They Call Me Crazy

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Authors: Kelly Stone Gamble
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peace, and Benny likes to watch the girls.
    I look from his hand on my arm to his face. “What do you want?” He’s sweating, and even in the dimness of the bar, I can tell that his face has gone pale.
    His eyes dart between Tina and me. “I think you better come with me. We got a problem.”
    The way he says it, trying to control his voice but still unable to contain a note of urgency, makes me pause. Somehow, I know “we,” as in Benny and me, aren’t really the ones with the problem.

Chapter Eight
    Maryanne
    “W hatcha thinking about, honey?” My date—I think his name is Bob—squeezes my knee with his right hand while steering with the other.
    Normally, I don’t get in the car with the men I meet. But I was so upset, or maybe worried, about Roland that I parked my car right under the neon vacancy sign at the Easy Six Motel and walked to the nearest bar, knowing I would be finding my way back soon.
    Sliding my hand into his lap, I fake a smile. “What do you think?” So easy. Men are more predictable than the weather, and you don’t need an almanac to figure them out.
    As I was leaving town, I drove by the strip joint and even cruised through the parking lot: no blue truck. I knew with all the extra money Roland’s been coming up with that he had to have his nose in something, and I was worried. I couldn’t just sit home and wait for him to show or for Clay to call, and there was only one thing that would take my mind off Roland.
    I enjoy sex. I don’t know any other way to say it. And why shouldn’t I? After all, I am a woman, and a woman without a strong sex drive is nothing more than a rug. I am no rug. I am a strong, intelligent, beautiful woman, and sex is my thing.
    Not making love. Making love is something completely different. Making love is about both people pleasing each other, and although I once enjoyed that, I don’t worry about my partner anymore. I’m sure that’s why I’ve never married. The idea of having to give pleasure to someone else when I go to bed is not something I think of fondly. Sex is about me . I get mine.
    “Right here, Bob.” I point toward the rundown, one-story motel: peeling blue paint, an incandescent yellow light over each door, a gravel parking lot. It reminds me of the Bates Motel.
    “It’s Bill.” He pulls into the lot.
    Right. Bob, Bill, Bozo. Whatever.
    Not that my partners aren’t pleased. I have years of experience, and I know what to do to make them happy. Assuming they’re older than thirty and younger than sixty-five, it’s easy. I take what I want, then I pull a chorus of moans and sighs from my arsenal, move my body in just the right way, squeeze at just the right time, and they get theirs, too. But when I’m ready. On my time.
    Some people in town are aware of my extracurricular activities, but they don’t say anything about it. After all, I’m the fifth-grade teacher, and it wouldn’t do to gossip about the fact that I sleep with any Hard Harry that I can find. Also, I keep it out of town. For the most part, anyway.
    As we walk to Room 104, I get a decent view of my date under the glow of cheap lights. Bozo says he’s forty, so he’s closer to fifty. He says he’s divorced, too. I doubt it. He claims to be the manager of a copy shop, so my guess is he’s a clerk. He’s balding on top but does a swooping comb-over from the left to try to hide it. He reeks of Aqua Velva. He’s trim but not skinny and a few inches taller than I am.
    He’ll do.
    I try to choose wisely. I don’t care for men who are too big in stature. I like a nice medium build, preferably muscular. I also don’t screw drunks. Even though I do meet a lot of men in bars, I try to get to them before they’ve had too much. A few drinks and they think they’re in charge, but too many and they just get stupid. They have to be able to last, at least as long as I’m willing to.
    Not too dark, not too light, not too big, not too small. I want that average Joe, the one

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