George knew they were off to a rousing sexual encounter, while he sucked on his scotch and water, hating the taste, feeling it lay there in his belly, fumes rising.George knew they were off to a rousing sexual encounter, while he sucked on his scotch and water, hating the taste, feeling it lay there in his belly, fumes rising. The worst part was the going home alone, drunk, room spinning until he put one foot from the bed to the floor to stop the spin. George went to concerts, football games, the dog races, horse races, flea markets, and any place else that people gathered, to meet that special someone that would take him home and fuck his brains out. George didn't want a relationship, George wanted to fuck. In a relationship, George would have to take his girlfriend out sometimes, and buy her presents on her birthday, and remember the anniversary of when they met and all that crap, and all he really wanted to do was fuck. He even stooped so low as to ask Thelma if she knew a nice girl he could meet. Thelma said he didn't need a nice girl, he needed a girl to screw, and the hairs wiggled when she laughed at him, deep shadows between the huge breasts shaking with her laughter. Thelma was a bawdy bitch. George hated the weekends, Sunday being the worst. Except for the fat paper, he had nothing to do on Sunday, and worst of all, nobody to do it with. |