She dropped her robe and lay back on the bed. I had to pause a moment and fill my eyes. Her petite body was perfection. She was very light-skinned (not my usual ‘type’—truly I have always been a ‘brunette-with-a-tan’ man; never had any luck with blonds at all, but Shonnie was a different kind of blond.
The sun was setting outside the huge hotel window and cast a slight shadow over her. Her hair was still semi-damp and fell down perfectly over her breasts, slightly curling up at the ends. Her right leg was seductively raised up, bent at her knee and turned slightly to the side, thus denying me any direct look at my lustfully desired target.
A better scripted scene could not have been created by even Howard Hawks. (Thinking ‘To Have and Have Not’ here—Bogie an’ Bacall). I continued to draw the scene into my mind, hoping to meld it permanently with my memory cells. Joni began singing “Blue Motel Room” on the boom box.
“You window shoppin’, or are you coming into the store?”
“Into the store,” I said, “I have spied something interesting enough to draw me in.” I knelt down at the foot of the bed, picked up her right leg and kissed the underside of her foot, then took her big toe into my mouth for a moment or two. I began working my way up her calf to the inside of her thighs, ever so slowly back and forth, ‘thigh to thigh’, I suppose you could say. At this point she was beginning to writhe a bit. I proceeded north and just as ‘Blue Motel Room’ ended, I began.
Tantalizingly slowly at first, then faster and faster, then slowly again… occasionally gently sucking her clitoris, alternating with circular tongue motions, also mixed in with rapid back and forth tongue movements.
While Joni sang ‘Song for Sharon’, a rather longish song, I brought Shonnie, by my count, to three or four climaxes. (But what do I know? Well, I WAS THERE, after all, and I felt her contractions in my mouth.)
I was about to lose it myself so I threw my back down beside her, pulling her on top of me. Grasping that so fine little firm ass of hers, I pulled her on top of me. She straddled me sitting full upright and as I kept my hands on her hips, she fucked me with what could almost be described as pure violence.
Embarrassed to report, but about twenty seconds after I entered her, I was spent. She didn’t complain though, as she rolled off of me and lay on her back, both of us panting, sweating, but completely and blissfully sated (and spent)
As Joni began singing ‘Refuge Of The Roads’, Shonnie said, “Reach me a cig, will ya Baby?” (First time she had called me ‘Baby’. I kind of liked the sound of it. I lit two Marlboros at once, Movie Style, handed one to her, and we lay back, smoking and began (between giggles) a smoke ring competition. (I lost.)
Cigarettes dispatched, Joni run out, silence now, Shonnie once again broached the subject,
We freshened up, got dressed, and headed down to the Casino floor. Generally I don’t gamble in The Plaza, but this night I was freshly feeling full of myself and wanted to capitalize on that feeling before the fresh wore off.
Allow me to explain something: I do not believe in Santa, The Easter Bunny, Karma, Fate, Oklahoma, or God. But I do believe in Dama Fortuna, and I could sense her radiance shining down upon me that night.
The casino was all flashing lights, laughter, musical sounds from the slot-machines—basically your typical Las Vegas Scene.
I led Shonnie over to a bank of ‘dollar slots’, pulling out a crisp one dollar bill, I fed it into the machine. “Pull the lever and stand by,” I said to her.
“I’ve never gambled before,” she said.
“Honey, if my instincts are right, this ain’t gambling. Go ahead. It’s my dollar anyhow, so you really ain’t gambling. Per se.” “Pear who? Okay,” she said, “Here goes nothing,” while pulling the Bandit’s one arm.”
“I certainly hope not,” I said, as we watched the cylinders spin.
Double bar. Double Bar. Double Bar! Casino silver dollars poured into the tray, making that oh so magical sound of metal raining on metal. One hundred bucks! A propitious beginning!
“Oh My Fucking God!” she screamed.
“Baby, God had nothing to do with it. Thank Dame Fortuna, if you feel compelled to thank someone.”
“Wow! Look at all that shiny money!”
“It’s yours. Take that bucket and fill it up.”
“Should we go again?” She asked breathlessly.
“Absolutely not,” I said. “Come on. I’m gonna show you the real games.”
“You’re the Boss,” she giggled.
I leaned very close to her and pulling at my collar, breathed into her ear, “Speak into the microphone My Dear.”
“Lance, you’re crazy!”
“Yeah. C’mon.” I led her to a craps table.
“Oh! This looks complicated,” she said.
“Well, yeah. It is and it isn’t. Don’t worry. I will walk you through it. One question though, do you throw a baseball like a girl?”
“Smart ass!”
“Ok then. We should be fine.”
Craps is the best game known to man. I love the high-energy. The camaraderie. The cacophony. The excitement. The electricity. The laughter. The tears. The suspense as the galloping dominoes bounce down the table.
And last but certainly not least, the ability to win (and sometimes lose) large amounts of money in a very short time. And yes, I am what some might call, a ‘Dice Degenerate’. Started when I was hustling crap games in Junior high. In the hall ways between classes. Only got busted once. Proud of my record.
Shonnie and I shouldered our way in at one of the far ends of the table.
We sandwiched ourselves between a middle-aged, gray-haired man (on our left) in a business suit (I immediately pegged him as a ‘Corporation Man’ on Convention) grasping what looked like a scotch and water and there was a cigar in a tiny ashtray set on the rail in front of him.
On the right side of us, a ‘normal’ looking guy, about thirty something, sporting a too loud red t-shirt and a gimme cap. Baseball.
I forget the team. Normal Guy had control of the dice, so that meant once his roll ended it would be Shonnie’s turn to be the shooter.
The table was just about at ‘capacity’. I glanced around, looking at the contestants. You see, in Craps the idea is to find the table with the highest energy level.
You want the most up-beat, loudest players: Players who are having fun. Sad to say, but one can never (in my experience) win any money at an empty table or one with an atmosphere of doom, which does sometimes come rolling in.
Savvy crap shooters recognize the early warning signs of ‘The Atmosphere of Doom’ and fly away like scalded rabbits just before, or as it descends. This table was on the upswing and I intended to make quick work of it before the worm turned. (The worm always turns, but sometimes thankfully, it takes some long turning time.)
Looking down the side of the table, opposite the ‘Boss’ and the dealers and the stick men and all, I studied the players.
There was a young couple to the right of ‘Normal Guy’. Right out of “Honey Moon Ville,” I guessed. Next to them stood a Middle-Eastern type wearing a white starched shirt and lots of bling. Next to him, a dude with a crew cut, tight shirt, bulging biceps, who may have been suffering from Roid Rage, given his overly passionate ramblings at the dice as they bounced down the lane.
At the far end of the table there was a young bleach-blond hanging onto the arm of another elderly well-dressed business man. (‘A man and his Hooker’, I ungraciously thought). Next to them a diminutive oriental man.
I was thinking ‘China’, but could not be certain.
I had a wonderful experience once at a craps table at The Golden Nugget following the streak of another China Man. Won almost two grand while he was in control of the dice. You see, craps players are infamously superstitious. And I was certainly no different.
There were several other players mixed in and even some standing behind, perhaps waiting for some space to open up. I was happy with the crowd and after the present ‘roll’ had ended (wins all around) I pulled out four Benjamins and put them on the table in front of one of the dealers.
“Give me two hundred green ($25), and two hundred red ($5),” I announced. The dealer spread out my four bills so ‘The Eye in the Sky’ could get a look. He then stacked my chips and slid them toward me.
“Good luck Sir,” he said, as I split the chips (‘Checks’ in the Vegas’ vernacular.)
With all the bets paid, Normal Guy was ready to go at it again. I instructed Shonnie to take a red chip and place it in front of her on the “Pass” line (If you don’t know how Craps works, you may be at some loss here—I will try to make it as easy to understand as possible.)
I placed a red chip in front of me on the Pass line as well. All bets placed, Normal Guy tossed the dice toward the far end of the table. He rolled a four. (Meaning he had to roll another four before he rolled a seven, thus crapping out.)
“Put two red chips behind your bet,” I told Shonnie.
“Why?”
“We’re taking the odds,” I said.
“I don’t understand.”
“Just do it. Smartly.”
She stacked up the chips behind her original bet and I did the same.
On a hunch, I tossed a red chip onto the middle of the table and said,
“Hard Four!” (Betting that the shooter will make his ‘four’—called his ‘point’, but that he will do it ‘the hard way,’ i.e. two deuces and not an ace and a three.
This is really a sucker bet, but I had Dama Fortuna in my corner. The bet pays ten for one, which if won, would net me $45 dollars, plus of course our pass line bets with the odd’s bets behind them.)
Normal guy tosses… wait for it… Double Deuces! Pandemonium from the players. Everybody wins!
“How did you know to do that?” Shonnie asks, as some decent stacks of red chips came our way.
I put my hand on her neck, pull her ear to me and say, “Stick close Baby. Gonna be a bumpy night.”
Winners paid, Shonnie and I put another two red chips on the pass line. Normal guy rolls an eight. We back up our bets with two each red chips. Normal guy then rolls a seven. Aw Shit! Crapped out! No worries. We are still way ‘ahead’.
Now the dice pass to Shonnie. I can see she has stage fright. One of the dealers sees this too.
“Don’t worry Little Lady! Newbies are always lucky!” He says.
The ‘table’ agrees and I see chips of all colors dropping to the ‘Pass Line’.
Shonnie and I both drop one each green chip onto the Pass Line. Yes. I was confident. All bets now placed, I watch as she picks up the dice. Picked them up as one might imagine someone picking up a rotten banana, or a dead rat.
“They won’t bite,” I assured her. Just toss them at the end of the table. Oh and shake ‘em a little. But you can only use one hand when tossing them.”
“One hand?” she protested. “I always throw a baseball with both hands.”
“Hun, this ain’t a league of your own. Use one hand or they will frown and be perverse.”
“Okay,” she said. Then after shaking the dice a bit, she wound up… and threw! Right over the heads of the players at the far end of the table on off into space.
Collective groan from the table. In craps, the absolute worst thing one can do is miss the fucking table. It is always bad Juju.
Ninety-Nine times out of a hundred, the next roll will produce a crap out. In Shonnie’s case, the anticipated next roll would be snake-eyes, Box cars, or ace-deuce.
All losers.
I watched as most of the table players pulled chips back from their original bets. Not me. As someone went searching for the errant dice, I told Shonnie to put two more green chips on her pass line.
I did the same. We now had one hundred-fifty-dollars bet, even though I was not certain she would find green felt upon her second try.
She was offered two more dice by the dealer (stick man, just another word for him). I whispered in her ear, “Just relax Honey. Use a little less passion and a little more finesse this time. You’ll do great.”
She shook the dice, wound up, and pitched ‘em down the lane. When they came to rest: Natural Eleven! Winner!
Well… now! Suddenly the table went nuts! Large bets were placed all around (after some applause).
Shonnie kept ‘control’ of the dice for the next fifteen minutes: an eon in ‘Craps’ Time. We won almost a grand, (thanks to my recklessly wild betting and the favor of Dame Fortuna. And of course to Shonnie’s curve ball.)
When she finally crapped out, there was more applause. Everyone had ‘gotten well’ with her streak. And there are no more appreciative gamblers than craps’ shooters when it comes to situations like this.
“Color us up,” I said to the dealer as I pushed our chips toward him.
“But Sir,” He protested, “You’re up. Aren’t you gonna shoot?”
“Nope. We’re done here, but thanks.”
Shonnie and I gathered our (now mostly black–$100 chips—and I led her away)
“What now!” She demanded.
“Blackjack”
“Lance. You’re nuts! I have never had this much fun! I love you!”
I sped off still heading south. I observed her fade fast in my rearview mirror, but not before I saw her mouth hanging open in wide disbelief
(As if I were actually calling her bluff). After about a half-mile and her no longer in sight, I stopped, opened a beer, popped in a Joni Mitchell–Hejira–cranked it up, lit a Marlboro and waited.
Presently I could make out her petite form marching through the sandy haze, her skinny arms flailing back and forth, not unlike a power-walker.
As I watched her approach I snuffed out my second cigarette, tossed the empty beer bottle onto the back floorboard, turned down the volume on Joni’s Black Crow, and waited to see if she was getting back in the car.
She opened the door, threw herself in and off we drove, not saying a word until we got within about five clicks of Sharm el Sheikh.
Her face was dirty with trails of sweat running down, making small rivers of mud, her hair windblown and looking to have absorbed quite some substantial part of the Sinai.
She did not look happy.
“Are you sorry?” she finally blurted out.
“Sorry? Sorry for what?”
“Sorry for being an asshole,” she said.
“Oh, that… What!?” I was genuinely confused.
“For refusing to have sex with me this morning after that Israeli dude left.”
Now I am laughing. She wasn’t.
“Are you fucking serious Janet?” I asked after I had regained some composure. “You heard the man. We had to vacate. Did you think I was in the mood for love? With the IDF watching us? Shit Woman! It was time to go.”
“There was time enough… in the tent,” she said somewhat between clenched teeth and somewhat subdued—at the same time—a talent she had perfected over some years.
(Ed. Note: Janet had five years on me)
“You are unbelievable. Okay, ‘I’m sorry for not fucking you’. Gimme another go? Right here. Right now. In this fuckin’ heat and in this fuckin’ sardine can of a car? Or would you prefer it on the burning sand with the scorpions and spiders?! For Chrissake Janet!”
“There was a time when you’d never refuse me, no matter where or what,” she said and then clammed up, starring out the window.
Fine! I thought as I gave the volume back up to Joni.
Just on the outskirts of Sharm (The whole Sinai Pennisula was ‘Outskirts’) we came upon a Bedioun ‘roadside do drop in’ sort of place.
“Hey Janet! Let’s check this out.”
“Can’t we just go in to Sharm?”
“No. I wanna talk to these folks. Besides they may have some stuff we need.”
“Fine.” (And then someday too soon, this woman would be my wife…)
I parked the car and got out. Janet cleaned her sunglasses and remained behind. I walked up to the ramshackle place and was greeted by an old grizzled Bedouin.
“Salaam alaikum,” I said.
“Salaam alaikum,” he said back. Then, “Amer-ca?”
“Yes,” said. “English? Speak?”
“La’, (no)
(I spoke just enough Arabic (and Hebrew) to get me into trouble back then.)
“Sodas? Coke-a-cola?” I asked.
“Naam,”
“OK. Baksheesh?”
“Naam.”
I gave him a pack of Marlboros. He gave me two cokes. Apparently inflation had set in here. I smiled though and shook his hand, happy to have made some cultural advancement.
Jimmy Carter shoulda seen me that day. Got back in the car. Janet, still incogneto, remarked,
“Was that worth it?”
“Yes. It was. Thank you. We are reps of the State Department. WE are suppose to be ambassadors. Don’t you git it?’
“Yeah. I ‘git’ it. I get that I want this trip to end soon. I am tired and hot and sweaty and thirsty and hungry and horny. And I see no end in sight for me.”
We drove on into Sharm.
As I have reported, Sharm back then was not much. There was one hotel, but who had money (or desire) for that? It had a tentative look about it anyhow.
This was ‘Israeli-Occupied Egypt’ after all and finding investors to pump money into a region, however beautiful, must have been difficult, given the volatility of the times and the probability that Israel would eventually give the desert back to Egypt (even though Israel had ‘held’ the Sinai for more than ten years at this point)
Past the hotel was a small ‘camping ground’ of sorts. There were ‘bird houses’ for rent: ten bucks per night and a communal shower/latrine area. I say ‘bird houses’, because that is exactly what they resembled: Thatched roof, two wooden ‘bunks’ side-by-side, and too small for a six-foot-one cowboy to sleep on.
I lay down and test-drove one.
I discovered that by leaving the door open I could be fine with the sleeping arrangements, letting my feet hang out, though if Janet and I were to have some privacy for any ‘Woo-Hoo’ / ‘Whoopee’, we would have to pretend we were in the back seat of a compact car and make due. (Unless we opted to keep the door open: an option my shyness would never allow me to consider)
At this point I must admit Janet was always a trooper during such times.
She was of course a soldier, albeit a weekend one, and had previous experience with less-than-pristine habiliments.
After we had decided to spend the night at this place, taken our showers, had some drink and sandwiches, her mood (and mine) improved as the sun went down and the heat subsided. Behind us were the mountains. In front of us, the sea, and ahead of us, our future.
We were after all, two lovebirds deep in love and in our own private birdhouse.
We made love in that birdhouse after sundown.
And with the door open.
And why not?
We were young.
(And we had all that ‘Diplomatic Immunity’ bullshit to boot)
*****
I love Joni’s smile. She don’t smile often, but when she does… magical shit happens. Shoots bolts right through my heart Baby!
To Be Continued…
ED. Note: I Only ‘Like’ My Own Posts, in an effort to Help the Algorithm
I sped off still heading south. I observed her fade fast in my rear-view mirror, but not before I saw her mouth hanging open in wide disbelief (As if I were actually calling her bluff). After about a half-mile and her no longer in sight, I stopped, opened a beer, popped in a Joni Mitchell–Hejira–cranked it up, lit a Marlboro and waited.
Presently I could make out her petite form marching through the sandy haze, her skinny arms flailing back and forth, not unlike a power-walker. As I watched her approach I snuffed out my second cigarette, tossed the empty beer bottle onto the back floorboard, turned down the volume on Joni’s Black Crow, and waited to see if she was getting back in the car.
She opened the door, threw herself in and off we drove, not saying a word until we got within about five clicks of Sharm el Sheikh. Her face was dirty with trails of sweat running down, making small rivers of mud, her hair windblown and looking to have absorbed quite some substantial part of the Sinai.
She did not look happy.
“Are you sorry?” she finally blurted out.
“Sorry? Sorry for what?”
“Sorry for being an asshole,” she said.
“Oh, that… What!?” I was genuinely confused.
“For refusing to have sex with me this morning after that Israeli dude left.”
Now I am laughing. She wasn’t
“Are you fucking serious Janet?” I asked after I had regained some composure. “You heard the man. We had to vacate. Did you think I was in the mood for love? With the IDF watching us? Shit Woman! It was time to go.”
“There was time enough… in the tent,” she said somewhat between clenched teeth and somewhat subdued—at the same time—a talent she had perfected over some years. (Ed. Note: Janet had five years on me)
“You are unbelievable. Okay, ‘I’m sorry for not fucking you’. Gimme another go? Right here. Right now. In this fuckin’ heat and in this fuckin’ sardine can of a car? Or would you prefer it on the burning sand with the scorpions and spiders?! For Chrissake Janet!”
“There was a time when you’d never refuse me, no matter where or what,” she said and then clammed up, starring out the window.
Fine! I thought as I gave the volume back up to Joni.
Just on the outskirts of Sharm (The whole Sinai Pennisula was ‘Outskirts’) we came upon a Bedioun ‘roadside do drop in’ sort of place.
“Hey Janet! Let’s check this out.”
“Can’t we just go in to Sharm?”
“No. I wanna talk to these folks. Besides they may have some stuff we need.”
“Fine.”
(And then someday too soon, this woman would be my wife…)
I parked the car and got out. Janet cleaned her sunglasses and remained behind. I walked up to the ramshackle place and was greeted by an old grizzled Bedouin.
“Salaam alaikum,” I said.
“Salaam alaikum,” he said back. Then, “Amer-ca?”
“Yes,” said. “English? Speak?”
“La’, (no)
(I spoke just enough Arabic (and Hebrew) to get me into trouble back then.)
“Sodas? Coke-a-cola?” I asked.
“Naam,”
“OK. Baksheesh?”
“Naam.”
I gave him a pack of Marlboros. He gave me two cokes. Apparently inflation had set in here. I smiled though and shook his hand, happy to have made some cultural advancement. Jimmy Carter shoulda seen me that day. Got back in the car. Janet, still incogneto, remarked,
“Was that worth it?”
“Yes. It was. Thank you. We are reps of the State Department. WE are suppose to be ambassadors. Don’t you git it?’
“Yeah. I ‘git’ it. I get that I want this trip to end soon. I am tired and hot and sweaty and thirsty and hungry and horny. And I see no end in sight for me.”
We drove on into Sharm.
As I have reported, Sharm back then was not much. There was one hotel, but who had money (or desire) for that? It had a tentative look about it anyhow. This was ‘Israeli-Occupied Egypt’ after all and finding investors to pump money into a region, however beautiful, must have been difficult, given the volatility of the times and the probability that Israel would eventually give the desert back to Egypt (even though Israel had ‘held’ the Sinai for more than ten years at this point)
Past the hotel was a small ‘camping ground’ of sorts. There were ‘bird houses’ for rent: ten bucks per night and a communal shower/latrine area. I say ‘bird houses’, because that is exactly what they resembled:
Thatched roof, two wooden ‘bunks’ side-by-side, and too small for a six-foot-one cowboy to sleep on. I lay down and test-drove one. I discovered that by leaving the door open I could be fine with the sleeping arrangements, letting my feet hang out, though if Janet and I were to have some privacy for any ‘Woo-Hoo’ / ‘Whoopee’, we would have to pretend we were in the back seat of a compact car and make due. (Unless we opted to keep the door open: an option my shyness would never allow me to consider)
At this point I must admit Janet was always a trooper during such times. She was of course a soldier, albeit a weekend one, and had previous experience with less-than-pristine habiliments. After we had decided to spend the night at this place, taken our showers, had some drink and sandwiches, her mood (and mine) improved as the sun went down and the heat subsided. Behind us were the mountains. In front of us, the sea, and ahead of us, our future.
We were after all, two lovebirds deep in love and in our own private birdhouse.
We made love in that birdhouse after sundown.
And with the door open.
And why not?
We were young.
(And we had all that ‘Diplomatic Immunity’ bullshit to boot)
*****
I love Joni’s smile. She don’t smile often, but when she does… magical shit happens. Shoots bolts Straight Through my Heart Baby!
I sped off still heading south. I observed her fade fast in my rear-view mirror, but not before I saw her mouth hanging open in wide disbelief (As if I were actually calling her bluff).
After about a half-mile and her no longer in sight, I stopped, opened a beer, popped in a Joni Mitchell–Hejira–cranked it up, lit a Marlboro and waited.
“Refuge of the Roads”
Presently I could make out her petite form marching through the sandy haze, her skinny arms flailing back and forth, not unlike a power-walker.
As I watched her approach I snuffed out my second cigarette, tossed the empty beer bottle onto the back floorboard, turned down the volume on Joni’s Black Crow, and waited to see if she was getting back in the car.
She opened the door, threw herself in and off we drove, not saying a word until we got within about five clicks of Sharm el Sheikh.
Her face was dirty with trails of sweat running down, making small rivers of mud, her hair windblown and looking to have absorbed quite some substantial part of the Sinai.
She did not look happy.
“Are you sorry?” she finally blurted out.
“Sorry? Sorry for what?”
“Sorry for being an asshole,” she said.
“Oh, that… What!?” I was genuinely confused.
“For refusing to have sex with me this morning after that Israeli dude left.”
Now I’m laughing.
She wasn’t
***
“Are you fucking serious Janet?” I asked after I had regained some composure. “You heard the man. We had to vacate. Did you think I was in the mood for love? With the IDF watching us? Shit Woman! It was time to go.”
“There was time enough… in the tent,” she said somewhat between clenched teeth and somewhat subdued—at the same time—a talent she had perfected over some years. (Ed. Note: Janet had five years on me)
“You are unbelievable. Okay, ‘I’m sorry for not fucking you’. Gimme another go? Right here. Right now. In this fuckin’ heat and in this fuckin’ sardine can of a car? Or would you prefer it on the burning sand with the scorpions and spiders?! For Chrissake Janet!”
“There was a time when you’d never refuse me, no matter where or what,” she said and then clammed up, starring out the window.
Fine! I thought as I gave the volume back up to Joni.
Just on the outskirts of Sharm (The whole Sinai Pennisula was ‘Outskirts’) we came upon a Bedioun ‘roadside do drop in’ sort of place.
“Hey Janet! Let’s check this out.”
“Can’t we just go in to Sharm?”
“No. I wanna talk to these folks. Besides they may have some stuff we need.”
“Fine.” (And then someday too soon, this woman would be my wife…)
I parked the car and got out. Janet cleaned her sunglasses and remained behind. I walked up to the ramshackle place and was greeted by an old grizzled Bedouin.
“Salaam alaikum,” I said.
“Salaam alaikum,” he said back. Then, “Amer-ca?”
“Yes,” said. “English? Speak?”
“La’, (no)
(I spoke just enough Arabic (and Hebrew) to get me into trouble back then.)
“Sodas? Coke-a-cola?” I asked.
“Naam,”
“OK. Baksheesh?”
“Naam.”
I gave him a pack of Marlboros. He gave me two cokes. Apparently inflation had set in here.
I smiled though and shook his hand, happy to have made some cultural advancement. Jimmy Carter shoulda seen me that day. Got back in the car. Janet, still incogneto, remarked,
“Was that worth it?”
“Yes. It was. Thank you. We are reps of the State Department. WE are suppose to be ambassadors. Don’t you git it?’
“Yeah. I ‘git’ it. I get that I want this trip to end soon. I am tired and hot and sweaty and thirsty and hungry and horny. And I see no end in sight for me.”
We drove on into Sharm.
As I have reported, Sharm back then was not much. There was one hotel, but who had money (or desire) for that? It had a tentative look about it anyhow.
This was ‘Israeli-Occupied Egypt’ after all and finding investors to pump money into a region, however beautiful, must have been difficult, given the volatility of the times and the probability that Israel would eventually give the desert back to Egypt (even though Israel had ‘held’ the Sinai for more than ten years at this point)
Past the hotel was a small ‘camping ground’ of sorts.
There were ‘bird houses’ for rent: ten bucks per night and a communal shower/latrine area. I say ‘bird houses’, because that is exactly what they resembled:
Thatched roof, two wooden ‘bunks’ side-by-side, and too small for a six-foot-one cowboy to sleep on.
I lay down and test-drove one.
I discovered that by leaving the door open I could be fine with the sleeping arrangements, letting my feet hang out, though if Janet and I were to have some privacy for any ‘
Woo-Hoo’ / ‘Whoopee’, we would have to pretend we were in the back seat of a compact car and make due. (Unless we opted to keep the door open: an option my shyness would never allow me to consider)
At this point I must admit Janet was always a trooper during such times. She was of course a soldier, albeit a weekend one, and had previous experience with less-than-pristine habiliments.
After we had decided to spend the night at this place, taken our showers, had some drink and sandwiches, her mood (and mine) improved as the sun went down and the heat subsided. Behind us were the mountains. In front of us, the sea, and ahead of us, our future.
We were after all, two lovebirds deep in love and in our own private birdhouse.
We made love in that birdhouse after sundown.
And with the door open.
And why not?
We were young.
(And we had all that ‘Diplomatic Immunity’ bullshit to boot)
*****
I love Joni’s smile. She don’t smile often, but when she does… magical shit happens. Shoots bolts right through my heart Baby!
This is Ded-Eye-Cated To A Woman Of Whom I Am Rather Fond, But Who Hates Me (Whew! Dat’s A bold Statement Cowboy) Her Name Begins With An ‘M’ and ends W/An ,,, N/M–No Doxxer Here! Not I. She Won’t read this NEway. “Shonnie The Biker’s Wife VI: Vegas’ ‘Soft Porn’, or ‘Blue Hotel Room’
Dedicated to the One I Love
And The Darkest Hour is Just Before Dawn (Or Mary, or Sue–I am easily Confused—Easily)
Author’s Apology: The Font(s) in this post are WAY Too Large, but WP will NOT Allow Me to FIX This. Once Again, I find me apologizing for the Lame-Azz inadequacy of Word-Press
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Vid Share Cred: Folk Experience
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Do NOT Read This With Kids Around! It is Christmas time Go Wrap the Presents, or sumthin… Git Yer Mind Outta My gutter. I Live There all alone Merry Christmas
*****
Survey sez:
“Lance, You will be spending Yet Another Christmas All Alone.”
Lance sez, “Well, at least this time I am not in Iraq or Afghanistan or Sinai, and I do trust no one will be shooting at me…. Right?
“Don’t venture out.”
“Okay. Good advice. Thanks.”
“Da nada.”
*******
Shonnie Saga Continues:
Unsuitable for minors and miners, and especially casual diners:
Adult Content
If you find yourself on the
‘Prude Side of the Pew’,
You may want to skip this one.
(And That’s a Joke, Y’all.)
Relax!
Lock your screen if you need to step–away from your computer for a moment.
***
She extinguished her Marlboro and stood up. Nonchalantly dropping her robe onto the floor, she lay back on the bed. Seductively, she brought her left knee half-way to her chin, then turned slightly to face me.
I had to pause for a moment to fill my eyes. Her petite body approached perfection. Very light-skinned, almost cream colored–warm cream–French Vanilla, like for coffee.
She was so silky-smooth-to-my-touch, everywhere I touched.
With smatterings of freckles ‘strategically’ placed here and there, she could best be described as almost ‘Half-Ginger-Cinnamon-Girl’.
With Attitude
Cinnamon Girl
The combination of all her traits nearly made mebelieve in aGod.
No. They Made me ActuallyBelieve in a ‘God-Ess’, specifically ‘Aphrodite’ and her descendants, one of whom I held captive inside a Blue Hotel Room at that very moment in my time.
Yep
‘Aphrodite’
Much more accurate.
And here is why:
The Good, The Bad, and The Beautiful
The Good:
Justice: Aphrodite Always Helped TheHe who was forever teasedand tormented by The She, The She with whom He was hopelessly in love.
Joyful: Because she was the Goddess of Love, she brought joy and laughter to mortals. (‘Weren’t no thang; just a happy collateral side-effect.’)
Beauty: Aphrodite was most Beautiful and Seductive, The Most Beautiful and Seductive, and she brought her ‘beautiful seductive’ to everyone who was lucky / unlucky enough to know her, or only even of her.
(Lucky or Unlucky?)Kinda depended upon one’s frame of reference and the eventual outcome. Your mileage may, or may already have–varied–Contingent upon your age, I suppose)
The Bad:
Treacherous: Aphrodite did not love her husband Hephaestus, so she sought out Ares.
Malicious: In the story of “Aphrodite and Psyche,” Aphrodite heard of Psyche, and jealous of all the attention people paid to Psyche, she summoned her son Eros, and had him put a spell on Psyche,thus ruining her day, and indeed, the rest of her life for that matter.
Jealous: Aphrodite did not want any mortal to be more beautiful than she. And she just would not tolerate it, not even the mention of the possibility of it.
Period.
End of that story.
Greedy: When she saw pretty things, she took them.
And I can attest to the veracity of this. Shonnie, descendant of Aphrodite, found my heart to be a ‘Pretty Thing,’ so she took it. She has never given it back either.
The Beautiful:
“A Picture is Worth a Thousand Words”
Do any of these traits strike you as being vaguely familiar?
Remind you of Someone?
Well they should, if you have been paying attention.
Here’s a Hint: ‘Related by Marriage to a Biker‘
Not Actually Her: Just A Reasonable Facsimile
(Full Disclosure: ‘Blond’ is not my usual ‘type’—truly I have always been a ‘semi-tall-brunette-with-a-tan’ man; never had any luck with blonds at all, but then, Shonnie was a different kind of blond, now wasn’t she?)
***
The sun was setting outside the huge hotel window and cast a slight shadow over her. Her hair was still semi-damp and fell down perfectly over her breasts, slightly curling up at the ends. Her right leg was seductively raised up, bent at her knee and turned slightly to the side.
(Yes. Yes! I know! I already mentioned this pose. Please allow me the simple, sinful pleasure of revisiting that image just-one-more-time-in-my-mind. Thank you.)
Her pose thus denied me any direct look at my lustfully desired objective, but I was confident I could find it.
A better scripted scene could not have been created by even Howard Hawks. (Thinking ‘To Have and Have Not’ here—Bogie an’ Bacall).
“Anybody got a match?”
“Yeah, Shonnie & Lance”
***
I continued to draw the scene into my mind, hoping to meld it permanently with my memory cells. Joni began singing “Blue Motel Room” on the boom box.
“You window shoppin’, or are you coming into the store?”
“Into the store,” I said, “I have spied something interesting enough to draw me in.”
I knelt down at the foot of the bed, picked up her right leg and kissed the underside of her foot, then took her big toe into my mouth for a moment or two sucking it; licking it.
Then I began working my way up her calf to the inside of her thighs, ever so slowly back and forth, ‘thigh to thigh’, I suppose you could say.
At this point she was beginning to writhe a bit. I proceeded north and just as ‘Blue Motel Room’ ended, I began.
Tantalizingly slow at first, then faster and faster, then slowly again… occasionally gently sucking her clitoris, alternating with circular tongue motions, also mixed in with rapid back and forth tongue movements.
While Joni sang ‘Song for Sharon’, a rather longish song, I brought Shonnie, by my count, to three or four climaxes. (But what do I know? Well, I WAS THERE, after all, and I felt her contractions in my mouth.)
I was about to lose it myself so I threw my back down beside her, pulling her on top of me. Grasping her so fine, firm littleass.
She suddenly sat bolt upright, straddling me, grabbing my arms and pinning me down. She passionately fucked me with what could almost be described as ‘pure sexual violence’.
(No ‘making love’ in this instance; we had succumbed to our basic ‘animalistic’ instincts!)
Embarrassed to report, but about twenty seconds after I entered her, I was spent. She didn’t complain though. She rolled off of me and lay on her back, both of us panting, sweating, but completely and blissfully sated (and spent)
Joni began singing ‘Refuge Of The Roads’.
***
Another Thinly Veiled Foreshadowing?
Perhaps…
“Another Fuckin’ Song Lance? Really? You’re Wearing us OUT!”
“This one is Important. Very Important!”
“It is Joni’s song, yes.“
“But more than that, way much more than that,”
“It is Shonnie’s Song.”
Not requisite that you listen, only requested, but it sure wouldmake-my-day if you did listen.The Words are important.
–Lance said That
“And… if you DO Watch/Listen, you will ‘auto-magically’ be entered into the First-Ever…”
“Texan Tales & Hieroglyphics”
“Give-Away of Free Stuff Lottery”
(Quantity and Quality of Stuff Subject to Availability)
‘Availability’ of money in the author’s bank account.
Good Luck!
***
Shonnie said, “Reach me a cig, will ya Baby?” (First time she had called me ‘Baby’. I loved the way it sounded coming from her slightly course and throaty voice.
I lit two Marlboros at once, ‘Movie Style’, handed one to her. We lay back, smoking and began (between giggles and exchanging ‘We are so great, and proud of us’ looks) a smoke ring competition.
(I lost.)
***
Cigarettes dispatched, Joni run out, silence now, Shonnie once again broached the subject,
27 THOUGHTS ON “SHONNIE THE BIKER’S WIFE, PT VI: VEGAS’ ‘SOFT PORN’, OR ‘BLUE HOTEL ROOM’”
LAMarcom July 22, 2014 at 19:36 Edit
Actually with just a little practice, they are quite easy to produce. Of course it helps a lot if you’re a smoker…
Thanks very much for your visit.
Tony Single July 22, 2014 at 18:33 Edit
I thought smoke rings was something they only did in cartoons? I almost want to take up smoking to see if it can be done in real life!
LAMarcom July 21, 2014 at 17:49 Edit
Hehehe,
Thanks so much.
Cheers,
Lance
NancyTex July 21, 2014 at 08:25 Edit
Total lady-boner material right here. Well done, Lance.
LAMarcom July 16, 2014 at 12:31 Edit
It was, yes, one of those ‘wow’ moments.
😉
Thanks for reading and for the great comment.
Wow!
Cheers,
Lance
LVital7019 July 16, 2014 at 12:25 Edit
HEL-lo! Inaword: Wow. 😉
LAMarcom June 23, 2014 at 19:12 Edit
evil grin *
Thanks Sandra!
Sandra June 23, 2014 at 18:42 Edit
Dang is the AC broken again? No, it’s just Lance telling another story. 😉
LAMarcom June 22, 2014 at 11:12 Edit
Haha! You know, wh@t happens in Vegas… Well, you know.
Thanks Annie for reading my ‘Blue’ Hotel Room.
Cheers,
-Lance
Mad Annie, Bronwyn, Ann June 22, 2014 at 10:58 Edit
I know it is hot in Vegas, but REALLY! LOL
LAMarcom June 22, 2014 at 10:13 Edit
Don’t touch that dial!
🙂
LAMarcom June 22, 2014 at 00:57 Edit
Really?
Money?
Cash money?
Hahaha!
And I spent all that time reading an’ watching ‘Macbeth’
And trying to emulate Shakespeare and Marlowe…
Sadie,
You always make me smile!
My Friend!
🙂
~ Sadie ~ June 22, 2014 at 00:52 Edit
WOW Lance – women pay money for this shit . . . just saying . . . 😉
Looking forward to Part 7!! ☮
LAMarcom June 22, 2014 at 00:23 Edit
And sexy, eh?
Laughing out loud!
Tis a true story, by the way.
Shonnie was just that… sexy.
I miss her!
Anonymous June 22, 2014 at 00:20 Edit
Wow!
Intense!
LAMarcom June 22, 2014 at 00:16 Edit
Sadie, I am just a guy with a desire.
To write.
Thank you.
~ Sadie ~ June 22, 2014 at 00:12 Edit
Lance – I haven’t even read it yet – in the middle of 3 diff things BUT def reading before I go to bed tonight. Just had to tell you when I checked my email & saw the new installment I was all frickin excited dancing in my chair & chanting yay yay yay!!! I have absolutely loved this series of stories. GREAT job in the writing & the execution, keeping us all waiting with bated breath for your nest chapter!!! 🙂
happierheathen June 21, 2014 at 23:44 Edit
My weakest point is, alas, understanding things. But I’m a-hang around just the same because fading away is something I ain’t mastered yet, either.
Keep ’em coming, my friend!
LAMarcom June 21, 2014 at 22:53 Edit
yes.
Frame of ref here, David.
My mind is all over some place.
LAMarcom June 21, 2014 at 22:51 Edit
Happily enuff, It is coming.
After the bliss what was the bliss, that was, Las Vegas.
For us.
(You see? I have to build the bliss, before the remiss.)
Shorely, Certainly, (Shirley?) you, of all people, understand.
The unrequited bliss.
David Scott Moyer June 21, 2014 at 22:43 Edit
Used to be???
happierheathen June 21, 2014 at 22:41 Edit
Oh man, I was looking for the weird and all I got was that Lance got laid. Where’s the weird? I wants the weird! 😀
LAMarcom June 21, 2014 at 22:20 Edit
Most assuredly, the pants.
Loosen ’em up a mite.
Then you will be fine.
With wine.
And thanks for reading.
(Don’t tell anyone I used to be a pervert.)
Please!
Anonymous June 21, 2014 at 22:16 Edit
Whew! Is it hot in here or is it just me yoga pants?
LAMarcom June 21, 2014 at 21:59 Edit
Lee, I thought you had banished me due to my Socialist Lean.
