Banana Slug

Gabby sat alone at the bar, swirling her drink, rattled by the conversation with Charlie. He had held up a mirror to her, and what she saw reflected back filled her with a skin-prickling shame. But it was his fault for reading her diary, her private diary. Fuck him; he was a sanctimonious, untrustworthy shit. She would have told him everything had he just asked. She knocked back her drink and signaled the bartender for another.

A man took the seat next to her at the bar, despite every other seat being empty. There was something attractive about him in a roughneck sort of way. His skin was like a saddle, cracked and faded from being left out too long in the sun. Smiling at her with a mouthful of candy-corn-colored teeth, she watched his dirty hands lift a beer to his chapped lips. Cologne did little to mask his strong scent of diesel and grouper, but she didn’t mind a bit of filth. He was dressed like most of the fishermen around here, in a long-sleeve T-shirt, topsiders, a soiled red bandana, and Revo sunglasses hanging from a neoprene cord around his neck. Tucking a strand of scraggly blond hair behind his ear, he clinked her glass and said, “Cheers.”

“To Charlie.”
“Whatever.”
“Room 401,” she said, getting up to leave.

On the elevator back to Gabby’s room, he kissed the back of her neck and slid his hands up her shirt while she concentrated on remembering his name. Was it Nick or Mick? They tumbled onto her bed. He told her to keep the lights on, cause ain’t she one of the prettiest girls he’d ever seen.

“Do you not see many pretty girls around here?” she giggled while they fumbled with each other’s buttons and zippers.

“Not where I’ve been for the past five years, two months, and three days,” he said as they lay naked on the bed.

She abruptly stopped giggling.

He peeled his flaccid penis off his leg and tried to roll a condom over it. It reminded her of a banana slug she had seen on a nature documentary.

“Might’a drunk one too many beers,” he drawled.

Mick—or was it Nick—gave up fighting with the condom. He took Gabby’s hand, turned it over, and spat in it. Then he guided her hand around his penis. Her mind wandered as she gave him a vigorous hand-job.

She should have known something was up when Charlie had insisted on separate rooms. She switched hands. So, in this way, it was his fault she was hooking up with—what the fuck was his name?

“Squeeze my dick harder,” he moaned.

His penis sloshed in her palm like one of those toy water snakes. If she squeezed any harder, she feared it would burst.

“I’m getting a cramp,” she said, shaking out her hand.

“Put your finger in my asshole.”
Words Charlie would never say to her.

Hesitating, he did it for her. He let out a high-pitched “Yeah!” as Gabby finger-fucked his anus.

“You ain’t doing it right,” he complained.
“Then use your own finger!” 

“C’mon.”

Sighing, she stuck another finger up his asshole, thinking that this would be the perfect moment for Charlie to walk in.  Mercifully, she felt his banana slug contract and secrete a few drops of hot mucus into her palm. She wiped it off on the bedspread.

“Your turn,” he shouted like a carnival barker. “Mick wants some pie.”

So his name was Mick, not Nick. She spread her legs, and he went down on her like he was bobbing for apples. Gabby started laughing; it was the worst oral she’d ever received, worse than Charlie. He mistook her laughter for pleasure and increased his frantic bobbing. She faked an orgasm just to get him to stop.

Mick wanted to cuddle. It had been so long since he’d been with a woman—five years, two months, and three days to be exact. So what if her pussy welcomed him back into the general population? Everyone deserves a second chance—maybe even Charlie. At least that’s what she told herself, because she had to tell herself something to get up the next day and the day after that. He did not spend the night.