She can feel their hunger and fire in their eyes. They always look the same, crumpled sbirt coupled with that desperate look.
Words were not needed but they liked to speak, speak like it was the first time, she always listened, it was always the same thing, 'my wife doesn't understand me, she doesn't know the stress I'm under, after the children it seemed like she has no time for me, I need affection too'.
And there it was, the thing they craved, she knew what they needed, the act itself meant nothing to her, it was just sex, but she needed that closeness, the feeling of a warm body, she never thought of the wife sleeping so soundly while not knowing her husband was in her bed, moaning and writhing below her.
She liked the control, it was like the tables had turned, it was her doing the taking.
Many years she had walked the streets of her mind replaying the past, the volume always played up, faces and hands taking her last vestiges of sanity.
She always found them, desperation echoing in their eyes, their lives so mundane filled with bills and school runs, they needed a little fantasy, something to take the edge off.
Some of them even cried afterwards, so apologetic, the sorry's clinging onto the dirty walls of the motel, she left them there with their crumpled shirts and that desperate look.
She walked out into the night air knowing there would many more with that hunger and that desperate look.
