July 21, 2000
I’ve been sneaking out of the bedroom at night to spy on the men of the Home and Garden channel on cable. Henry says, “Go to the other end of the room, John, I’m going to bounce on the floor and you tell me if you can feel it.” So Henry bounces and the camera focuses on his behind and you can actually see his butt muscles squeezing inside those tight, dusty jeans (plaid shirt tucked in), and John says, “It feels pretty good, Henry.” “Well then,” says Henry, “that proves we got a good stiff subfloor.” Henry says he’s going to “caulk all that” while John lubes the circular saw. I couldn’t take it anymore. I told Dave we had to get a house of our own.
So yesterday we went to the bank. The mortgage man looked at my credit report and then at me and then back at the report and said, “Tsk, tsk.”
I flirted hard with him, though, and it was going well (he didn’t mention my collection bills in his letter to the lending company simply because he believed that I’d take care of them) until I had to leave the bank to host a chat, at which point Dave had to carry on alone. He’s not nearly as good as me at flirting with banker-men. We were rejected.
Creditors are like rug-sellers: they love to bargain. I talked most of them down to accepting a quarter of what I owe them to clear my account otherwise, I threatened, it could be years or never before they got paid. I love finagling and lying! With the IRS, however, there’s no
“Why don’t you ask Home Improvement Henry?” Dave whispered back. “Don’t think I don’t know what you’ve been doing at night. Slut.”
I nodded. It was true.
I leaned against the double glass door the realtor had just checked and did something behind my back before leaving the house.
Ten minutes later, I turned our car around. I parked down a side street and doubled back by foot through the bushes. Dave jogged behind me, warning me about all the trouble we’d get in. By the time we were through the glass door and on the fuzzy stairs leading to the “master bedroom,” his penis was out, up and in. We molested our way up the stairs and into the bedroom and then, because we were scared, into the empty walk-in closet, closing the door behind us. I was on top of Dave with one leg up and bent like I was climbing a mountain, and Dave took my foot in his hand and pushed it up further till I thought my legs would split and then it felt like my vulva was splitting and the clitoris itself seemed to open, and then I had a vision of sixteen shades of glistening red peeling back revealing the secret second clit inside, high up, and this one had been waiting my whole life to be exposed and touched, and I’m never going to watch TV again.
Lisa Carver and Nerve.com, Inc.