Cash, not credit, had paid for a room in a dingy motel converted from a church. Bruno’s new apartment wasn’t ready, and this place was damn near giving booze away to attract tenants.
Stripping naked, he lay down.
It was too quiet, and quiet would make him dry out like dehydrated figs, ending all reason to his move up here after driving through ten states. To kill this silent ringing, the TV was turned on, and Bruno wasn’t surprised to find only two channels: the weather, and a porno.
He sighed, and settled on the adult film.
Watching the dead fucking fueled such deep desire to hold them both and heal. The woman’s tits sagged like moldy pumpkins and felt familiar to his insides, as did the man thrusting away forlornly, angrily.
Still, his cock responded. It always did. It always, always did.
Dim light from the TV laced with static cast a shadow on his 8 inches, and it was a full 8 inches, even on a cold day. Even when he hated it so much he couldn’t look at it, it was a full, god damned 8 inches.