“Thank you, Maddox,” he said. Or at least I think that’s what he said. It was hard to tell, what with his teeth clenched together. But I was on to better things. Much, much better things.
The driver couldn't go fast enough. He was some Eastern Indian guy trying to eek out an existence by working for one of those ride share services, and when I told him speed limits were for losers and chicken shits, he apologized in a thick accent and said he simply couldn't afford to get a ticket. That he had a wife and kids to think about and this job wasn’t just his livelihood, it was theirs, too.
Before he’d finished his speech, I pulled out a hundred-dollar bill, stuck it in his vent-mounted air freshener, and he suddenly decided he knew where the accelerator was.
I drummed my fingers on the armrest, stared out the window, and tried to distract myself by counting the number of homeless encampments under the overpasses. They were clusters of squalor, filthy canvas cities that had sprung up like a cancer on the face of what was once a decent place to live.
Australia had the right idea, back in the day. Round them up, ship 'em off. Give them their own fucking island and be done with it.
I rubbed my face, jamming my fingers into my eyeballs. Martin was right. I was off my game.
My initial idea was to string Shanna Ryon along for a while, give her and Drixoll the false hope of being welcomed aboard the Petersen & Stiller train, then pull away from the station leaving them in a billowing cloud of smoke.
It would have been great fun, and I'd entertained the thought of continuing the charade until tomorrow. After I'd persuaded Shanna to accompany me back home. Wink, wink. She’d be pissed when I turned the company down, but elated when she thought back on how my sheets felt beneath her back.
But the crazy bitch with the gun happened, invaded my thought patterns, and all I knew was that no one, no one, had ever left such an impression on me.
Was it the threat she represented?
Some sort of seductive danger factor?
Some folks get their rocks off by erotic asphyxiation (never a deviance I cared for, but I admired the commitment) so perhaps that had something to do with it.
Who was she, who was she, who the fuck was she…
Trustworthy Phyllis couldn't place her face.
Wracking my brain didn't help.
I took out my phone to check on my little jumping bean. Still there, her face against the pillow. Was she crying? No. Just asleep.
Note to self – remove the center ring off the headboard. Tacky.
Abu pulled off the freeway, toward the main boulevard.
My mouth began to water.
It hadn't done that since high school, when I was first diagnosed. Ah, the look on my poor mother's face, when she'd come into the principal's office to pick up her oldest son.
They'd caught me jerking off in the school bathrooms before, but this time carried a little more weight to it. A little more consequence.
I found it enthralling. Even at such a young age. My penis had been dictating my actions for years, but when the hormones started to kick in with gusto, there was nothing I could do to control it. Not that I wanted to.
Everyone knows the tales of young boys not being able to leave their desks because their pants are tented with teenage erections. I was different. I didn't care.
I'd raise my hand and ask to be excused, find my favorite stall and bring myself to full release. Two, three times a day. The teachers couldn't deny me a restroom trip, as it was against state policy. Besides, my father would have sued them from here to next week should I develop a bladder infection or some other related illness.
It was when I convinced Suzy Berkmen to join me in the bathroom did the administrative powers determine parent involvement should be considered.
In my defense, the girl made my mouth go moist. She was my first love - I suppose you could call it.
The more she refused my advances, the more I wanted her. She finally gave in, maybe just to get me to shut up and leave her alone. But, Lordy, she was a looker. Already a C cup, and whose nipples didn't know the meaning of the word 'flaccid'. And we weren't having sex, just pleasuring ourselves. Which I equated to primal desire, the root of the human race. What was wrong with that?
What was wrong with that, as the school psychologist tried to explain, was it was inappropriate. There are times and places for everything, and tandem masturbation in a school lavatory wasn't one of them.
I didn't agree. Besides, I was too entranced by the way the good doctor's skirt rode up her legs, creating a little cavern between her thighs to pay much attention to anything she was trying to say.
I ended up being suspended for a week. Expulsions were reserved for the really hard core criminals, like the kids who chew their Pop Tarts into the shape of a weapon. And in order for Suzy Berkmen's parents not to bring suit against the entire district, a one week 'hiatus' was agreed upon by my father's lawyers, the Berkmen's attorney, and the head of the school board. I was also to attend gentle counseling, to help me with my problem.
Which I didn't think was a problem at all.
I balked at first, but my dad insisted. He was good at that. He was the third generation of Petersen & Stiller, and didn't need his horny ass son tarnishing his reputation.
I liked to think of myself as a sexual savant, but when I told that to my mother, she broke down in tears.
My parents sent me to various counselors until they'd find the one who would tell them what they wanted
