Back Door Lover
Ed. Debra Hyde
Publisher & Category:
Used to be, a back door lover was a man sneaking an affair with a married woman and a staple character in Blues music. Not anymore. Now, it’s code for anal sex and you know what? Anyone can bend over. Boyfriends, girlfriends, wives, husbands, straight or queer, it doesn’t matter. And Back Door Lover presents it all.
The most revered shrines are those long abandoned, where little remains beyond crumbling ruins wreathed in nature’s leafy green. Only the rustling of trees, grass swaying in the wind, and birdsong disturbed its silence. There, a middle-aged man followed a long abandoned walkway to the shrine of his youth, shaded by moss-draped live oaks, beneath an arch of huge southern live oaks from which hung draperies of Spanish moss.
But the Meridian Motel, once so characteristic in colonial Spanish-style with its wooden verandah and timber pillars, was a charred ruin. Its lusty companion, the Storyville Saloon, famous for its wild women and a well-beaten path to the Merdian Motel, stood quietly abandoned as well.
The man stood near the tall grass at the cobblestone courtyard entrance, the sun beating down on him. The gutted office and the motel rooms, many without doors, faced the courtyard like a ghostly court awaiting the return of a worshipper. He limped across the loose cobblestones to a corner room. Its marred door hung precariously from rusted hinges and leaves layered its floor. Inside, a shaft of sunlight from a gaping hole in the ceiling illuminated its Holy of Holies: a large bed, void of all but its bedsprings.
He leaned against the door jam and stared at the bedsprings, a rush of memories flooding him. Had decades really passed since he last visited the Meridian Motel? Was he once really so young? Was this all that remained of that time?
When his knees weren’t shaking, Tyler Gordon walked on air as he and a buxom woman followed the flagstone path from the noisy Storyville Saloon to the quieter Meridian Motel. The light of the flashing neon sign, the body-shaking throb of music, and the wild laughter of inebriated customers faded into the moonlit darkness, replaced by the solitary click of high heels. Flashing green and yellow fireflies fluttered through the warm, humid spring night.
“You didn’t ask how much,” Kimmi ‘Without-A-Last-Name’ said, lighting a cigarette. Her long red fingernails glimmered in the flare of the lighter.
Kimmi was in her late twenties, a couple inches taller than Tyler with shoulder-length black hair parted in the middle with neatly trimmed bangs. Small breasted and a little wide in the hips…
The Meridian Motel