princess” I have in me. Picky, yes, princess, I don’t think so. We said our goodnights and The Texan and I went into our humble den. He was beyond burnt out. I peeled out of my clothes and brushed my teeth. I was trying to hurdle my mental state; gearing up for our usual when he surprised me by saying that he was maybe too tired to have sex. Halle-fucking-lujah! I offered to help put the room back together. So, while he appeared to be near asleep, I packed up all the food snacks, porn and booze. I had done a little crystal at Outback (having to be super quiet because an eight-year-old walked in just after I did), so I had a little burst of energy. Not to mention that I spent the day doing zilch. I took a sleeping pill. All was happy and good. I was set to call an Uber at 4:15 a.m., so I was extra grateful for the early night. He usually drives me to the airport, but my flight left at such an ungodly hour, I suggested that I get an Uber. I got all my stuff together so I could make a stealthy exit. All of the lights were out except for the bathroom light, which I had done on purpose so I wouldn’t bother him at 4 a.m. I was psyched about getting out of the sex, but then he asked if I would lay down with him for a bit and I knew my luck had changed course.
Sure enough, the second I butted up to him, he made a noise and his dick got hard. Knowing how he is when he doesn’t get something for his money, I said (against every fiber in my being), “You wanna fool around?”
“I figured. ‘Kay. Hold on.”
I pulled my pajama pants off (leaving my T-shirt on), and reached in the tableside drawer. It was the most unsexy fuck to date. He climbed on top of me to start, which was awkward as shit—both of our aging belly’s in the way, his more rhino than mine, I could barely breathe. It was awful. I think he could hear my labored breath so we moved into our tried and true: him standing behind me, one of my feet on the ground and one knee on the bed. No stomachs involved. He came fast. Now I could go to sleep. All in all, a pretty easy gig before I head up to the cabin for two glorious weeks.