Did I fucking tell you about Billy Johnsons? You know we dated right? Rough, butch guy like him, couldn't resist. Let him put his grimy hand up my skirt the first night. But, christ, I wasn't really resisting. He was cheap date, but that motorcycle felt hot between my
(more) thighs. He use to spit in my mouth when he talked. Eventually I asked him just to do it in bed. Drove him wild, you know, thinking I was some wonton sexpot. Fuck him if he didn't just carry a big bag of rocks in that skull of his for not realizing that his tiny prick wasn't gonna do much for my kitty-cat. I needed more. Wanted more. Christ, was that so much to ask? Shit. Of course, we started popping pills together. Whatever we could, scrapped off old people and corner stores. Fuck did we get high. And that good kind of happy-as-shit kind of high. Fuck. I miss that shit, you know. To have that back. Just one of those blues-and-yellows. Shit, where was I. Yeah, so yeah, we started popping pills and getting high and listing to the same goddamn Bob Dylan tape he had in his boombox. And eventually, as those things do, I was asking for some kinky shit in bed. Rough, weird shit. And boy was that sick fuck into it. Like a pig in shit, I tell you. But a hand around your throat is gonna badly, you know. Learned that in the 4th grade. So, one night he takes it too far. I push him off, call him a asshole, and that's when he looked at me man. That's when that fucker looked at me, all sad eyed, Like I did something. And I thought, fuck this motherfucker. So I stabbed him. Twice.
(less)
