Classified Ads, Hot Wife & No Cash For Burgers and Fries

It was a dull Saturday afternoon in Cleveland, especially since our TV had been stolen by the crackheads who lived next door. Man, they didn't have the decency to shut their curtains to conceal the newly plundered booty. Without an idiot box, I was forced to find an alternative source of entertainment. I thumbed through the classifieds, going past the garage sales, cars, heavy equipment and whatnot, I came to the "Adult" section. I grew silent, which Shelly noticed.

"Hey, what are you looking at now?" Shell inquired.

"Checking out these escort ads," I replied dryly.

"Oh yeah? Anything good? I need to get laid, you know."

"Don’t we all, but you ain’t got the cash for these broads – It’s like $250 bucks for an hour of full service."

"Damn that’s expensive… I could do $125 – tops" he said like an agent negotiating a contract.

"Man, that would be your whole unemployment check and some food stamps," I said, trying to impose some sort of financial reality. His gonads were in the driver's seat and he wasn't listening to my advice.

"It would be worth it…" he said with his eyes trailing off into the corner of the room. "Hell, I could go back to work cleaning toilets to get banged on a regular basis. Tell me what it says in there. Don't leave me to my pathetic imagination, come on!"

As reading aloud the ads came to life -- hot blonde this, sexy brunette that, and all sorts of weird sexual variations – fat ones, pregnant ones, ones that will let you whip them, others that will whip you. All too fucking expensive for two unemployed guys, but add college-educated to the algorithm and there’s bound to be a scheme cooking. Still, I figured, I didn’t need to pay for it, because I was in good shape for a lay-a-bout in his late thirties. Shell on the other hand was losing most of his hair and had a pot belly.

"Whoa, shit… I think I got one for you Shell!" I announced loudly, sitting up in the old chair – the armrest was held together by electric tape.

"What, what…" he eagerly returned like a kid waiting for a Christmas present.

"’Hot wife: 24, 5’2, 105 lbs, green eyes, long blonde hair, C-cup breasts, will do you for $100 but hubby watches.’"

Shell stood up and danced. "We’re gonna get laid!!! We’re gonna get laid by the hot wife… I got 90 bucks. Can I P-L-E-A-S-E borrow a ten spot? Oh and a ride down there, too? I'll pay you back next week when my unemployment check comes in... I know, I know... I'm a lousy, broke Jew. Don't play the Catholic martyr bit... Help old Shelly boy get laid."

Fine, I thought, he's helped me when I needed some brews and was short. But part of the deal was that I get to tag along and see this chick. I picked up the phone to arrange the seedy rendezvous. A gruff, hillbilly male voice answered.

"Hell-low…Hell-low…"

"Y-e-a-h…" I said, drawing out the word like a southerner. "Do you have an ad in the paper?"

"Y-e-a-h, we do," he said proudly. "Just like it reads. No bullshit. You can fuck her, but I stay in the room so there ain’t no funny business."

"Uh huh," I said as Shell leaned his head near the receiver to listen in on the conversation. "Well, my buddy wants to meet her, and I might come along -- so there’s no funny business either."

"H’ail, do what you want… We’re out here in Copley," he explained, sounding like even more of a hick.

Riding for about nearly 50 minutes to this motel outside Cleveland didn’t faze me in the least. Being silly, I keep repeating: "We’re out here in Copley…".

Overly anxious, Shelly could give a shit about anything other than fucking. A vision quest, he was "on a mission from God" like the old Blues Brothers movie. Cool air whipped through the window of my old blue Chevy Nova – a car with no less than 100,000 miles on the road – and Bob Seger’s "Old Time Rock’n’Roll was dripping out of the speakers." What a great spirit Shell had about life. I joined him with some out-of-tune harmonies on the refrains.

We pulled into the parking lot. Shell needed no encouragement and nearly lunged out of the car; I stepped quickly to keep pace. We knocked on the motel room door, room 3 to be exact. Talk about an entrance, this 6-foot-5 Hercules dude with a bald head and cigarette dangling from his lips answered the door. He loomed over both of us. Squinting his eyes, the guy checked us out and then waved us inside. I didn’t see a hot wife and asked what gives? No reply... We all sat down, and he asked us which one of us was going to fuck her. Shell raised his hand like a kid at school. Clay, as he called himself, asked for the money, which Shell was all too quick to fork over.

"No… no… no…" I said lifting my hands in protest. I was always suspicious and I needed to see the wife before any money would be shown. "Let the man see the goods first," I said firming up my voice to let him know we weren’t dicking around.

"Baby Rhonda, come out here and show these guys how good you look."

Help me Rhonda yeah… She strutted out of the bathroom, ass naked save for a little white towel. Man, she looked good, precisely as the ad said.

"You want her now," Clay asked the lusty Shell.

"Fuck yeah!" he said, shoving the money at Clay and dropping his drawers.

Like a wilder beast, Shell pounced on the petite love bunny. He forgot to take off his tee shirt and black socks. I sat there cracking up as he yanked the towel off of her and tackled her on the bed.

"You’re an ornery one," she said playfully.

Shell lifted her legs straight up in the air, and he proceeded to fiercely pump away. He was too damned horny to worry about foreplay. Clay sat by my side. He eyed the situation like a referee at a boxing match, watching to make sure every blow was above the belt.

Guffawing, I could barely look at the spectacle and almost pissed my pants when Shell asked Rhonda: "Who’s your daddy?" Shell turned Rhonda on her stomach and smacked her ass. He yelped like an Apache warrior. Shell was a man possessed. He rammed her doggie style. The orchestra: Loud creaks from wont out bed springs…The performers: the hooker and Shelly…

Man, it just picked up from there...

Oh my god…

Creak…

Fuck me, harder, harder…

Creak, creak, creak…

Oh god yes, I’m cumming…

Creak, creak…

The ride home seemed a to last forever and both of use were getting really hungry. Shell kept saying what a great fuck she was, and that I should have splurged for one, too. While Shell was in hard-on, sweet pussy reminisce, all I could think about was that damned bed’s peculiar sound and that I would have to spring for his burger and fries.