The most wonderful time of the year found me in bed with a man I didn’t even know.
For the fifth time this December.
I had forgotten this stranger’s name the moment he had told me when I had met him during my holiday season shopping at the mall. But it didn’t matter because I didn’t give a flying fuck.
I didn’t care about anything except how disgustingly satisfied I felt as he lay snoring next to me in this dirty motel room with the cheap siesta rate. But the total and complete satisfaction that burned in me had nothing to do with the lousy sex I had let him give me.
I opened my eyes and inhaled the stale scent of us that lingered in the air and looked at our wrinkled clothes that lay on the floor next to the bed. When I noticed that the snow had begun to fall harder outside the motel window, I quietly slipped out of bed, grabbed my clothes and padded into the crusty-looking bathroom to get dressed. Splashing cold water on my face before pulling on my clothes, I calculated that I had at least three more to go before I stopped.
Or was it two?
Before confronting my husband, I wanted to match the number of names scribbled in the little black notebook I had found deep in his car’s glove compartment behind an almost empty box of Trojans and a pair of sticky pink handcuffs.
Yeah, Merry Christmas Baby.
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