“When you get fucked at the Motel 6, you really get fucked at the Motel 6”
By Stuart González
When you get fucked at the Motel 6, you really get fucked at the Motel 6, but it’s probably the best sex you could ever hope for. I met two women at a strip club on the outskirts of town, and the price was right. I had just received a grand in tax return money that was burning holes in my pockets. Forty dollars in one dollar bills went a long way in a joint such as the one I found myself in, but it didn’t go far enough. I’d already spent about two-hundred. They informed me that all a night with them would cost me was a room at the Motel 6, a couple handles of whiskey, a bottle of Thunderbird, lots of rolled cigarettes, and an eight ball of coke.
These women were a mother and daughter team of strippers: blonde, skinny, and tatted to the hilt. They weren’t my type at all, and they could barely speak proper English, much less could they possibly relate to me on an intellectual level, but sex is sex, and need is need. They were offering sex, and I was needing it.
They had cool stripper names. Roxy and Allura. Allura giggled and said that her name was like “allure,” but with an a. Because she’s a girl. Get it? I got it, and the sleaze in me wanted it. I was an expert at mixing liquor with sex, but I’d never before purchased coke myself, so I gave Roxy the money for the eight ball. There was method to my madness. I waited in the motel room with Allura. She turned on the TV and started dancing to latin music on LATV. She didn’t have hips to speak of, but I could feel my dick hardening in my jeans. I cracked into the whiskey and poured two cups.
We sat on the bed, sipping whiskey, quiet. The TV had been turned down and the girls were still dancing and sprawling themselves on the hoods of souped up cars; little more than ornamentation, a sexy visual compensation for shitty music. I asked her if she liked that kind of music. She said that she didn’t know what it was, but it made her want to fuck.
I tried to get her started, but she said that we couldn’t start without Roxy. It wasn’t long after that the devil appeared, and she had an eight ball of coke and some weed. We started with the weed. I took a couple of hits and then turned down further offers in favor of the liquor and coke.
They took off all but their tops, and I did lines off their asses and began drinking straight from the bottle. They did lines off my dick, which was erect and poking out through my open zipper. They weren’t long lines, but soon the coke was less involved and their tongues more prominent. It turned into a mother-daughter tag-team on my cock. I managed to get Allura’s bikini top undone and off, revealing her small, perky tits. Roxy volunteered the removal of her top. Her tits were saggy and covered with awful tattoos, recipients of years of groping and abuse.
We all three fell onto the bed in an animalistic mass and noise. Roxy straddled me and proceeded to grind and gyrate into my groin while I swapped saliva with Allura. The mass and noise of our tryst seemed to outgrow the motel room. I imagined it as a Kafka story about the sex in a motel room between a coconut Mexican and two white trash strippers that engulfs an entire city to become a new city called, placerparasiempre-- or whatever it would be called in German.
I was in the throes of that excitement when the door was kicked in by two guys with guns claiming to be state cops. They were yelling something about having received an “anonymous tip” about our orgy and drug buffet, and that I was going to spend a long time in the federal pen. What the fuck? They were calling me a spic, a scumbag, and all kinds of shit. On top of that, the guns that they plunged into my face made my dick instantly soften inside Roxy. She and Allura were both laughing. It was the funniest shit in the world to them. Because it was a trap. I was being rolled.
These cops had an empty duffel bag, which they filled with the weed, the coke, the whiskey, my clothes, and my money. I was drunk, high, and scared. I shat myself. It was messy and smelly and fucking embarrassing. Roxy and Allura joined the two assholes dressed as cops in mocking me and poking and prodding at me while I squirmed in my own excrement.
Eventually they had me cowering in a corner, telling me that they were going to kill me. All I remember was screaming about how if they were going to kill me, they should dispense with the casting of aspersions and get it over with. I regretted nothing. Fuck them. They punched and kicked at me a few times before I felt a sharp pain in my head. It was the butt of a gun.
I woke up in the tub with a headache and a bloody lump on my head. I touched myself to make sure I was alive. My balls were sore. I thought about crying but decided to see if I had anything left. Nope. No clothes. No money. They even took my fucking socks and shoes. There was half a bottle of Thunderbird on the table and a couple of half smoked cigs in the ashtray.
I downed the Thunderbird and lit one of the cigs. The cleaning lady came in, and didn’t seem to think it was strange to see a bloody, naked Mexican sitting at the table smoking a cigarette. She tried to ignore me, but when she noticed the shit smeared all over the sheets, she exclaimed, in Spanish, that they didn’t pay her enough to clean up people’s shit.
Lo siento, I said. Lo siento mucho. She called me a filthy pig and said that I’d have to pay for the mess. With what? I was just robbed, I said. She didn’t answer. She left the room and came back about twenty minutes later with clothes. Cleaning service attire. She made me clean the room and wash the sheets and towels. When she told me I could leave, I realized that they had also stolen my car. I had to walk five miles back to the city.
When I finally got home, I masturbated, thinking of Roxy and Allura.
(2010)
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