I Know Your Secret Heart

We haven’t talked about my man Hanson for some time, right? The mustached inevitability of this fool in my life has seemed of late to be bottomless, and at times I forget to even be annoyed with him. But there he is, gazing benignly at me on a lazy Saturday with unsteady eyes rimmed with red, asking me if I’ve given any more thought to this or that. Well, you know, I have, actually.

Check it:

Three nights ago, Happy Hanson stumbled down his lack-luster front steps just after 11 PM and lurched angrily into his car. He backed unprofessionally out of his driveway and squealed up the street. The little fucker was painfully drunk. He reached the corner and blew through the stop sign, hanging a hard left and swerving to avoid objects only visible to pathetic, drunk assholes with disgusting cock brooms under their lips and hypocrisy in their beaten souls.

I know this because I was following him, you see.

I’ve been making it a habit to ride my bike up to his house after dark a couple of times a week, just to see if I can witness a drop of madness before bed. Most of the time it’s nothing; he might come out to the small porch and drink several beers while reading magazines about people and places he’d rather be, or I might catch the occasional conversation between poor Andy and his quickly aging, alcoholic, fuck-nuts crazy, depressed bitch of a wife as it wafts out on the night breeze to caress my troubled ears with its bitter qualities. Then there are nights like tonight, rare gems with the raw power to blackmail, when Hanson’s decision-making skills—stretched to the limit by the tremendous gravitational forces of life—completely fail him and he breaks all the precious laws he claims to hold so dear.

I jumped up from my shadowed perch on the large rock across the street, pulled my bike from the bushes, and pedaled after my sad Andy. He didn’t drive quickly, which made it easy, but he blew through just about every fucking stop sign along North Fountain Blvd, which made it a tad treacherous. But you know me; I got no problems with adventure. As far as my main man Hanson, though, he’s a lucky motherfucker, cause only a couple of blocks over on Limestone the cops prowl like pumas, just waiting to sink their glistening fangs into the skull of their drunken prey, hold tightly until the twitches subside, and then drag the carcass off to their lair at the station house where the victim is tenderized and drained in stark florescent privacy. It is poetry. It is survival of the fittest. Hanson is NOT the fittest. Hanson is the least of us all, and if the predator cats of Limestone had the chance, they would devour his sad sack of useless flesh in a single gulp—pageboy cut, mustached lip, clammy skin—all of him.

If I seem fixated on the man’s mustache, it is only because I do not understand it.

I followed this joker for practically four miles—at one time pulling up nearly even with his car in order to peek inside the driver’s window. Hanson was talking very animatedly into his cell phone. He was wiping his puffy eyes, again spilling cheap tears of remorse. At the time I assumed because of some tawdry remark made by his shot-slamming jezebel, but I found out soon enough that while that may have played a part, the main reason for spilling his salt was part of a deeper transgression. Or maybe I should say a LARGER one.

At the end of the trip was Parrin Woods Park, a heavily wooded and private area. It’s not often used because of 1) the lack of any playground equipment for the kiddies and 2) so few places to sit for anybody else. On any given night, the spot is reserved for darkly hooded youths dealing meth and coke to the disastrous party set of the town—pathetic children with no handle on their self-images (and who am I to talk, yes, yes, I know…now please shut the fuck up, perfect people), and the middle-aged factory set: drying out and splitting slowly from being left out in the elements with no protection, they stay up for days at a time beating their spouses and girlfriends mercilessly, taking apart their cheap K-Mart boom boxes and watching the same VH1 countdown shows over and over with itchy scalps and bloody half-moon scars in their palms.

Hanson wrenched his worn, green Neon over to the side of the road—ostensibly to park the fucking thing, but he really just veered over to the curb and turned it off, the ass of the automobile sticking waaaaay out into traffic. Did I mention that the guy was fucking plastered? For myself, I bolted my bike very neatly to a fencepost about 20 yards down and followed Andy from a discreet distance across the street and through the foliage. Into the canopy we traveled, and my nerves immediately began to sing chilled arias as the night warned of danger from broke junkies looking for a way.

A breeze was on my face, but I didn’t pay it much mind as I kept eyes trained on the hunched back of Hanson, who glanced about himself nervously. Seems the freakiness of seclusion had quite a sobering effect on the man. Oddly enough, he never looked back to see the one person in the park who was actually following him.

Parrin is not a large park, and soon we were in the middle of it—alone as far as I could tell—and I dipped back behind a largish V of oaks just as Hanson stopped and spun 90 degrees, squatting. He pulled a can of cheap beer from his hip pocket and cracked it open. In the blue silence of midnight it sounded like one of the trees falling down upon us. He must have felt the same way, for he ducked his head quickly and looked around as if a bat had just landed in his hair. After taking a swig, he sat against a tree and seemed to doze. I was like, are you fucking kidding me? The guy comes all this way and risks a sound mugging—or worse, arrest—just so he can catch some freaking “ME” time? No fucking way. I was getting steadily more pissed off and was nearly at the point of going out and giving the shit-heeled loser a swift fucking kick when approaching footsteps yanked me back down to my spot.

To my ultimate surprise, a decidedly plump and juicy sausage emerged from the darkness, knelt over Hanson, and began to eat his face. The sausage ran its fingers through his bowl cut—possibly looking to pull the skin down his forehead and suck out the soft eyes—and I felt my body leave itself with shock, but I pinched my own nipple and brought myself back around pretty quickly. Of course by now I realized that this thing was not a giant killer sausage at all, but a dumpy woman packed tightly into a drab and clingy summer dress. She was not eating Hanson’s head, either, but kissing him deeply on his weak mouth. I was completely floored by the scene. I tried to get a good look at this fat woodland fairy, but in fact the mystery cherub never even came up for air. She just kept nomming all over Hanson’s sweaty mug in the dim moonlight, filtered and downright fucking spooky through the overhead leaves. I could, however, see this: she was fat. I could also see that what little light there was bounced off of round, fleshy cheeks so plump and yummy that they squeezed her eyes almost shut, and in the night those eyes seemed like black demon slits. I was freaking scared of her, truth be told. I mean, who but a night fiend with an evil agenda of total control would kiss a slug like Andy Hanson? Even if she WAS as fat as a bursting German wiener?

They never spoke a word to each other—which only deepened the strange sense of surrealism in my surroundings—until Hanson actually started pushing the demon cow onto her back, roughly drawing her jersey dress up over her luminous and voluminous thighs—an action to which the ample imp breathed, “Oh, you ARE a little scamp, aren’t you?” Hanson merely giggled manically as she helped him unbuckled his chinos, and I was grossly embarrassed for both of them as they enacted the clumsy ballet of pulling down Hanson’s drawers. I was then mortified to find he wore tighty-whiteys, like some kind of overgrown, paunchy ten year-old, and nearly fucking PUKED when I saw his hairy, white ass, and though I found myself unable to look completely away, I had to turn my head and squint so that I might at least blur the unbelievably hellacious porno playing out in front of me, allowing my stomach to slightly calm itself.

Now is when it gets bad, people. If you have kids, now is the time to tell them to leave the fucking room. Hanson, ever the consummate pro, wrestled his miserable hips between the chunk’s thighs and buried himself up to the hilt. No condom. Did you hear me? NO CONDOM, I SAID. First the man is a murderous DUI son of a bitch, swerving his half-ton missile blindly down the streets where INNOCENT CHILDREN PLAY, and now he was planting his root into the messy garden of some fat devil pig of the night with no glove on. How in the hell can I look this schmuck in the fucking face from now on out? He’ll pontificate his freaking ass off to me, telling me how to live MY life, and just LOOK at the sloppy mess which is him. Oh my Christ. The world. Witness the hideous trial of our lives and tell me I’M the crazy one. All of you out there telling me I’M the one who’s got to screw MY head on straight, how I’VE got to get MYSELF together: listen to this idiot, you say; do what that fool says, you say; on and on you all go, speaking in tongues of lunacy while Hanson fouls a chubby, faceless tart in the woods at the witching hour. BAH. I am a firm believer in the policy of stoning.

So the whole godless act took about 45 seconds. Hanson grunted like a senseless brute and then rolled off his panting lover, licking the sweat from his mustache. She sat up and stretched herself, the messy essence of Andy glistening sickly on her gummy tummy rolls, and she turns her head lazily and says (with what I’m sure would have been half-lidded eyes if her cheeks had not been so fucking FAT), “You sure scratched my itch, Andy Hanson.” Seesh.

Hanson looked at her with absolutely freaking CRAZY-ass eyes, and he says to her—now mind you, these are the FIRST motherfucking words I have heard him say to this woman since she appeared—he says to her, “Next time I want to get you in your butt.”

I barked shocked laughter. I simply couldn’t help it. I’m not a goddamned SUPER HUMAN, after all. And of course, Hanson and his woman erupted into a fit of “Who’s there” and “Show yourself,” but obviously they were shouting at the dark back of a guy already halfway back to his bike.

I went home and took a long shower.

Don’t Come Crawling

Why hello, Camile. I didn’t expect to see you back so soon.

But first: last Saturday morning Handsome Hanson made a return appearance. He shocked the shit out of me by saying it looks like I’m going to graduate. He then shocked the shit out of me again by saying it all depended on how well I do in my summer courses. I was shocked for a third time to find out my parents will be PAYING ANDY HANSON to TUTOR me over the summer.

Was I born to suffer?

Looking at Hanson from across the sparse utility of the kitchen table turned my stomach. He sat there like a malignant lump, a smile pasted weakly beneath his sticky cock broom—but more than ever before I dwelled on the circles beneath his eyes. Oh, I know you now, Andy. I know what you go home to at night. Are you thinking about her right now, Andy my man? Are wondering what surprises your scrawny wife has in store for you tonight? I bet she dreads the moment your headlights splash across the back wall of your pretty little home. She sits, tense, a drink already in her hand. The television is on, and the news anchors are trying their best to tell her all about today’s great progress, but she doesn’t hear them. The tears are already in the corners of her eyes as she thinks about the years she’s already wasted and cannot rip back from your greedy arms, and you bury your face in those years, and you breathe in the scent of those years, and the smell is unfamiliar but it’s not supposed to be and you try so hard to remember until unbeknownst to you, your mind makes up lies in the cracks where memory should reside, and it places you in the stories of her heart where you never really lived. She senses it happening, Andy. And she wants you to give those years back. You are a thief and that is why she hates you, that is why she is, more likely than not, already half in the bag while you stare benignly at me in mom’s clean kitchen while the morning sun ignores your face.

You’ll probably be smashed before the sun goes down, Andy Hanson—but don’t worry. We all understand. It’s the only thing that keeps you from knocking her fucking teeth in whenever she kicks you down the stairs.

After finding out my GREAT GOOD FORTUNE at gaining Hanson as my number one big fun summertime friend, I asked him if he would like to celebrate our bright future together with an ice-cold brew, but he just laughed and shook his head. “No thank you, Pendel.” His eyes actually twinkled for a second, which made me uneasy and mistrustful. He continued: “It won’t be as bad as you think. I’ll try to make it painless.” I asked him if he was sure, adding, hey, it’s good for what ails ya (!), and he gave me a funny little look, but only shook his head again. I let it drop. Believe it or not, my disgust at gaining Hanson as a tutor was overshadowed by the possibility of getting my stupid diploma.

And then: later that night, more rocks at my window. I immediately knew who lurked outside. Only one person I know is so retarded as to announce their arrival in this manner. The Eternal Camile. I threw up the window and was like, hey idiot, it’s like nine o’clock. Just knock on the fucking door. She was all, “I don’t want your stupid family knowing I’m here.” It’s what she always says, right? I climbed out of my window and we walked a short distance down the shadowed streets to a nearby playground. On the way I explained to her that most people throw rocks at the window because the person they want to contact lives on the second floor. Our house is one story. She could just knock on the window. She was like, “Ohhhh…”. IDIOT. Truly.

When we got to the playground, she turned to me, and started talking. I didn’t hear the first couple of sentences she said because a nearby stop light had tuned red and cast its light across her face, turning a giant whitehead right beside her nose to pink. I wondered idly what she would do if I reached out and gave it a little squeeze. I really REALLY wanted to try, but in my heart I am a coward.

Slowly I began to listen, and realized she was very angry that I had spilled the beans about her mom’s cleaning business woes a couple of weeks ago. I told her to go fuck herself. She tells the cops she thinks I demolished her old man’s windshield (the fact that I did is beside the point), and she thinks she’s got the right to be fucking pissed at ME? What the hell is this bloated world coming to? She started to cry tears of real anger, which affected me little, and she said that now, because of me, her parents are so pissed with her that they won’t talk to her. They blame her for bringing me—the Great and Terrible Pendel—into their miserable lives. I laughed and told her that they have a point. She did. She punched me in the arm—a little too playfully for someone who’s supposed to be pissed—and said she never asked me to ruin her dad’s car and wreck her mom’s reputation. She never wanted her folks to stop speaking to her. I just had to smile. I told her that she should be thanking me. Why would she want those fucking apes talking to her anyway? “Fuck off,” she said. I said no problem and turned to walk away.

And THAT was when she spins me around and starts nomming all over me with those fucking fish lips of hers! I was so taken aback that at first I did nothing, I was lost in a haze of grape Hubba Bubba (I fucking HATE grape Hubba Bubba), and I was simply trying not to fall over as she hung from my shoulders, her sharp little teeth digging at my neck, my cheeks, my ears, my lips. She was breathing loud, like she had just come up from the blackest depths, the ink of the ocean, and as she tried to climb up my body I realized she was nothing but a goddamned monkey. A monkey with a fish-face and zits. Hey, like I said before, her dad’s an ape, right? It all makes sense in the end.

Coming to my wits, I pushed her off me and asked her if she had lost her goddamned mind. She said she had, which shut my mouth for a second. “I’ve got nothing to do now,” she said. “I miss you.” I told her that, unfortunately for her, I didn’t feel the same way. I tried to explain to her that she was initially just an object for me, a conquest to take before the summer was up, but that was all over now. Amazingly, she said she was cool with that. She just wanted someone to talk to, and that I was the only person who ever really did.

Well, that’s a shame, I said. Because now you’ve lost that, too. Go home and look at the wall.

She cried and slapped me. I said, hey, it’s fine man, whatever you need to do. She slapped me again and I shrugged. She turned to run away, but got tangled in her own big feet and sprawled across the ground like a milkshake. Typical. Typical Camile, typical life. I didn’t help her up. She pulled herself off the ground, and without dusting off or looking back, she walked into the night crying to herself.

Fuck it. Yes, I’ll let her make out with me again, but it’s going to be when I’m done punishing her for being such a little bitch.

Patrice

I hooked up with Patrice a week ago Sunday night, completely by accident. Before I go any further, let me say this: Patrice is a sneak and a liar, and anything you hear from her is complete bullshit. If Patrice tells you that gas makes a car go, question it; check her sources. I feel about Patrice the same way I feel about Access Hollywood: she can be good for a laugh, but she has no ethics and will do anything to get ratings. Ugh. My mom loves that retarded show. She Tivos it and I think she has a glass of wine in the afternoon while she watches. She gets all dolled up in her high-waist jeans and clogs and snorts her disapproval over a bunch of everyday nonsense that may or may not be true, and is none of her goddamned business to begin with. What a waste of a life. Me going to jail tomorrow and earning my GED behind freaking bars is a better use of time. I HATE it.

And what did I go and do? The same damn thing as my mom. Drank some booze and ended up getting my kicks off of some lame sensationalistic bitch.

Sugarbear had an awesome party set up for that Sunday afternoon. His parents rock this mansion (at least, it’s a mansion to me) about a half mile away from my parent’s dump, and it is totally set up to fucking kill bugs dead. Hot tub, pool out back, sunken living room with the whole crazy home theater set-up and a freaking DVD jukebox that holds like two-hundred movies, for the love of Christ. And they have the SECOND living room where old people go and sit when they come over, with nothing but furniture, end tables, and flowers in it, I guess because the seniors don’t like all those shocking loud noises scaring them out of their shit-filled diapers. What a mess. Old people torque me off. What’s it gonna kill you to come and hear the younger set talk? Afraid you might learn something new right before you die? I guess I’d be pissed too, though, finding out about all the cool new things the world had to offer a fucking week before biting it.

The house has a kick-ass make-out pit in the basement, with black lights and a music dock and suede throw pillows EVERYWHERE, and there’s no windows so it is dark ALL THE TIME, even in the middle of day. During party mode, no one is allowed in the basement alone. Sugarbear assigns a pal (personal ass licker) to basically be a bouncer at the basement door, with a kind of gate made of the velvet ropes and poles that Sugarbear and another buddy of his named Johnson (also on the golf team) ripped-off from the local movie theatre. It makes the whole scene totally authentic. I love it. Usually I spend like an hour down there with Camile, but she obviously OPTED OUT of attending Sugar’s party with me, seeing as she read all about me smashing her monkey-dad’s windshield in on this site last week. THAT’S RIGHT. She found it. Needless to say, she and I are not dating at the moment. HA HA. Fuck her and her dumb-ass fish lips. I’ve had just about enough of her and her sweet little sprinkle of pimples. Die, Camile. I know you’re reading this, you strumpet. DIE. I smashed your dad’s window because he is a DICK and I HATE HIM, and I hate YOU, because you are obviously JUST LIKE HIM. You ACT like him, and guess what, you fucking prima donna hose-bag—you LOOK like him, too, you goddamned APEGIRL. You think you are so smart, calling the cops, and telling them about my blog…well, joke’s on YOU, Bitchy McSlutkins, because they ALREADY KNEW ABOUT IT, so HA HA HA. Hey, take this on, Camile: you think I’m so bad for smashing in a windshield, hmmmmm?? How about the fact that your oh-so-demure mommy is gonna be in way over her head in a pot of scalding hot water for not filing taxes on her little house-cleaning business? I heard my straight-laced parental units talking about it like three months ago. She’s fucking BUSTED, and there is NO WAY AROUND IT, and there’s a very good chance she’s gonna do HARD TIME FOR IT. Me, all I’m gonna have to do is some freaking lawn maintenance in the city park, so who’s worse? Her, or me? Or hey, maybe even YOU? The product of an ape and a thief, and the ex-girlfriend of a loser vandal, that’s what you are. And a fucking SNITCH.

CAMILE GLADSTONE IS A DIRTY RAT SNITCH.

Spread the word.

What was I talking about? Ah yes. The liar Patrice. What a prize. What was I thinking? So, she finds me at Sugarbear’s party, and she starts talking to me about how Camile is such a loser for snitching me out, that she read all my shit, and she thinks it’s sooo sexy that I have a blog (WHAT?!? Please). It’s all bullshit, and Patrice has just about the biggest feet I’ve ever seen on a girl, and her hair is like such an afro that I swear she’s got birds in it, but by this time I was on my third or fourth beer, so when she turned to get a cold one and rubbed her ass on my johnson again, it was pretty much over. She came back and said she wanted to see the basement but had no one to go down with, and I was like, you do NOW.

Benji was watching the rope at the time, and when he saw me going down with Patrice his fucking eyes fell out of his head. I mean, it’s no surprise that Patrice the Terrible would eat up a friend’s ex for breakfast—I mean hell, her whole reputation is built off of what she did to Tammy Reddick two years ago—but I think Benji was shocked because we spend so much time ragging on Patrice in the cafeteria lobby about her hair and her cross-eyes (when she takes off her glasses her eyes cross, so weird). Whatever. I’m what you might call an ASS MAN, and in my drunken state, Patrice had it in spades.

So we go downstairs, and she pulls me around by my belt (for all her failings she ain’t shy, bubba) to an empty spot as we stepped carefully over all the writhing bodies in the dim black light. It’s funny, now that I think about it. I wasn’t at all skeeved by being around a bunch of people getting to third base together in the same dark room at the time, but now I suddenly feel like I need to take antibiotics. Well, we find a spot, and she immediately is all over me and kissing me like a fucking back-HO, like this is a freaking construction project for her, like she is excavating something out of my face. And her breath is slimy and gross, all stale and smoky cause she smokes cigarettes (which I happen to not give a flying fuck about but her breath was SO bad), and suddenly I’m like, what the hell am I DOING? And she’s all like whispering, “I’m going to ROCK you, slugger.” And I’m thinking SLUGGER? Who the fuck says SLUGGER? But I don’t know how to get out of the situation, it’s like she has me where she wants me, and I can’t get free…she’s too confident, too strident, and I KNOW she has a HUGE fucking mouth and god knows what she’s gonna tell people if I jet on her.

It was at that moment that my ass started vibrating. I jumped up about ten feet in the air, totally startled, landing on some dude’s ankle, and he was like, “What the fuck?” And I was like, “My ass, my ass, something’s in my ass!” And everyone stops what their doing, pulling tongues out of respective orifices, and is just gaping at me as I dance around the basement. I THINK I danced around the basement, anyway. That’s how I recall it. So embarrassing. So, you know, of course I eventually remembered I had my cell phone in my back pocket, fucking DUH, and I pull it out and it’s a text from Sugarbear saying dude what the FUCK are you DOING down there with that BIRD’S NEST?

That broke the spell. Yes, I thought, what the fuck AM I doing with her? By this time she’s walked over to me, looking all around to see who’s looking at us, and she’s like, “Hey, what the hell, Pendel? Are you gonna come back and get busy?” And I’m just horrified with myself, because her glasses are off, and it doesn’t even look like she’s looking at me, she’s looking at her own freaking NOSE for CHRIST’S SAKE, and I’m just like, hey, sorry, I can’t…I gotta go…

I don’t even know if she said anything to me after that. I ran upstairs and was through the door in an instant, squinting in the light, and like, Sugarbear and Benji are practically on the floor laughing at me.

So what. It happens to the best of us, right? Well, you must remember that Patrice is a lying swamp monster skank. I go to school on Monday to find out she told everybody I spewed everywhere as soon as she touched me, and squealed like a 13 year old, and that’s why I ran out on her. HATE HER AND WANT HER DEAD.

On top of this, now with my guilty vandal status and community horseshit, my parents have RAMMED weekends with Mr. Hanson down my throat. We start Saturday, but I haven’t decided whether or not I’m going to kill myself before that. BUT! I start golf tomorrow, and maybe within a couple of days, I’ll get to try acid again, so I guess I will go on living just to see how THAT plays out.

I am only 17, yet life already seems so endless.

Things That Are Supposed To Be Good Are Just Embarrassing

I don’t understand how all these older people get all stupid and glassy-eyed when they think about their so-called ‘glory days’ and call this shit the best times of their lives. Man, if that is true, then they are a bunch of sorry, sad-sack assholes. So much is going on that I hope I NEVER remember. If this is as good as it gets, fucking kill me.

So, my dad caught wind of my science grade dropping to a B- after Mr. Hanson screwed me ROYALLY last week. If you didn’t hear about it already, I told the whole retarded tale here: http://hellisforchildren.wordpress.com/2008/04/21/a-science-teacher-and-a-dick/. He started to come down hard on me, so I told him my side of things—about Hanson being a freaking scurvy douche bag just coaching a swim team to look at teenage boys with waxed chests—but he just looked at me like my head was a grapefruit or something. And then, to my overall AMAZEMENT, he says to me, “Would it kill you to get involved in something worthwhile like a swim team?” I was floored. I asked him if it would make him feel better to know I was shaving my legs and armpits like some kind of goddamned chick and wearing a mother-fucking SPEEDO of all things and being stared at by a mustached, crazy-eyed pedophile with a constant half-mast tent-pole rocking his Dockers, and my dad looks at me, right in the eye he looks at me, and without even smiling he says, “He doesn’t have crazy-eyes, Pendel.”

I wish I could have drop-kicked my brain at him.

I didn’t even bother to argue. I balled up my grade report and threw it in the fake fireplace and very handicappedly said that if it had been a REAL fireplace, the report card would be all gone—then I ran out of the house. I had nowhere to go, so I biked over to Camile’s house so HER dad could glare at me for a while.

As it turned out, they weren’t even there. No cars in the driveway. Awesome. She was alone watching TV and talking to her bitchy friend Patrice on the phone—Patrice drives me batshit but always rubs her butt on my dick at dances so I tolerate her well enough. I tell Camile through the screen door to get the fuck off the phone and let me in—didn’t she see my text that I was coming? She’s probably still pissed at me because of the whole church thing but I don’t care. The house is all kinds of dark except of the TV glow and I can see she’s just in her nightgown and it’s all giving me a boner. I bang on the door some more until she tells Patrice “see ya” and stomps over, pissed. “Why are you banging like that?” I tell her I’ll show her banging as soon as she opens the door, and that makes her blush and forget she’s ticked at me. The thing you have to remember with Camile is this: yes, she’s got some zits on her forehead. Yes, she’s kind of clumsy-looking around the eyes. But her ass is banging and her titties pop, and when I talk even the slightest bit sexy to her she gets all flustered and starts tugging at my belt.

So I get in the door and I’m like immediately tugging at HER. I want to get her into her room cause she still hasn’t let me tap that ass, and it’s all I’m really looking to do before I graduate and blow town. I ask her why she’s gotta leave me at the door like that when I NEED her like I do, and she’s like, “What do you want? I had Patrice on the phone.” And then she says, “She’s always rubbing against you. I know she likes you. I hate her.” I ask her what the hell she’s doing talking to Patrice on the phone then if that’s the way she feels—leaving me at the door that way—and she’s like, “Well, she’s nice.” Fucking chicks. I swear to god.

So she’s like why are you here, and I tell her the whole deal with my dad and Mr. Sleezeball Hanson and my grades and the fake fireplace and how she’s all I’ve got tonight (nice, yes?) and then she’s like, “Oh no, let me rub your back then.” And so I know I can at least get her shirt off tonight, and I’m hoping I can do more, but you never know. Camile has a tendency to get me to the verge of testicle meltdown, but then before I know it she’ll be halfway down the block, arms folded over her chest and acting all violated.

But hey, tonight it’s all good. She like, tells me to take off my shirt so she can rub my back better, and I’m like, oh you know it, and she just takes off hers, too! And just seeing her bra, which has like this lacy stuff on it like I’ve never seen her wear before, it totally kills me. The whole night rocks Mayhem style now that I can see just a touch of nipple, and I can’t get my eyes off of them, and it must show cause she totally blushes and smiles, and I’m so shocked at how easy it was to get her out of her shirt that I blurt out, “Why did you do that?” And she’s like, “I’ll put it back on if you want.” NOT BLOODY LIKELY. I hate the fact that she makes me turn over so she can, in freaking fact, rub my back, but I know that if I’m going to see more of her I’ve got to play it cool. I mean, she’s jerked me off tons of times, I think, or at least a few, and it’s all good, but I want IN THERE, YO. I have done my time, and now I want my PAYDAY. So I will be patient. I am the sex ninja, and I am poised for the kill, even if I must lurk in shadows all night.

It turns out I can only wait for like five minutes, and then I flip over so she can feel my boner on her, so she knows what she’s doing to me, and I don’t know why tonight is different, but it is, and the next thing you know we are both down to just about nothing, just our bottoms, and then THOSE are gone, and my brain is FRYING because to be honest, it’s not like I get this far every day. Then she’s jerking me again, and I’m like, let me get these boxers off, cause it will be easier, and she’s like, “Easier to what?” Fucking A. I get mine off, and while I do, she’s taking HER’S off, and I don’t even know what to make of it all, like I am totally going to blow my wad just watching her do it, cause I’ve fingered her plenty but I’ve never SEEN it, and now THERE IT IS, and it’s dark so I can’t see it plainly but I can sense it. And now she’s all like “I want to, I want to…” And I’m wondering what the fuck were she and Patrice talking about on the phone? And I’m wondering where the hell her asshole dad is, because he works down at the auto yard and he will fucking KILL me if he catches us, but she insists they are out for hours at the Do Drop In. But would I even care if they were coming up the driveway at that very moment? NOPE. So we assume what I assume is the position, and maybe I’m giving too much away here, but I’m not sure how to get it in her, I’m not HUGELY experienced, but I am COMPLETELY willing, and so I just go for it. No guts no glory, Major Woody.

Now Camile is like, “Kiss me, kiss me…” But hell man, I am trying to CONCENTRATE, you know? And I know she gets wetter than this, but I’m not sure I’m feeling it, and it all seems tighter than I would have expected, and I know Camile is a virgin, but COME ON. And she’s like, “I don’t think you’re in the spot, that’s not my spot.” And I’m like, spot? What spot?! And she’s like breathing and she’s saying, “You know, my spot…that’s not my hole.” And in my head, I’m like, what the fuck, how do I mess this up? My head is swimming, and shit is quickly building to an EVENT down there, and I look down, and I guess I’m basically, much to the chagrin of all involved, screwing her in the crease between her thigh and pelvis, and I realize she doesn’t even really have her legs open, but it’s too freaking late and I literally blow it.

What a mess.

Camile’s laughing, which pisses me off, and she’s like “Ha ha, oh Pendel, it’s ok.” And I’m just like oh great. Fuck THIS. I’m so embarrassed that I can’t even see straight, and I’m so disappointed in myself for being such a dimwit, such a wuss, so I just have to get out of there. I’m angry at Camile too, but who the hell knows why. Why didn’t she open her legs? Why didn’t she tell me sooner that I was screwing it all up? Fucking Mr. Hanson. That asshole has me all freaked out about being weird and messing with my ONLY good grade and has thrown EVERYTHING off. I will KILL him if I see him on the way home.

Camile is all crying because I’m angry during such a SPECIAL MOMENT and she doesn’t know why I’m angry, but then she must be dumber than I thought, because isn’t SHE angry? At me? For messing things up for HER? Oh well. Another rite of passage blown to shit. I feel a little bad about ditching Camile, but fuck it. If I would have stuck around I would have just been the ultimate dick anyway. In a couple of months I’ll graduate (I think) and disappear forever and she can get some other idiot to hang out with while she paints her stupid nails.

On the way home I saw her old man’s Ford Focus in the parking lot of the Do Drop In. Just looking at it pissed me off so bad that I threw a chunk of asphalt through the windshield. The alarm went off and it was fucking LOUD, and I ran all the way home. I was in bed when I remembered that I left my bike over at Camile’s. Just perfect.

I Just Can’t Take It Anymore

My parents are a couple of ram rods. I hate them so much. All they do is sit around and drink wine all night gushing and bitching about how much better they are than everyone else in the neighborhood, how much more pious they are, how much more Christian and charitable, which is of course stupid and unchristian but who cares about being a good Christian anyway cause those assholes suck eggs like snakes. But then they go to retarded church and smile and laugh and hug and talk and shake hands and everything with all the jackasses they were just moaning about! It’s disgusting.

Last Sunday I decided I was completely fed up with the whole charade, so I brought my girlfriend Camile with me, and I sat way in the back with her and kept my tongue firmly down her throat the entire time. At first she fought it, but I had told her specifically to wear a skirt that morning, and I just kept fingering her until she pretty much got too horny to fight me anymore. Not that it was any good for me. I hate Camile too, and she kisses like a dead fucking fish, and I hate the way the zits pepper her forehead, and her upper lip is always so sweaty, but it was SO WORTH IT to see my bitchy, worthless, unemployed mom start crying right in front of everybody. It was downright righteous, fuckers.

So then I just felt done with it, but fish-face Camile had gotten so worked up by then and was totally jerking me off in my stupid itchy church chinos—she had completely forgotten where she was, I think. I felt like everyone in the rat-ass congregation was staring at us, repulsed, which was AWESOME, but Camile’s breath always tastes like Hubba Bubba grape and I HATE Hubba Bubba grape. So I pushed her fat ass off me and asked her what she thought her fucking problem was, and she got all confused and embarrassed and started crying and everything. She got up to run out, and I began to follow her. Then I just couldn’t help myself. I had a big lunger in my throat cause my allergies in the spring KILL, so I brought it up and spat on the back of the skirt I had told her to wear. She didn’t even feel it, and she never saw it happen, so she just kept right on going with it dripping down the seam. Oh man, it made me laugh so hard that I almost fell down right there in the aisle.

I saw my mom and dad staring at me from their dumb ass pew, and they were most definitely NOT laughing. Good. Now the neighbors can talk about THEM instead, tonight, with their own stupid glasses of wine, with their own sons hating them while locked in their bedrooms and reading the Anarchist Cookbook.

I wish I knew what was wrong with me.