Chapter1
You have to be wondering how I ended up with Quetzalcoatl
living in my apartment. I mean hell, if I were you I’d probably be going nuts
trying to figure that out. It’s a long story and it has a lot to do with the
person I killed. The thing is, I’m not quite ready to tell that story yet. I need to tell you some other
things first.
When things quiet down in the afternoon Firth approaches
me with a serious look. We need to talk in my office, he says. I’ve been
expecting it. I figure that this is the come to Jesus speech. I’m not gonna be
fired. Not yet, anyway. I follow him to his office and he motions at the chair
in front of his desk. I fall into the chair and wait.
We have a problem he starts. You’ve fallen into
a pattern of tardiness that is simply unacceptable.
I know. It’s been bad lately, but I’m going to do better.
I promise. Sucking up to this loser
makes my gut boil. But I have to do it. There’s just really no choice. I need
this job for now.
I’m putting you on sixty days probation. If you are
more than five minutes late on any day in that period I’ll have to let you go.
I don’t want to, but you aren’t giving me any choice here.
I understand. I make a few apologetic sounds and
get back out to the floor. I want to duck out a few minutes early so I can grab
some dinner and a shower before I go out tonight. I still have the stink of sex
and beer and bar smoke on me.
Toward the end of the day I almost get in an argument
with a customer who is convinced that Helmut Berger was in Dirty Mary, Crazy
Larry. I finally manage to just ignore the fucker and move on. That kind of
stupidity almost breaks my heart.
You ever think about that? We say things like: it breaks
my heart; or I have to follow my heart; or I have a heart ache. What kind of
horse shit is that? The heart is a muscle. It pumps blood through our
circulatory systems and transports oxygen. The brain is the seat of love and
hate and pain. If I wanted to get really specific I'd point out that emotions
are a function of the limbic system, which is a part of the neo-mammalian
brain. We've got it and reptiles don't. Fish don't either. Birds may have a
limbic system, but it doesn't seem that they feel real emotions anyway. I guess
their version of that organ is less evolved than mine.
Anyway, I manage to bail about fifteen minutes before the
end of my shift and head back to my shit hole apartment. On the way this little
car, more a malformed cracker box on wheels than an automobile, pulls alongside
me and a young Japanese guy cranes his head out the window.
What day it is? He asks.
Monday, I think.
Is Monday?
Yeah. All damn day.
I not know what wrong with me. Monday?
That's right.
He laughs and
drives away.
When I come
through the door Quetzalcoatl is fluttering about the room, obviously excited
to see me. I swear, sometimes I expect him to lick my face like a dog with his
little forked tongue. He’s so fucking needy. You just don’t expect that from a
god. I sort of shovel him aside with my shoe. He balls up in an angry coil and
fixes me with his lidless eyes for a moment before flapslithering off to sulk
in the bedroom.
I find some leftover Chinese in the 'fridge and toss it
in the microwave. Microwaves can alter your DNA. The whole process gives me the
creeps, but I swallow my fear and grab the bowl of noodles. I wish I had some
soy sauce, but decide that simple salt will have to do.
I jerk off in the shower. This way I won’t be horny at the
bar. There’s nothing worse than being horny and drunk in a room full of slutty
girls. It leads to bad decisions. If you need it badly enough you start to
focus in on the plain looking girls to increase your chance of success. I hate
doing that. My way is better. I have the confidence to pick out a great looking
chick and really work at it. At least that’s the theory.
It’s a good theory, I suppose. Most nights I still end up
with something less than my first choice. Anyway, I get dressed and go in
search of Quetzal. If I don’t soothe his hurt feelings before I leave I’ll come
home to find something of mine destroyed. It’s happened before. Last time it
was my copy of The Encyclopedia of Film. That really hurt. I paid
seventy bucks for that fucking book.
I find him on the foot of my bed, coiled up as if ready
to strike. I stroke his scales and whisper to him. I try to remind him that
it’s just us. No one will come between us, I promise. He’s my buddy. In
response he curls around my wrist and slithers up my arm to perch across my
shoulders like some weird piece of clothing. He drapes across me and I remember
why I like having him around.
After a while I lift him off my shoulders and lower him
onto my pillow. He seems satisfied. I finish up with a few more soft strokes
along his body, then say goodbye. I think he’s asleep. It’s hard to tell,
though. His eyes never close.
Then I’m out the door and on the street. It’s dark, which
is the way I like it.
I won’t bore you with the details of my walk downtown. I
mean really, who the fuck cares, right? You don’t read a novel to hear about
some schmoe looking over the bums as he passes along a cracked sidewalk. While
we’re getting to my destination I’ll share with you something from a few years
ago.
I was going to school; pretending to be an art major and
trying to convince myself that I was going to get into film school next
semester. For a class in The History of Art I had to go to this gallery and see
a show by some hot new artist that was apparently all the rage in Terre Haut or
some such improbable place. I was wandering around looking at these
incomprehensible paintings with titles like “My Mother’s Vagina” and “Freud’s
Hippocampus” and thinking that this guy was a complete fucktard. Then I came
around a corner and on the wall was this massive canvas. It was like maybe five
feet by eight feet and the entire things was crimson. I mean this angry red
that wanted to bleed off the edges. In the middle was a jagged splotch of black
and in the center of that a single dot of white. There was a diagonal rip
running from the upper left corner to the lower right and the canvas had
started to curl at the edges of the opening. I stood in front of that painting
for a moment wondering what the hell it was supposed to mean. Then I looked at
the little white card next to it to see the title. There was one word there:
I had no idea what that meant, but it was pretty. That
painting just felt so fucking right; so fucking clean and I stood there
starring at it for about twenty minutes. Then I went home to find out what the
fuck Stygiophilia was. It took me a while to track down the meaning. It turned
out that it was a paraphilia. Like Necrophilia or coprophilia. Stygiophilia is
getting sexually excited at the act or thought of going to hell. I realized
that I knew exactly what he meant. I went back to the gallery the next day and
looked at the painting again. Standing there in the gaze of beauty and truth I
thought if Rome’s gonna burn, I’m gonna fiddle. I stopped going to
classes that same day.
Hey, we’re here. I’m standing in front of this bar called
The Downward Spiral. It's supposed to be great. A buddy of mine, this
guy named Stiv (obviously Stiv isn't really his name, it's just what people
call him) says that the place is packed with hot chicks all the time. He also
assures me that about seventy percent of them will fuck anybody who asks. I
figure that's a bunch of shit, knowing Stiv the way I do.
Let me tell you about Stiv: this is his standard rap; he
goes to a bar kind of late, has a few drinks and starts walking up to girls. He
orders the girls by level of attractiveness. The most fuckable woman in the
place is number one; the second most fuckable is number two and so on. He
starts with number one. Stiv walks right up to her and without introduction or
preamble says Wanna fuck?. If she slaps him, laughs, calls him a name or
walks away silently he moves on to number two, then three, four, five, six, seven,
eight, nine, ten and so on until finally some girl says sure and he gets
laid. The weird thing is that it works. This mediocre looking, slightly fat,
scruffy looking perv gets laid almost every night. The even more shocking thing
is that normally the girl who says sure is number fifteen or lower. I
mean, this totally un-do-able guy gets
to fuck fairly hot looking girls most every night. The secret is confidence.
Well, confidence and liquor. Most of these binks are pretty well hammered
before Stiv makes his move. Girls are just as suceptible to beer goggles as
guys are.
I do okay myself. Liquor has a lot to do with my success
as well. The fact that I’m cute doesn’t hurt either.
Anyway, I’m way off the fucking point here. I’ve been
talking all this time and now I’m already inside the bar. The place stinks of
regret and failure and best of all, sex. This is it. The sardine people are
canned and thrumming to the hard fuck rhythm of the sort of dead eyed music
that gets teenage girls wet. I can smell their soaked panties. It smells like
fear and that really works for me. The smell of teenage girl’s sloppy wet cunt
is sweeter than heroin.
I need a drink so badly that I can feel my bones ache.
That happens some times. Need is quite a thing.
There are really only two things that can do it to me now. One is,
obviously, pussy. The other is whisky. There was a time when it was junk. I'm
past that now. Mostly.
I make my way up to the bar. This involves using my body
like a crow bar, pistoning myself in between two sweaty meat sacks and using a
bit of leverage to pry them apart. This means rubbing against far too many men.
I’m not queer. I’d do David Bowie, but otherwise I’m
totally straight. You can be sure of that.
I get to the bar and have a hell of a time getting the
bartender to notice me. He’s too busy chatting up a series of intoxicated
hotties to notice the dangerously thirsty. Finally he looks my way and I hold
up a twenty. He’s too tan and too well sculpted to have any sense whatsoever.
Yeah, he says without any sense of sincerity.
Scotch. The best you have. Rocks. Two of ‘em, I
shout to be heard above the vibration of the room.
The drinks come. I down one in a single gulp. The other
is meant to be savored, I suppose. It’s supposed to last. I can’t afford to
drink too many of these at bar prices (I’ve got a good bottle of Scotch at
home) and I’ll have to buy a few for whomever I decide to move on. Listen to
me, getting all grammatically correct and shit. I’m all Bill Buckley; I mean,
except not an asshole.
Scotch in hand I surge through the crowd. The music has
shifted from total crap to some J-Pop
band that sounds like a bad engrish rip off of George Clinton, except with a
girl singer. It’s almost fun in a campy sort of way; the way Shatner is fun.
The way Hoff is fun. Failure can be hilarious. I guess everything that hurts
can be funny. That's sort of the point, isn't it?
The dance floor is full of healthy, sweaty people moving
to rhythms that they can feel, but probably don't hear. They almost buzz with
sex: real and imagined. I fear that I’m verging on cliché here, so I move
closer to the dance floor and start looking over the girls that don’t already
seem to be attached to someone. What I’m looking for is a group of girls
together. They go out in herds because they think that there’s safety in
numbers. With the support of their friends they figure that they get to be in
control, to choose who they want. Really, though, that backfires on them. By
being in a group they narrow their choices. A crowd is harder to approach than
a girl alone, so most of the guys stay away. The clique of cute chicks is then
left with fewer men to choose from and, even worse, they now have to compete
for the guys who do take a shot. Their natural need to win (and to make their
friends lose) drives each of them to fight for the affections of any man who
approaches. That’s where I come in.
I’m about to try to catch the eyes of a thin brunette in
just such a group when I hear a voice behind me.
You were right.
Huh? as I turn.
About Dawn of the Dead. You were right. It scared my
pants right off. It’s the girl from work. He skirt is much too short and
she has thigh high stockings which leave a lot of bare leg open to view. Her
T-shirt is very tight, and doesn’t cover her stomach. The revealed skin is a
clue to the mystery of the rest of her body. Suddenly it’s a mystery that I
need to solve. Hell, right now I’m Phillip Fucking Marlowe. I need another
drink, a lot of insurance and a vacation. I don’t have a hat or a gun.
Aren’t you a little young to be in a place like this?
I’m thinking that this is the wrong question. It establishes that I am aware of
the fact that she is underage. Still, it’s the only opening I can muster just
now.
Don’t worry about that. She empties a glass filled
with something that looks like Windex and gives me a wink. Get me another
drink.
What do you want?
Something strong. Make it a shot. I’ll wait here for
you. She touches my arm and my heart rate increases.
I make a sound that is supposed to express that idea that
I understand and go to get her the drink she wants. A few minutes later I come
back with two shots of bourbon. Some other guy has already moved in on her.
He’s a tall gangly thing with a trendy hair cut and expensive clothes that are
designed to look cheap. He’s leaning in close to whisper something in her ear
and simultaneously reaching around to give her ass a squeeze. I can see that
she looks bored.
Buddy, fuck off. I put as much authority in my
voice as I can. He swings his head around to look at me.
Yeah, she says, fuck off.
Cunt. With the
single epithet he scowls away to find someone else to hit on. I give her her
drink. She gulps it.
Let’s go, she says.
Go where?
Your place. I wanna get laid.
I take her by
the hand and lead her through the crowd. If I let go she could get lost in here
and I can’t let that happen. Outside she says Where’s your car?
We have to walk. I don’t live far from here.
We start out
and I realize that I have a problem. Quetzal is roaming the apartment. Somehow
I have to get inside without her and put him up. Maybe I can make some excuse
about needing to tidy up before she comes in. I don’t know if that will work
though so I start trying to formulate a backup plan.
Do you have anything to drink at your place?
Yeah. I’m not lying about that either. I mentioned
the Scotch before. It’s a good bottle: twelve year old Island Scotch. It’s
smooth and kind of peaty. That’s not what I’m giving her. First of all, chicks
don’t dig Scotch. I don’t know why. Second of all, it’s too damn expensive to
share. I keep stuff for this sort of situation. There’s eight wine coolers in
the fridge. Plus a bottle of Tequila and a bottle of spiced rum. I’ve got stuff
to mix, too. I can usually keep a girl pretty drunk.
When we get there my plan doesn’t work at all. She will
not be held back. Turns out that I didn’t need to worry. Quetzal is asleep in
the spare room and I just close the door. She asks for a drink and I walk to
the kitchen to mix some spiced run into a glass of coke. When I walk back into
the room she’s standing with her back to me. She’s lifting up the back of her
skirt to reveal that her panties are gone. Without looking away from her round
little ass I see that her thong is wadded on the floor next to her foot. She
looks back over her shoulder at me and licks her lips slowly. Fuck she’s hot.
Don’t you want your drink I ask hoping she’ll say
no.
She lets her skirt drop down over her bottom and turns to
face me. Then she falls back onto the couch and holds out her hand for the
drink. I hand it to her and sit next to her on my ratty couch.
She sips the drink.
So, do you like-
Don’t talk. She
cuts me off then reaches over to take hold of my hand and places it on her bare
thigh. I let my hand rest there a second then start to slide it upward. I do
this cautiously, slowly, with too many adverbs. At first she just lets it
happen, nursing her drink and taking her time. My fingers reach their
destination. My pinkie is touching the far edge of her outer labia and I can
tell that she’s shaved. I hope she’s shaved. What if she’s younger than I
think? Christ fuck shit. Maybe she’s a baby. I stop my hand and say Is your
pussy shaved?
She nods then makes a shoosing sound to quiet me. I take
my hand farther to find the warm opening and she reaches down to stop me. She
pushes my hand back down to the verge of her lips and says Keep it there for
a little while. Wait until I finish my drink.
Now I feel like I’m going to explode. I want to push her
down and fuck her. But I wait while she drinks. This is torture. She’s a sick
genius of some sort. I’m thinking that either she wants me so worked up that I
screw like a monster or that she’s just teasing me and after he drink is gone
she’ll stand up, say goodbye and walk out.
That would probably kill me.
Finally, after what feels like a geological age, she
empties her drink and sets the glass down. For another five years she says or
does nothing. Then she shifts her leg slightly toward me, which almost causes
my hand to slide over her pussy. I don’t let it.
That’s a good boy, she says. With that she lifts
my hand off her and stands. If she says goodbye I’m gonna blow my brains out.
The girl (I don’t think I know her name. Jesus, I haven’t even asked her name)
stands in front of me for a moment. She starts to lift her skirt, gets almost
to the point of revealing what I want to see, then lets go of it. Her hands
move up her torso and come to her small breasts. There they pause, then begin
to rub and massage. I don’t move. At least, I don’t on purpose. My cock is
swelling and moving in my pants, but that is involuntary movement.
She smiles and then turns her back to me. Her feet are
planted wide and she lifts her skirt again, this time high. Her sweet bottom
revealed, she bends forward at the waist. Damn she's bendy. Her face is looking
at me from between her knees and she motions with her finger for me to come to
her. I shake my head to indicate 'no'. She wanted to play games, well I'm good
at games. She's gonna have to come to me. She gives me a scowl, then
straightens up and turns to face me. After closing the distance between us with
a few tight steps she puts her left foot on the couch next to me and pushes her
knee outward to reveal a rather good view of her pussy. She plunges her fingers
in her mouth and sucks them a minute, the begins rubbing those wet fingers
against her equally wet crotch.
Do you want this? Her voice is more panting and
huffing than talking.
I nod.
A minute later we are on the bed; clothes gone. I'm lying
on my back and she's bent over me working my cock up and down with her hand
while she sucks lightly at the tip of it. Suddenly she slides her mouth down
taking all of my length and simultaneously increasing the pressure of the
suction created by the vacuum she has made of her mouth. Without breaking that
seal she pivots her body around to straddle my face. She presses her crotch
down hard and I think that I may suffocate. Then it's better. I've got my nose
free and my tongue deep inside of her. She tastes good: clean. Like flower
scented soap and youth.
She stops sucking me and concentrates on riding my face.
She’s making whoop whoop noises at a
high pitch. She sounds kind of funny. I'm really getting a good rhythm and
think I can get her off soon, but she stops. She climbs off my head and lies
down next to me. I take a minute to survey her form stretched out along the
bed: she is firm and small and light. I'm thinking that she maybe looks younger
than she is.
She gets on top of me and holds my dick in her hand as
she slides herself down over it. She’s tight. I mean really tight. At first we
can’t make it work, I wont fit. She’s tenacious, though, and keeps working at
it. Finally I’m inside her. She uses her knees to push herself up and down my
length for a while. I grab her ass in both hands and squeeze hard; maybe too
hard.
Then, just when I think I’m about to come she stops.
She’s hovering with just the tip of my cock inside her.
Say my name, she says.
This could be bad. I decide to just be honest. I would
if I knew it. You never told me.
You never asked.
She smiles as she says this. I’m relieved.
What’s your name?
Sindee. With two Es.
What? Spell it.
Sin. You know, like this. And dee like the name.
S-I-N-D-E-E. Sindee.
Okay, I say, Sindee.
The instant I do she slides back down me and starts to grind front and back
against me. She’s using me to work her clit and I can already tell that she’s
close.
Put your finger up my butt, she moans. So I do. I
lick it first, then I jam my finger
in her ass. I push it in as far as it will
go and she starts to scream: Jesus fuck me. Fuck me. FUCK ME JESUS. FUCK ME
JESUS. FUCK FUCK FUCK. I have to
admit that that is very goddamned hot. I mean, 'fuck me Jesus' is about the
dirtiest thing I've ever heard any girl moan, yell or scream in bed. Her entire
body starts to shake. She’s not moving voluntarily any more, but all of her
muscles are contracting. Her pussy was only painfully tight before, but now as
each wave passes through her body it feels like my dick is going to be crushed.
Now she’s rolling off me.
If you want to come get on top she says. I do. It
doesn’t take me long; a few slow thrusts followed by a few quick ones and a
couple more slow ones and I’m filling her up with my hot semen. And I’m not
wearing a condom. Fuck. Shit, what the hell was I thinking? I know what I was
thinking: I could smell her cunt and I wanted to feel it. Still, I shouldn’t be
this stupid. I pull out. I look down to watch as I exit her body and see that
the white liquid is already seeping out of her.
I’m on the pill. Don’t worry she says.
Huh?
We didn’t use a rubber, but I’m on the pill.
Oh.
Go to sleep. And don’t touch me while I’m sleeping. I
don’t like that. She’s a bossy little
thing.
I’ve gotta piss.
I don’t care. Just don’t touch me.
I wander off to
the bathroom and piss, as promised. When I come back she’s already asleep. I
climb in next to her and in a few minutes I’m also out.
When I wake up she’s on the couch wearing a pair of my
boxer shorts and nothing else. She’s smoking one of my cigarettes with her left
hand. Her right hand is slowly stroking Quetzal’s back. He’s coiled next to her
and looks dreadfully happy. I swear, if he was a cat he’d be purring.
What’s this? Her voice should have more of a
shocked sound. I mean really, look at this scene. Teenage girl picks up a guy
in a bar, fucks the hell out of him and wakes up to find a mythological god
hanging out in the guy’s apartment. She should be freaking out. But she’s not.
Uh... it’s hard to explain.
Try.
That’s Quetzalcoatl. He’s some sort of South American
God. He’s sorta a pet, I guess.
Okay. You got anything to eat around here?
Check the fridge.
She stands and
walks to the fridge. Quetzal follows her. The little punk has already imprinted
on this little bink. Sindee comes back a minute later with a piece of cheese.
She flops on the couch and starts eating. She offers Quetzal a little piece,
but he doesn’t take it. I could have told her that. He eats meat. And souls.
maybe. I think that I should mean that, but I don’t believe in souls.
I guess this will sound weird considering that I keep a
god as a pet, but I’m an Atheist. Put that in your hat and smoke it.
Where’d you get him?
It’s a long story. Maybe I’ll tell you someday.
You think I’m gonna stick around?
I thought you might come back here from time to time.
She laughs. You
like my pussy that much huh? Ya know, just because you got me off doesn’t mean
you have any right to fuck me again. You get that if and when I want it. I’ll
hang out, though.
Okay. But look, if you aren’t gonna fuck me put on a
shirt. Seeing your tits is getting me horny.
She laughs
again. Oh, I’m gonna fuck you today. I’m still horny. But it’s because I
want it.
Okay.
I’m not going to tell her how I got Quetzal. I mean, I
might tell her something, but it won't be the truth. I’ll tell you, though.
It’s a long story, and it starts when I was about six. Be patient, this is
going to take a while and I might have to break it up a bit.
The first part is about my mother. See, when I was a
little kid she found Jesus. I’m not sure how it happened. I guess maybe it was
while she was vacuuming. Maybe she was pushing that big old Electrolux over the
rich shag carpet, chasing the dirt with that single headlight when she saw him looking
up from behind the couch with his wide, beatific eyes. Her sacred heart would
have melted.
Anyway, she started dragging us all off to church twice a
week. It sucked. I figured that this was part of a plot to keep me from having
any fun. To make things worse my mom picked one of those Pentecostal churches
where all the women stop cutting their hair and wear those long denim skirts no
matter what the weather does. Do you know how those Christian girls stink in
August? Try being trapped in a tiny little church when the air conditioning
goes. It could make a carrion bird puke.
They all play at having seizures and fits of glosolalia
when the spirit takes them. I didn’t fall for any of it. I knew right off that
this god business was a bunch of bullshit. I didn’t go for it. The worst part
was the damn prayer that they made me memorize and recite:
Now I lay me down to sleep
I pray the lord my soul to keep
if I should die before I wake
I pray the lord my soul to take
Do you see just how twisted that is? I mean, what kind of
sick rat bastard fuck makes little kids say things like that. I mean, think of
the implications: this means that I could go to sleep, sound in my warm bed,
and just die. Apparently for no reason and with no explanation. AND, and, they
seem to want kids to be cheerful about this. That poem was the end of any
connection I was going to have to Christianity. Even if I had believed it, I
would have loathed it.
Anyway, to sum up the story so far: Mom got religion, I
didn’t. That’s part one. Now, back to where we are.
Sindee is on the couch, topless, eating cheese and
stroking my pet god. I’m wondering when she’s going to let me put my dick in
her. It needs to be soon because I want to shower and shave before work. Plus I
need some time to make sure that I can trust her not to tell anyone about
Quetzal.
I flop on the couch next to her and rest my hand on her
thigh.
Not yet.
I take my hand
back. I’ve gotta shower, I say.
Good. You stink. She doesn’t put a wink in it. She
just says it matter of fact like I should already know that I smell bad. Maybe
I do.
You don’t exactly smell like a daisy yourself.
Yeah, but if you want more of my pussy you’ll have to put
up with the smell. Now go get in the shower.
For some reason
I do as I’m told. I don’t know what it is about this chick, but I don’t seem to
be able to disobey her. That’s starting to piss me off.
In the shower I take a little longer washing my junk than
is absolutely necessary and by the time I walk into the living room naked my
cock is engorged and stiff and leading the way. It’s a waste, though, because
Sindee is gone.
I fall back on the couch and jerk off th
inking about her
tight little ass. I imagine that I’m pounding her ass as I come. Then I get
dressed. I want a Coke, so I check the
fridge. There’s a note lying on the shelf and I pick it up:
You (You never told me your
name, dumbass),
I’ll come by tonight. Be
home.
Sindee
XOXO
I guess that will have to do. There’s no Coke in the
fridge so I go to the store to get some. While I’m walking I’ll give you part
two of the story.
So by now I’m eleven. Mom’s off her religion kick. A kid
up the block that I used to play with shot himself in the face for no apparent
reason and in response my mom went all nihilistic and shit. She’d get over that
eventually, but she was done with Gawd for good.
In the meantime I had made a discovery. Churches hold
these “youth events” where a lot of good, pious, clean boys and girls get
together for good, pious, clean fun. They have hay rides and Board games and
lots of other happy horse shit. The thing is, these things are filled with
girls. I mean it’s a girl to boy ratio of four to one. And these girls haven’t
had much fun. They want to rebel, but need someone to show them how.
What I found was that you could get one of these
milquetoast denim wearing girls alone and not only could you put you tongue in
her mouth, but most of the time you could play with some tit. These girls were
on the very edge of being ready to put out and I wanted to be there when one of
them made the leap.
As you can guess, I was going to as many of these
functions as I could. And I was getting a lot of action for an eleven year old.
I’d squeezed more tits than a dairy farmer (I know, bad joke).
Anyway, this went on for two years and I still wasn’t any
closer to getting to fuck than I had been when I started. I was thirteen and
still sucking tongue and squeezing boobies, but not getting anywhere near what
I wanted: wet, tight, Jesus freak pussy. I was dying for it.
Then I met Carol. Her daddy was the new preacher at the
church I had been attending. Carol was older than me. She was fifteen. She had
a long thin body, and some acne which made her a little less confident than she
should have been. She started flirting with me the first night we met and I was
just certain that she would be the one to give me what I needed.
That’s going to have to wait, though, ‘cause I’m at the
store and I need to find the cold cans of Coke.
There’s an Indian guy behind the counter reading Music
for Iguanas and he looks up as I set the coke down.
Anything else for you?
Yeah. Two packs of Lucky Strikes. I fish for money in my pocket as he rings it up. Then
I open a pack of cigarettes and light one as I walk out onto the street. Lucky
Strike means fine tobacco. That aint no shit.
I’ve still got a few hours before work and I decide to
see a movie. A place not far from here is playing a Marx Brothers double
feature: Duck Soup and Horse Feathers. I drink my Coke on the way.
In the theatre (excuse the jump there, I had nothing to
think about as I walked) I slump down in a seat and let the flickering light
wash over me. It feels like heaven.