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It was Henry David Thoreau, in Walden, who remarked, “The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation.” This statement appears to be just as true today as it was then. Perhaps it is even more valid today, considering the pressure and frequent monotony of modern society.
The majority of today’s men and women live in an overcrowded, competitive, noisy world. Most are put into slots and walk on a treadmill — going to boring jobs, living in carbon-copy houses, socializing with the same people. Their desperation is reflected in the rising rate of divorce, alcoholism, drug addiction, and at times frighteningly released through violent and seemingly unmotivated crime.
The fictional characters in MOTEL PEEPER are desperate people, like their real-life counterparts. Bored, frustrated, unhappy, they seize at the first opportunity for release. In their need, they cast aside morals and scruples, determined to live only for the moment, to grab for pleasure before it is taken away.
MOTEL PEEPER is a novel about the quiet desperation in so many of us — and the extremes to which it may drive us.
Hiram Shingles watched Wednesday Mallory getting ass-fucked for the fourth night in a row. He liked to watch Wednesday get ass-fucked; because ass-fucking was considered so perverted in the town of Tweedy, just as it was considered blase in Des Moines, and passable in Tucumcari and recreation in Sun City.
Yessireee, watching Wednesday Mallory getting ass-fucked was something special.
For one thing, Wednesday Mallory, like her asshole, was very sexy. She was one of the sexiest chicks in Tweedy. Everyone knew she reeked of sex because almost everyone in Tweedy had a nose and it was so easy to know when Wednesday had just passed them by on the streets or when she had been loitering on the corner of Baptist Avenue and Lutheran Boulevard because of the perfume she wore, if perfume can be worn, that is.
Nevertheless, the perfume she wore was something called Loins. Which came in a prick-shaped decanter bottle and had a spray attachment on the end. So that with one pinch of the testicle-like bulb, Wednesday could dab Loins behind her ears, on the pulsing parts of her neck, around the nipples, in the navel, on the clit, behind the knees and between the toes — just about any place that pulsated with passion on a woman’s body, which usually was everywhere except the pupils.