I'd come to town for a second cousin's wedding. The event had been much what one would expect of a country wedding; there was a church, a priest pontificating about the sanctity of marriage, and a lot of free beer.
There was fuck all accommodation nearby, so my friend Ryan and I had agreed to split a twin share room in a local motel. He was living and working in Roma, I was living and working in Ipswich, and neither us were keen to go and stay with our families after a night on the booze. We were mates from way back and had gone camping and hunting more times than I could remember, so a night spent in close quarters shouldn't have been an issue.
It was a woman that caused the problems. There are roughly two types of women in the world; those that will cause you trouble and those that won't. Ryan's woman was the former, something everyone -- including him -- knew, but she'd been his first in every sense of the word and even though Georgie was nuttier than squirrel shit, she still had a hold over him. He'd been working away for a good three months since he'd seen her last, but all she'd had to do was smile at him.
Combine free beer, the presence of an ex-girlfriend, horniness and loneliness, and the result is probably obvious. At quarter past eleven Ryan, Georgie and I all headed back to the room which had been booked for two but would soon host three.
I was very much single. I'd peaked early, marrying at twenty, becoming a father at twenty-two and then, regrettably, a widower two years after that. A year after Claire had passed, I was no longer sunk in a quagmire of grief, but had instead found a level of acceptance with the world. Oftentimes, I'd catch myself turning around to tell my wife something, having completely forgotten that she was dead, but I can only assume that was a natural habit of someone who'd thought the absolute world of his spouse. Every time someone had commented that I'd married young, I'd secretly thought 'yes, but I married
right
.'
Our motel room was clean, tidy and reasonably modern. Ryan and Georgie stayed out the front to have a cigarette each, but I've never smoked, so I went inside, pissed and took off my suit pants, shirt, shoes and socks. I pulled on an ancient pair of soccer shorts and a tee shirt that had probably come from Kmart, and tried not to look in the mirror. I was twenty-five but could pass for thirty. My hair was already thinning around the sides and I had a thirty-eight inch waist when I probably should have only been a thirty-four.
I went and laid down in bed, wishing I'd had an extra drink or two and bought some Valerian with me. I'd had trouble sleeping after Claire passed, and my GP had recommended it. It worked surprisingly well, particularly combined with a double shot of bourbon. For months there had been at least one night a week where I poured myself a strong drink, popped a few capsules, then toddled off to bed.
Ryan and Georgie remained outside, talking and smoking. Everyone has that one mate who won't give up on a woman even though everyone else knows he'd be a million times better off and happier without her in his life, and every man knows that saying a word against her is absolutely pointless. You just have to buy your mate a beer and listen to them talk about how it all went wrong when it does, inevitably, does go pear-shaped.
It's not that Georgie's pretty. She's not. She's okay, but you wouldn't turn your head to watch her go by. She works in a good enough job, and she's got a wide circle of friends, but she's a princess and a drama queen and it's these latter two points the explain why she keeps stringing Ryan along -- in between screwing other blokes.
Some mates and I once did the sums and realised that amongst six of us men, you could combine any two of our salaries and it still wouldn't match Ryan's. He's a grader operator and he's exceptionally good at his job. He gets flown here, there and everywhere. Oftentimes he tries to turn work down, because Georgie's thrown a crumb his way and he wants to see if there's more on offer, and when that happens, the rate of pay he's offered increases. In a sick way, the stupid little bitch has probably been partly responsible for his outrageous income.
Because Georgie likes nice things, and she also enjoys the fun and drama of stringing Ryan along, she'll play hot and cold. In between, as mentioned earlier, she dates other men. Then she rings him to tell him.
No, I don't understand why he puts up with it. Trust me, none of us do. Nor do we understand why he wants to marry her, because he's actually had other girlfriends, girlfriends that are prettier, nicer and better at keeping their legs closed than Georgie, and yet Georgie still captivates him.
Tiredness had almost overtaken me, and I was on the cusp of sleep when my two room mates decided to come inside. I kept my eyes shut. Do you ever know what's about to happen, and just sit there, praying it won't, even thought you know it will?
My room mates switched the light out and Georgie undressed. I knew that's what was doing, even though I didn't turn around, because Ryan was imploring her not to, telling her that I might wake up and see them.
'He'd probably enjoy seeing me naked,' Georgie giggled.
I didn't correct her.
'Just get into bed,' Ryan replied gruffly. 'I've missed you.'
It was like porn, only bad. It made me think of my teen years, when my father, who was single, decided I was old enough to understand sex and sexual desire, and started bringing his pick-ups home. I saw my first naked woman when she walked out of his bedroom and into the bathroom, not knowing I was at home. That alone would have been awkward enough, but I grew up in a country town and I knew who the woman was; the recently divorced mother of one of my school mates.
The bed creaked as Georgie climbed in alongside Ryan. They started to kiss, and I didn't need to look to know he was running his hands over her body, traversing paths he'd crossed a thousand times before, squeezing her flesh and pinching her nipples.
He barely made a sound, but it was the changes in his breathing and the gentle rustling of sheets that told me things were progressing. They broke apart and I heard Ryan undress himself. His clothing was thrown onto the floor, before he returned his attentions to Georgie. There was more kissing and fondling, and I could already pick up a change in the scent and humidity of the room.
'Lie on your back,' Georgie whispered.
She was quiet, but so was the night. Ryan rolled over. The sheets shifted, and I heard Georgie settle herself between his legs. She was going to blow him.
My cock was throbbing. I didn't want Georgie, but I wanted someone. I wanted sex. I was facing away from the couple, and I opened my eyes and stared at the wall, wondering how it had come to this, wondering how I was widowed and sharing a country motel room with an old friend who was getting his dick sucked by a woman he should have told to fuck off years ago.
It went on an eternity. Blow jobs have a sound to them. There is the wetness of spittle, the sliding of hands, and the quiet curse and groans of the man who's enjoying a hot mouth and a smooth hand working his erection. I couldn't ignore it. I wished I could, but I couldn't.
'Wait, wait, that's enough,' Ryan muttered. 'That's enough. Get on top of me.'
'I'm so horny. I want to come so badly.'
'I love you. I want you to come, too. Get on, princess, and fuck me.'
Fuck, I wanted what Ryan was getting, albeit from someone -- anyone -- other than Georgie. I wanted a woman to suck my dick, tell me she wanted to come, and to screw me. The motel room was tiny, and I thought I could pick up the scent of Georgie's pussy. It had been a damn long time since I'd had my head between a woman's legs, but I've always had a good sense of smell, and I was confident of what I was smelling.
It wasn't that I enjoyed listening to them fuck, it was simply some bizarre trick of nature that listening to sex made me want it for myself. After they'd finished, I'd probably go to the bathroom and finish myself off.
Georgie mounted Ryan. She moaned loudly as she eased him inside her, and I tried to imagine she was anyone but who she actually was, so I could feel less shithouse about having a hard on.
'Shhh,' Ryan warned her. 'You'll wake him up.'
'He's already awake.'
I froze. For a few seconds I didn't move. I could feel the weight of their gaze upon me, as they paused, mid coitus, to either confirm or discard Georgie's suspicions.
I remembered they were looking at me, and if I wanted to keep up the charade, I needed to breathe. I tried to inhale and exhale in the slow and steady rhythm of someone who was fast asleep.
'Neal,' Ryan hissed.
I ignored him.
'Neal,' Georgie cooed. 'Neal, I'm fucking Ryan. I'm...'
She broke off as Ryan clasped a hand over her face.
'Cut it out,' Ryan ordered. 'If you wake him up, you won't get to come.'
'If I wake him up,
he
might give me an orgasm,' she teased.
Ryan's voice was thick with irritation and hurt. 'That's not a joke, George. Come on, just fuck me. Kiss me. Just for once in your damn life pretend I mean something to you.'
My eyes clamped shut. Jesus Christ.
'You know I love you,' Georgie told him.
