Chap 1.

It was lunch time, and we were making out in my car. This had been our only activity for days, and I was getting tired of regularly sticking my tongue down her throat. I mean – I’m all for making out – but if you aren’t even going to let me touch your tits, then at least give me one of those pretentious thigh rubs. You know the ones I’m talking about – the ones where you aren’t sure if she’s going to touch your dick or not, and all your attention is diverted to the fact that she might touch your dick or not, and you even stop moving your tongue around cause you can’t stop thinking about wether she’s going to touch your dick or not, and then she touches your dick. Or not.

The latter, in my case. I put my arm around her and slowly began to descend across her lower back, hoping she’d at least be charitable enough to let me touch her ass. Wrong again, Wing. As soon as I hit skirt, she slapped my fingers out of the way, and gave me this look as if I had shot Jesus’s dog. Eventually; I decided to pull the plug on the whole idea of making out, realizing no sexual milestones would be reached today, and afraid I might tore a tongue muscle or my ego.

Truth is, Claire was a bit of a Christian – and not even one of the good ones at that. I mean; Most Catholics enjoy sucking dick, and Mormon chicks are infatuated with anal, and pretty much all of them certainly don’t mind giving a handjob – anything really as long as that vagina thingy doesn’t break – but my dear girlfriend’s will was stronger than Popeye on spinach! Shit, we’d been going out for nine months and she still woudn’t let me touch her tits, and it was bullshit! Cause they looked awesome. It was like denying candy to a baby, or – cocaine to a fat comedian.

I’m not an intolerable guy, you know. Honest vestal imperturbability I can handle; But uncertain, brick-in-the-wall stoic Christian bullshit really gets on my nerves. Don’t get me wrong; Philosophically, I dig some of their stuff, like ‘Do unto others what you would have them do to you’, but maybe that’s about it.

I guess the problem, personally, has always been that shiny silver cross dangling from their necks. I mean, you know people are fucked up when they amble blissfully through life with an element of torture hanging from their necks. I mean – would they still do it if Jesus had gotten his head cut-off? What would you think of someone who went to pray and chant to a building decorated with golden guillotines and filled with equally perturbed bastards who hoped for the return of a headless fellow that got decapitated for their sins? It’s insane. I swear – one of these days I’m going to come up with some spiritual bullshit and invent a religion, and convince everyone to worship some guy who got killed by a lethal injection – just to see how many people would wear a necklace with a syringe in it. If Tom Cruise can do it, so can I.

“Is something wrong?” she asked. I slowly turned to look at her, once again aware of her existence.

“I don’t know,” I answered, negligent. I seldom forgive people interrupting me when I’m thinking, particularly when I’m being so apt at it.

“What’s up?” she asked, and looked at me strangely, as if I were a lunatic or something. Can’t a man just space out for a second?

Suddenly, I had a curious thought – a thought that came to me projected as an image. I pictured this lone, black wolf ice-skating by himself. He had his arms behind his back, his chin was looking up, and he was smiling. He had the look on his face of someone who was listening to beautiful music.

I had this funny feeling – a feeling that maybe I didn’t want to be with this chick anymore. She was boring the hell out of me.

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