such a charmer and sooooo cute. I only wish this wasn’t the only time we could hang out. Good luck in whatever it is you do. Keep that charming personality.
Peace & lots of Enjoyment, Samantha
The lone person with perspective:
Hank,
What’s up, dude? Whew, glad we’re done with this. I hope we’ll go party together because I think it will be a unique experience. I need your phone number.
Friends, Pete
And then of course the big-breasted girl who read way too much into something I said to her during last night’s séance because it afforded me multiple hugs and therefore multiple exposures to her enormous rack:
Hank,
I’m really glad I got an opportunity to get to know you because you’re one heck of a person. If you ever need someone, I’m here and I hope we can keep a friendship going even after we leave here. It helped to know that you were going through the same thing with your girlfriend that I am with my boyfriend. We both obviously love them very much and I’m glad I didn’t have to go through that by myself. Thanks a lot for being yourself.
Love, Theresa
P.S. I need to get something cleared up with you as soon as possible, OK? OK.
Yeah, about that. After the séance, Theresa and I may have snuck into Holy Rosary and made out in an empty confessional booth. And I may have gotten her top off and fondled her breasts for a solid half hour.
“Sounds like you had a good time despite yourself, Hank.”
I hover over Mom’s shoulder, peering down at the breakfast spread. “Yeah, I guess I did.”
“Good,” Mom says. “How does ham and eggs sound?”
“My favorite.”
“I know.”
I notice Mom is using leftover grilled ham steak, from last night’s supper, no doubt. The ham harbors a distinct pineapple odor from the marinade. For me this is usually, to borrow some recently reacquired Vatican parlance, victus non grata. I don’t mix my salts and sweets, ever. I make it a point to eat all my bacon or sausage before I put syrup on my pancakes, so as not to get syrup on the meat. I consider things like grapes in chicken salad and salt on watermelon affronts to my existence.
But I don’t mind the pineapple flavored ham in my eggs, at least not today.
I watch as Mom cuts the ham into little squares and drops it in a skillet with a couple tablespoons of butter. She pauses every so often to stretch her back and give a slow, mournful rub to her belly. She thinks no one notices.
While the ham is sautéing, I beat three eggs and a quarter-cup of milk together. I hand the egg mixture to Mom, and she pours it over the ham. Ham and eggs was the first thing I ever learned how to cook. I was seven years old when I made it for Mom and Dad. I remember the harvest gold appliances, the ornate vinyl flooring, the trash compacter, and Mom and Dad not complaining about the large pieces of egg shell.
The phone rings. Mom points her spatula at me. “Can you get that? I’m guessing it’s for you anyway.”
I pick up the phone. “Hi, Hank.”
“Laura? Hey there, baby.” I try to temper my enthusiasm. “I didn’t expect to hear from you this early.”
“Yeah, well we drove straight through. Got in about three this morning. I couldn’t really sleep.”
“Poor thing,” I say, more sarcastic than sympathetic.
We exchange a few forced pleasantries. I give her a hard time for not calling me since Wednesday and sending me one postcard the entire week. She talks about the days getting away from her and how she already wishes she could go back.
“Go back? But aren’t you glad to—”
“Can you meet me in front of the library this afternoon?” Her tone is impatient.
“Not any sooner?” I ask.
“Look, Hank…” A pause on the other end of the line. “I’m going to try to get some rest, clear the cobwebs. I don’t think my body can figure out whether it’s hungover or still drunk.”
“Three o’clock, then?”
“How about five thirty?”
“I guess I can wait ’til then. I love y—”
Laura hangs up on me.
I park the Subie in front of the Empire Ridge Public Library. I’m early, so I wait in the lobby. As soon as I walk in, the receptionist, who I don’t know but who of course recognizes me as “John’s boy,” says hello. Another loyal Oldsmobile driver. A Delta 88 looks about her speed.
I flip through the sports section of today’s Empire Daily, and then glance at my watch. Laura is late. She’s never late for anything. I’m already bothered that she hung up on me. And my cock still hurts from masturbating in the shower this morning. Twice.
I have this waterproof poster of a bikini-clad Brenda Dickson, the original Jill Foster from The Young and the Restless. With its special self-adhesive backing that sticks to wet surfaces, the poster has been my on-again, off-again bathing companion for a while now. The combination of Brenda’s cleavage and knowing Laura was getting back from spring break gave me the rare dual orgasm—once early on, after having popped an erection the moment the oscillating spray hit me, and a second time a half hour later after I’d drained the house of all hot water.
Multiple single-session ejaculations in the shower, waxing sentimental about waterproof posters of soap opera stars…these things beg the question: why haven’t Laura and I had sex yet?
I guess at some point in time over the last couple months, the awkwardness between us became safe. That line I was once all too ready to cross became a wall—a comfort zone behind which I retreated when things got too intense. We always got most of our clothes off. I always got my mouth on her breasts or my fingers inside her. And yet the nights always ended with me alone in a bathroom, trying to rub out a debilitating case of blue balls, my chastity preserved.
My chastity preserved? What the hell is my problem? I accrued more “hands-on” sexual experience by the time I was ten years old than most teenagers. I am the ultimate hormonally dysfunctional example of a Catholic upbringing that did not take. And I can’t pull off something as simple as fucking a girl? What does my penis see in my left hand that it doesn’t see in my girlfriend’s vagina?
“Hey there, Hank.”
Laura startles me. I smell traces of aloe and suntan lotion on the hand that grabs my shoulder. I turn to her. Her skin is bronzed, her cheeks sunburned, her nose peeling. Her hair is windblown, bleached sandy blonde by a week in the Panama City sun. She looks fresh off the beach: hair pulled back in a half ponytail, minimal makeup for her, no jewelry save for a large, white hemp bracelet on her left wrist. She’s sexy as hell.
“Laura,” I say, embracing her. She hugs me back, but it’s cursory and cold, more like how my sister would hug me. As she backs away, I see him standing about ten yards back.
“You bring a friend?” My question is rhetorical. There’s a lump in my throat. I feel sick.
“Hank, I’m sorry. It just kind of happened.”
The “it” in our discussion is the asshole standing behind Laura. His name is Lee Barnes. I fucking know him! She didn’t just hook up with some random guy—she hooked up with a Prepster.
“Lee Barnes?” I shout his name as if he isn’t even there. “Lee fucking Barnes?”
“I couldn’t just come back home and pretend nothing happened.”
“Sure you could,” I respond. “I did.”
“And what’s that supposed to mean?”
“You