New sample! From Dumpsterotica: A Hole in One

The third book in my Dumpsterotica series is underway. Here's a taste!

What is that man thinking? Marcia wondered, eyeing her husband as he pulled into the driveway. Every window was open on his car, and she could hear the air conditioner running. A whiff of White Linen perfume wafted past her. She hadn't smelled that in years, not since their college graduation, when her mother had informed her that Estee Lauder was passe. No scent was the new scent, so she'd gone bare ever since.

Joe scurried out of his car as if she'd shouted “Free blow jobs, Honey!”

As he shut the door, a new wave of odor hit her.

White Linen and death.

Death covered in Hairy Buffalo vomit.

She remembered that moment, his junior year, a few months into dating, when he hadn't answered emails and she heard the rumors. Death had struck the Delta Upsilon Mu house, and it wasn't pretty.

Her Mama hadn't raised a wimp, so she decided to go make sure he was okay.

Maybe that's why she was attracted to fucking in dumpsters, because the Delta Ups were forever known, after that day, as the Chuck Ups.

All she could think to do, especially after seeing mold growing on the frat president's puke-covered shirt (which he was still wearing), was to take Joe outside, hose him down with a garden sprayer, strip him naked in the front lawn and roll him in a picnic blanket from her trunk.

Remarkably, the naked man on the front lawn went unnoticed, such was the Delta Ups reputation. What did make the rumor mill, though, was Marcia's fortitude in rescuing Joe. No other girlfriend or fiance had done so. She was known, for the rest of the year, as Iron Maiden.

She snuck him in her dorm and he lived in a small closet for two days. Her roommate, a women's shot put record holder, lent him clothes. His recovery involved Wonder Bread, diet Dr. Pepper, and a steady supply of Flintstones Vitamins, administered four times a day.

What on earth was that man doing?

Sometimes she wondered why she'd saved him.

He opened the hatch of his Prius and began throwing bag after bag into the driveway dumpster, thin streams of liquid splaying from the cornered bottoms of shiny black trash bags, the liquid arching and falling in spatter patterns, like blood at a violent crime scene.

Oh, someone was about to get hurt, all right. She was going to kill him.