Jaguar for Sale by Misti Rainwater-Lites

He fucked her hard from 11:11 p.m. to 12:17 a.m. It was the damn Via­gra. After he came on her tits he rolled over, fell asleep, snored like a god­damn bliz­zard or tor­na­do or old school wood­en roller coast­er. He snored like a sat­ed old man with crusty nasal pas­sages, that's what he snored like. She ran a hot bath, poured in some freesia bub­ble bath, closed her eyes as she soaked, thought about what she need­ed from Fam­i­ly Dol­lar. Cin­na­mon can­dle. Paper plates. Plas­tic spoons. Instant cof­fee. Mus­tard. Hot dog buns. Roach spray. Cough drops. Hair dye. Tweez­ers. Fuck­ing god, the man had a meaty penis. Long and thick, a real ana­con­da. She had sucked on it a cou­ple of times. “Don't stroke. Just suck,” he had instruct­ed the first time. She was a quick learner.

At 5:11 a.m. his alarm went off. She nev­er asked him why he set his alarm for 5:11 rather than 5:00 or 5:15. The man had his quirks. He only watched tele­vi­sion with the sound down. He liked to make the char­ac­ters say ridicu­lous things. One night they were watch­ing a black and white Bette Davis movie. She cracked up laugh­ing lis­ten­ing to him speak for Bette Davis and the lead actor. He gave Bette Davis a British accent and the lead actor a Texas accent.

You are real­ly test­ing your lim­it with me, sir. I insist that you refrain from piss­ing in my mouth.”

Oh hell, dar­lin', I thought my piss made you horny.”

It does not make me horny, as you say. It makes me lose all respect for you. It's loath­some behav­ior and I tell you it must cease.”

Come on, but­ter­cup. Piss is packed with protein.”

I don't give a good god­damn what it's packed with. I don't want it in my mouth. Put it in the loo where it belongs or else pack your things and find a new place to hang your hat.”

Shit. You're cute when you play hard­ball, baby doll.”

For break­fast she had six choco­late donuts and a glass of skim milk. She watched “Price is Right” with the sound turned up. She liked to hear the stu­pid cheer­ing. She enjoyed lis­ten­ing to the wheel spin. Her phone rang. She flipped it open.


Becky, this is your mama. Why haven't you called?”

I haven't had much to talk about. No news to report. I'm not preg­nant, I don't have can­cer and I still haven't won the lottery.”

Your sis­ter just bought a new house in Muskogee.”

Well that's won­der­ful. I thought she was in Tulsa.”

Ger­ald got trans­ferred to Musko­gee. They got a pool in the back­yard. Five bed­rooms. Three bath­rooms. And she's preg­nant again. Baby's due on July 1st.”

Damn. Ain't two kids enough?”

You should be hap­py for your sis­ter, Becky. You're just jeal­ous 'cause you don't even have one.”

Yeah. That's it. I'm jeal­ous. I want to spend my time changin' shit­ty dia­pers and posin' for pic­tures and pre­tendin' to be the god­damn East­er Bun­ny and Tooth Fairy and San­ta Claus.”

Watch that mouth. How's Eddie? He still workin' at that pota­to chip factory?”

Eddie is bet­ter than aver­age. I think it's fair to say he's hap­pi­er than a pig in shit or a lep­rechaun in clover or a Chris­t­ian in a casi­no. Yes. He still works at the pota­to chip fac­to­ry. I still stay home and paint my toe­nails and work cross­word puz­zles. I've got the Amer­i­can dream by its curly tail.”

Must be nice. I'm workin' six­ty hour weeks at the call cen­ter, takin' esca­lat­ed calls from jerks who want to get away with max­in' out their cred­it cards and not makin' pay­ments for six months or longer. I'm still havin' migraines and major depres­sion. But I refuse to lay down and die.”

With an atti­tude like that you can only win.”

Oh when it comes to atti­tude I win the prize. I don't know what the prize is but I win it.”

Mama, I got­ta go. Someone's at the door.”


The Jaguar was Becky's dream car so when she loaded the gro­ceries into her Kia then spot­ted the dark green Jaguar for sale across the park­ing lot she felt like she had been dropped into a deli­cious dream. “$4,500 for a Jaguar? You've got to be fuckin' kid­din' me,” Becky mut­tered. She called the num­ber on the wind­shield right away. A man answered. He sound­ed like George Clooney.

Is this George Clooney?” Becky asked.

No. This is Oliv­er John­son. And who are you?”

Um. I'm nobody impor­tant. My name is Becky Lake. I just hap­pened to notice the Jaguar for sale. What's wrong with it for it to be so cheap?”

My youngest son took the car for a joy ride with­out my per­mis­sion. He drove it from Okla­homa City to Los Ange­les, didn't both­er chang­ing the oil, got stoned at one point and uri­nat­ed in the front seat. You can no longer detect the scent of urine but the car needs a new radi­a­tor and it has too many miles on it for my lik­ing. My son ruined that car for me. I want to get rid of it as quick­ly as pos­si­ble. Would you like to come take a look?”


Becky made chick­en fried steak and mashed pota­toes for din­ner. Dessert was apple cob­bler. She poured hot sug­ary tea into Eddie's ice filled glass then sat down across from him at the scarred square table.

We don't have that much mon­ey. Are you crazy?” Eddie said.

Maybe I can work out a deal with the guy. He sound­ed real­ly anx­ious to get rid of the car. It's bad luck for him. It's a cloud of rain and thun­der hangin' over his head. He doesn't need the reminder in his garage that his son is an idiot.”

You're gonna ask him if you can work some­thin' out and the next thing you know you will be on your knees with his dick in your mouth. No ma'am. You got a car, any­way. You just wan­na show off for your fam­i­ly. Who gives a rat's ass what your mama and sis­ter and cousins think? We don't need sta­tus sym­bols in our life. This is real good, baby. I love the bat­ter. You used the per­fect amount of gar­lic salt and black pep­per. I love you.”

Don't you accuse me of bein' a whore then try to sweet talk me like that. You think I would suck strange dick for a damn car? You apol­o­gize to me right now or I'll toss out the cobbler.”

Don't touch that cob­bler. Look. Baby. I'm sor­ry. You know I don't think you're a whore. But the whole sit­u­a­tion is lop­sided and pos­si­bly dan­ger­ous. And there just ain't no sense in it. We don't have the mon­ey for the damn car. What kind of deal could you work out? Pay him off in hun­dred dol­lar install­ments? Come on. Get sensible.”

You can go with me. I just want to test dri­ve the thing. Think about it. Nev­er again in this life­time will we get the chance to dri­ve a Jaguar. Doesn't that turn you on at least a little?”

The wind turns me on. Every­thing turns me on. But I could care less about dri­vin' a car I can­not afford to buy. I'd rather turn on some Con­way Twit­ty and screw you. Time is pre­cious. Let's try not to slaugh­ter it senselessly.”

That night they fucked in the usu­al way. Eddie on top. No words, just Becky's moans and whim­pers. Becky imag­ined her­self fuck­ing George Clooney on the heat­ed hood of the Jaguar. Becky won­dered what kind of penis George Clooney had. She won­dered if he took Via­gra. Becky squeezed her eyes shut tight and clenched Eddie's dick with her pussy mus­cles. She came with a shriek. She dug her long orange nails into Eddie's sweaty ass as she came. She glanced at the clock. It was 11:49 p.m.


ararMisti Rain­wa­ter-Lites is the cre­ator of sev­er­al mess­es, most of them in book form. Bull­shit Rodeo, a nov­el, will be avail­able from Epic Rites Press in July 2013. Fol­low Misti's spo­radic mad­ness at http://don­deestaeld­is­cochu­pacabra.blogspot​.com

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