I CAN’T EAT. Don’t sleep. Lie there in bed, alls I see is her face, her body. My hands shake, my dick’s burning. Every time I see a Datsun I start to sweat.
I’m no dope. Like they say, I see the writing on the wall. And still I can’t help myself, acting like a fucking creep that’s crawling on his belly, begging for it.
Laying there, I get to thinking what I did wrong. Maybe I came too quick. Maybe I didn’t kiss her enough. Maybe I had bad breath. You read in Penthouse all about making chicks come, and how important that is. Shit, I don’t even know if I made her come or not. I don’t know what it looks like. I seen it at the movies. But it’s not like with guys, where you can tell real easy. You get the idea you’re supposed to know, and you’d seem like an asshole if you asked. Nobody ever explained it to me. It’s not exactly the kind of thing you sit your old man down and ask him. Not my old man anyways.
One time I was with her, the last time, when I was over at her house, I got this scarf off her. She used to wear it around her neck. Fastened with this little pin. She didn’t give it to me or nothing. I took it. I took it because it smelled like her.
So there I am laying on my bed, holding on to this fucking scarf for chrissake, and jerking off for maybe the tenth time that day. My mom yells up the stairs, someone’s here to talk to you, Jimmy. Better get down too, it’s a cop.
You want to see a dick shrivel in record time? That’ll do it.