Say, there was this girl. Lips all pretty. Eyes, witty. And a smile that made dimple-valleys on her cheeks. Dark she was and hazel eyed. Wait. I mentioned eyes twice. Whatever. Fuck it. Had brown hair, a perfect combination of honey and almond or some other brown shit. Had a good figure about her too, but that ain’t what I noticed. Had brains, two big beautiful ones. Sorry, that’s boobs. Yeah, she had em good too. Brain. Singular. One bright bulb of a brain. We’d talked a little, smoked some pot, ate a couple of brownies–pot brownies–, passed out, woke up all weird and post-copulationlike. She had no panties on. My dick hurt. Weird. Only time it’d hurt before was when I’d jerked off six times in a single day. Single hour, may I add. Don’t judge my jackrabbit jerking off habit. In my defense, that day I’d just discovered X-Art and Tiffany Thompson rode her boyfriend good. Ain’t ever seen another bubble-butt like that again.

me: “the fuck did we do?”

her: “Don’t look at me. I’ll cry ‘rape'”

me: “Bitch you better not.”

her: “Wow, sexist much?”

me: “Objectificationist, also.”

her: “Bipolar too, weirdo.”

me: “A tint of schizo.”

her: “Sounds like the recipe for Power Puff girls if they weren’t a kiddie show.”

me: “Uhh. What the fuck do you think Chemical X was? Cocaine, duh.”

her: “Speaking of which, I don’t know if you know, but I’d laced the blunts last night with speed.”

me: “That explains the blackout. Weed alone never done it to me.”

her: “Yeah, well, weed alone’s for pussies.”

me: “Ironic how you should say that.”

her: “Ironic how you should say ironic. Your dick, last night, was as good as flaccid.”

me: “Eh. I don’t remember one bit of it. Funny. I never imagined I’d lose my virginity like that.”

her: “Fuck you. You were a virgin?”

me: “Fuck me? You already did that. And uhhh, wasn’t it obvious that I was one?”

her: “No. Your fleshlight training paid off.”

me: “So what do we do now?”

her: “Take a bath and go home the walk of shame way, princess. This is my apartment.”

me: “I feel so fragile right now.”

her: “Chill out, baby girl. It was just a one-time thing.”

me: “I’ll miss you. I’ve already named all our babies-to-be.”

her: “I’m an abortionist. I’ve been known to use hangers, also.”

me: “Ever used them on your ownself?”

her: “I don’t shit where I eat. I make ’em use condoms.”

me: “I didn’t wear no condom last night.”

her: “Yeah, you did. It’s right there, look.”

Where she’s pointing, there’s not a condom but a bubblegum wrapper. I picked it up and showed it to her.

her: “Not to worry. I have pills.”

me: “Keep my baby, please.”

her: “I’m all about my career, right now. I can’t have kids.”

me: “I’ll pay you.”

her: “I ain’t no Phoebe from F.R.I.E.N.D.S, and besides, if I wanted a kid, you think I’d want one from you?”

me: “Okay fine.”

her: “Okay fine.”

Say, there was this girl, all fucked up in the head, fucked up worse than me, somehow, and I think I’ve fallen for her. Say, the best sex, the only sex, I ever had I can’t even remember. Funny. There’s a saying among dervishes and devil-dealers: “Pacts made in fugue state don’t count.” Perhaps sex had in a fugue state don’t count either. Perhaps I’m still a fucking virgin. Whatever. It’ll come to me. It always does. I have an eidetic memory.

Ah, it is coming back. Weird bondage clamps, a finger in the ass and other demented shit. “Speed? Never again, no thank you,” I say to myself.

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