As I wait on the bus my heart is still racing-that was way too close for comfort. I fumble around my pocket and smile as I feel Tammy’s thong. The only reason I heard the car this time was because I was in a state of blissful post come nirvana. Had Cassy walked in two minutes earlier she’d have found me slamming her friend from behind on the bathroom floor. I thought that god damn condom was never gonna flush.
Tammy really is some piece of ass these days though-thank god she hasn’t realized it yet. I mean this girl is hot-Hooters hot. The best thing is she still has that ugly girl desperate need to please about her. The girl is so beautiful I even think about leaving Cass for her. I know I won’t ever act on it though because as soon as Tammy figures out she’s hot to trot she’ll just become a shit lay like Cassidy. Like they all do.
I run the flimsy fabric through my fingers and wonder -with enough drink-if my dreams of a threesome could become a reality. I know the competition would certainly spur Cassidy on.
That’s the problem with dreams though-they’re dreams. In reality they’d probably only consent to a threesome so they could tie me up, belittle me, and take pictures and videos for Facebook or Youtube.

By the time I get on the bus it’s already jam-packed without a seat in sight, and it doesn’t take long for a club-footed drunk to stomp on my ankle.
“Watch it asshole.”
I find it hard to breathe as the humid air and overpowering smell of a KFC family bucket battle for supremacy. I actually think I’m going to be sick until I close my eyes, lean against a window, and put my hand in my pocket. Then everything is okay.

There’s a pretty brunette with a pen and piece of paper wiggling her sweet ass for my details. As I get closer see instantly smiles.
“Hi my name’s Farrah and I’m working on behalf of Concern.”
“I’ve got my own concerns Farrah-I’m late for work. But if you want my digits I’ll be more than happy to help you out?”
Usually hippies aren’t my type because they’re so needlessly ugly but any free love that Farrah advocates can’t be bad.
Sorry but I was actually looking for a financial contribution.” She says smiling.
“Sounds just like a date to me.”
She hands me a pamphlet of a saggy titted African girl named Ekene and informs me that without financial support she and her newborn baby will be dead.
“So why’d she have the kid in the first place?” I say playfully smiling to detract the statement’s venom.
She spews out facts about AIDS, mosquitoes and tyrannical leaders without ever attempting to answer my question.
Her responses are so dull and passionless that I figure she was either roped in because of peer pressure (friends, society) or to piss off her parents. Pretty much everyone in LA is trying to piss off someone.
“Well you do make a good point,” and her face instantly beams with pride, “perhaps we should discuss this further over dinner?”
She pretends to play hard to get so I ask to borrow her pen and scribble down my number.
“Now I really gotta bounce because if I’m any later for work you’ll be collecting for me next week.”

When I arrive Tone is majorly pissed.
“Sorry I’m late Mr. Lentini,” I say announcing his surname to curry favour, “but I had a bit of an emergency at home.”
“Lemme guess you ran outta hair gel?”
At least I have hair to gel you balding prick. Christ I probably have more hair on my sack. I choose to ignore the comment and he quickly grows tired awaiting a response.
“Table eight.” He grunts.
I walk over and before I get a chance to say hello she barks, “12, 26, and 38, and a large diet coke with no ice.”
And good day to you too my fair lady. I have no idea what those particular numbers correspond to (possibly her weight in kilos when multiplied) but have no desire to incur the wrath of a hungry fire breathing fatty.
I return with her drink just as her scowl ridden face dispatches another batch of imaginary bees.
“This doesn’t taste right. Are you sure it’s diet?”
Yes I poured it myself.”
“Guess that explains it.”
I haven’t even made it back to the kitchen when she lets roar.
Hey pretty boy.”
I feel like doing the whole Taxi Driver “are you talking to me?” bit but as she can’t eat it it’ll only be lost on her.
“Yes?”
“Aren’t you forgetting something? You hardly expect me to drink this crap now do you?”
I smile, take the coke and head back into the kitchen.
“Where’s Toni?”
“He’s out back taking a delivery.”
“Good cause we have a code red out front and I need you to watch my back.”
I quickly throw some coke down the sink and begin to undo my trousers.
Haha what are you doing dude?”
“You’ll see.”
I make my way behind a worktop and begin to teabag the glass, making sure both my balls are well and truly in-swishing and swirling until the tingling sensation becomes too much. Then, I shake my cock and wring my sack until I’ve recaptured every last drop (and then some).
“Ricki you’re one sick bastard.”
I return back outside, refill fatty’s drink, and place it down in front of her without much fuss. I debated saying something cinematic while smiling like a Cheshire cat, but instead play the role of sulky teen. The way I see it is that if you’re as bitter and twisted as her you’re bound to suspect everyone and everything. For this to work I’ve gotta make sure I don’t even register on the radar so that she can focus her indiscriminate bile on some other inanimate object.
I watch from afar -pretending to clean another table- as she gulps and guzzles and wonder can she taste my morning quickie. Shit, it’s probably the closest she’ll ever come to the real thing herself.
I’d no particular desire to mess with any of the rest of her food but she just wouldn’t let it go. When I brought her the soup starter she demanded a new spoon because she didn’t like the look of it -no doubt startled by her own reflection- so the tango continued; I stuck the spoon down my backside while lunging for good measure and washed her chicken wing bowl in the toilet after she complained it was grubby. However every Bonnie needs a Clyde and nothing quite buys silence like unequivocal guilt so when I told Brad she called him a glorified dish pig, after a less than satisfactory lasagne, he was more than happy to blow the culinary terrorism scale right off the chart by mixing her chocolate cake with the bandage from his weeping puss encrusted boil. Granted I may have been economical with the truth re: her calling him a dish pig but all’s fair in love and war.
By the time it came for her to pay the bill I felt queasy and couldn’t look at her. She paid her bill exactly to the penny and I smiled.
“You hardly expected a tip for that performance did you?”
I guess you are what you eat.

Next chapter.

Previous chapter.

From the beginning.

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