Tempest in a Sweet Tea Pot


He favored Brenda Lee and honky-tonk women

who did lap dances in a southern style. With grit

and a twang he bounced his knees

to tunes such as, “I’d Walk a Mile

Fer Yer Smile” while contemplating

tonight’s lovin and tomorrow’s

job over a glass of Jack Daniels

and bottle of make believe.


He’d bang his shot glass on the

bar, nod his head and grind his pelvis

under Cherie, who insisted she

was born in Paris, France

to missionary parents who thought

the Parisians had made too many deals with

the devil. Paris? Paris, Kentucky,

he thought.


But he didn’t care. He enjoyed

the warmth of

her thighs and the suction-like feeling where

her thoughts joined his. Her skin

was softer than mare’s milk

and she didn’t ask about the rent or the

ring on his left hand. She talked

like sweet tea, that syrupy mix

of hospitality and sexual yearning

that covers men like kudzu, dripping

with glances from fluttering eyelids. She

embraced him with hands that quietly

found their way to where their thoughts met


He didn’t want to rise to put another quarter in the jukebox

fearing his getting up would destroy their rhythm.

So they moved in silence. Grinding. Rubbing. Dancing on

dreams until each of their needs was satisfied and the bowl

of cocktail peanuts was empty.

6 Comments Add yours

  1. Anonymous says:

    This is my favorite type of painting that you do! I remember when you used to send me your latest with a perfect story! Sandy B

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Susan DeBow says:

      That was a while ago, was’t it? I am glad to hear from you. I love the colors in this painting. Thanks, Sandy


  2. Brenda Schmidt says:

    Love it

    Liked by 1 person

  3. Brenda Schmidt says:

    Love it so fun

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Susan DeBow says:

      Thank you, Brenda


    2. Susan DeBow says:

      Thanks, Brenda!


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