There's Something You Have To Do...

With the thong back in place she yanked her overalls up and then buttoned her flannel shirt crookedly in her wrath but didn't seem to care as she tucked it down and secured the bib.

"And once I spread the word around campus about what a shithead you are, this is probably the last fuck you're likely to get around here!"

Well, Dr. Wosciewicz had warned us of the dangers of hypnotism falling into the wrong hands. I was living proof of that.

"You have no idea how hard it was for me to pretend to enjoy that pitiful piece of shit you call a dick," she said as she sat in the desk chair to tie her sneakers. "My fucking twelve year old brother has a bigger dick than that!"

I wanted to ask her how she knew that but felt silence, for then, was indeed golden.

She vilified me still for about another two minutes solid, using the foulest of language not all of which was true but under the circumstances I felt was at least justified. And then she left.

And so, returning to the question with which I opened this tale, I dressed and pondered whether I had acted like a dickhead because I was, in fact, a dickhead, or if repeated experiences of acting like one had turned me into one on a more or less permanent basis. The why's and how's of a thing pale, I suppose, behind the fact that I was, in the end, a truly remarkable dickhead.

But she had been a marvelous lay, and worth every angst-ridden moment of the aftermath! I brushed my teeth singing merrily and left the dorm to get something to eat. Preferably something that wouldn't eat me back.