So in light of this most romantic holiday, I thought I'd tone it down a bit.
Following content not suitable for readers under 16.
I wipe my fingers clean on my jeans as I sit back on my heels, looking over the sprawled man on the well-used mattress. The tacky décor, fading with cigarette smoke and age, the bolted down lamp to the bolted-down night stand, and the general atmosphere certainly show that I am not in my own cold bed at home, but instead frequenting a cheap motel room two blocks away.
The man looks at home on the mattress, his breathing slowing down as the euphoric high drains. I can see the way his muscles are relaxing under his bared skin, his breath rancid with alcohol and other scents I would rather not dwell on. I clean us off, leaving the washcloth and hand towel on the bathroom floor as I quickly shower. Back in the clothes I arrived in, I leave the money on the secured end table and leave him there. There are no pleasantries to exchange, no post-coital holding or bonding. I don’t even know his name.
And that’s how it should be. I don’t need any more than that.