The Rig

As I try to regain my composure, I gibber some shits away. My mind is ambivalently split between that omnipresent feeling of having to do the “right” thing and a natural and animal urge to pound her face with both of my fists as hard as I can. Or should I still say her?

I only had 4 whiskies yesterday night, nothing to kill a horse, but for what it seems enough not to realize that the obvious hint of huskiness in her voice was not due to the flu. We went to bed together, and except her sucking on my drooping thing nothing really happened. But this morning, as I wake up, I’m touching something hard and cylindrical under the cover...

...and it is not mine.