A friend of mine claimed that none of his stories have happy endings. These are for you, Rob.
The Lot Lizard
Rob stared at the latest nude his new girlfriend had sent him. They'd met online through a game they both played and, perversely, she had liked Rob almost instantly. They'd started with erotic chat, progressed to hot and heavy phone sex and, when Rob had been fortunate enough to have a load to drop off in her hometown of Wichita, he'd swung by and dropped a load in her mouth and another in her ass. This would qualifier as the best relationship he'd had in a dozen years, except for one thing.
He was looking at a picture of her dick.
"Still the best relationship I've had in two years," he thought as he deleted her phone number and address, removed the game from his phone, and removed his request for loads heading to Kansas. He looked down at his barely touched plate of chicken and waffles and shoved the thing away from him. His fatal heart attack would have to wait until his heartburn died down a little.
She'd had a nicer dick than he did.
He looked at the bill, not surprised to find a separate charge for every coffee refill he'd gotten. Times were tough everywhere, but they all seemed to be conspiring to pay it forward until it hit Rob. He dropped a twenty on the table, figuring the waitress would find a way to squeeze a tip out of it. His truck waited for him out in the lot, its huge engine idling and keeping it warm for him. He just needed to trudge through the slush between them and hope that none of the dark spots hid potholes filled with freezing water.
He was almost there when he heard some laughter. It wasn't that anything was really funny, it was that mean laughter asshats made when they were ridiculing someone. He looked over and saw the object of their attention. It was one of the end-of-the-line prostitutes that plied their trade in lots like this, hoping their instant availability and low prices would let the low-class men sometimes found behind the wheel of a big rigs look past the deficiencies that made them undesirable elsewhere. Her latest sales pitch had been declined with a shove off the running boards of the laugher's truck. She ended up with her ass in one of the puddles of gray slush and water Rob had feared stepping in. It was a tough way to make a living.
He walked over and helped the woman up. She looked rough, even for lot lizard standards. She was probably fifty but looked sixty-five. She wore hotpants that dangled an ass that was all jiggle and no bounce, the tattoo's she gotten in her youth faded and misshapen by the changes in shape her body had suffered. Her arms looked a great deal like the chicken wing he'd decided not to consume. She fished around in the puddle until she found her teeth, popping them in her mouth after shaking the bulk of the gray water off of them. "Thank you, mister."
