Sour, old perspiration odors.Sour, old perspiration odors. "Jesus, that takes the cake," George muttered, "Before I can find something to fuck, I've got to wash clothes." Not that George had ever found anything to fuck when he went out looking for pussy. On the contrary. The only fuck George had ever had in his life, was paid for. A prostitute that had propositioned George in a bar, and had complained bitterly while he was fucking her that he was taking up all of her time, and wasn't he done yet because she had other customers. He had never had a girlfriend, unless you counted Liz, who in the seventh grade asked George to go steady. It had lasted three weeks, and then Liz asked some body else to go steady. Digging through the overfilled hamper, George knew every last piece of clothing, except his grey slacks needed washing. Filling a plastic garbage sack with the soiled clothing, picking up the old socks scattered around the bed, clutching the garbage bag in one hand, George wandered through his apartment gathering shirts from the living room, shorts from the dining room, and dish towels from the kitchen, stuffing the garbage bag full. |