Aiming for a creative life

I Am Santo

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Dean made another effort to straighten the room around him, as if thinking hard enough would chase away the spins of his recklessness. Had it been four shots or five of tequila? And at least four beers, right? Thinking about it made his stomach churn hot inside him, as if he were digesting his dark thoughts and they proved to be real poison. He would have to throw up, but she was there. Jenna. She was next to him or at least nearby. He didn’t want to turn and look, but her scent hung on the air, and he smiled even as her flowery loveliness threatened to draw sick from him in great heaves. He thought about fucking her. He’d dreamed about it since they first met in Freshman Intro. to Lit. class. And now here she was. Or at least had been. Dean wasn’t sure. The overhead fan kept spinning and spinning above him and as his eyes fought to keep it straight, he kept smelling her. Was that her voice? Someone was groaning, low and away like a bad pitch in one of his games. A missed location Coach Jefferies would be on him for. He’d see him in the dugout, staring him down with ice blue eyes, and Dean would taste the old man’s cock in his mouth, as if it never ended; as if Dean still was sucking his way onto the team and into the scholarship. But he was a big deal now, lying in bed with Jenna finally. He had her smell all around him. And when he turned and saw Eric Maheem tugging at Jenna’s hair while slamming her naked body hard from behind, Dean vomited all over the bed. His eyes shut and he imagined it all over them, all over everything, and he wished it was blood. But he knew it was semen, the seed swimming deep within him that would forever hold him back from success. The seed he now remembering drawing from Eric because Eric knew about Coach and he knew Jenna would think it was hot. Dean vomited and smiled. Because they deserved his bile. They had earned his hate. (at Spun)

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