IT WAS COLD as frozen shit outside and the heater in the gym in the only Holiday Inn in Lock Haven, Pennsylvania was broke and so at 6AM, —terrifying earlybird businessmen and hotel staff, — Pedro Cunha, cocooned in a black sweatsuit, with five pounds to cut before sunrise, looked like a bundled up maniac, jumping rope and shadowboxing in the hottest corner of the third floor hallway.
Before he got in the van Coach said, “You look fat.” And Pedro said, “Nah I’m on weight,” even though he’d been too scared to weigh himself because he had the same suspicion when he confronted himself in his dorm mirror.
But he prayed that in the excruciatingly frigid and boring eight hour van ride across all of flat endless Ohio and most of troubling Pennsylvania: —where deep in the twists and turns often a horse and buggy would pull out in front of them to delay their journey on behalf of respecting a ridiculous convenience-spurning God—, the requisite weight would ooze out of him like magic. Sleep wasn’t happening: he was too desperate for it. He had a sack of 22 almonds and a half empty water bottle (yes, half empty, he left optimism in the Oxford parking lot) that with painstaking precision he’d nibble and sip at 30 minute increments hoping the repetition would ease time’s churn. It didn’t.
Audrey thought he was sleeping the whole way. Because that’s what he told her.
The exigencies of a long-distance relationship were becoming the proverbial albatross around his neck, —weird metaphor that albatross, he’d never even seen a bird like that, more of a crane svelte, leggy the way she was, even a little very beaky if he was being honest, with that abhorred nose she tried to angle-hide in pictures; he thought it was cute, once he called it distinguished: that was a fight.
Everyone told them it was a statistically dunderheaded doomed idea; but what if they were eachother’s completionary puzzlepiece, he the ultimate throbbing sword for her amicable sheath and mutatis mutandis sheathwise, if you know what I’m saying, —plus the fright of rending that comfy bond when they were deep in the loveydovey throes (he’d never gone all the way with nobody else: the terror of facing a pussyless tundra, he’d have to restart, it was unclear that what she liked about him was transferable currency, what if he built a hoard of these Audreybucks and in this new country the exchange rate was deadfuck zero), — so she was going to Pitt, he was going five hours away to Miami of Ohio: they decided to trade their nice kissy nowness for the dream of a future of sustained perfect bliss. Four years to endure trials and attrition. This second winter of ceaseless talking texting screenmediated love was starting to drag.
What happened when men were away at war? They didn’t facetime their ladies in the trenches. No. The women waited nicely primly chastely. Subsisting on occasional letters. While the men got the damn work done and came back and told them about it.
Meet my girlfriend! this disembodied voice boring me on the perfunctory obligation: right outta practice call, drained and sore, gotta talk to her about nothing, —Miss you baby, Miss you too, I can’t wait until we live together, piling inane etceteras, —modulating stories about female friends so as not to spook her. When are we gonna see eachother? Well, it’s boxing season, you could come visit me. Baby with work and school… He didn’t say, Are you gonna be a snowshoveler, landscaper forever? You don’t respect my job, she would say. That brute ogling boss of hers. Are you insane Pedro, you think I would fuck my boss?!
If they didn’t fight, they’d grasp past the natural endpoint of conversation until he was restless, she withdrawn, and he’d have to coax away her loneliness.
LAST FRIDAY MORNING Pedro Cunha was scrolling thru Instagram while walking and he dropped his phone in a sewer grate, —a shocking unshackling. It was three days until he was reconnected to the world. Like being resurrected back into hell. The thrill he got from boxing, along with the license to inflict cruelty, was the direct unmediated experience. He was re-tapped into life. Had campus always been so squirrel-saturated and smelly?
He went to the bar that night, the first phoneless one, not thinking about Audrey, about having to constantly update her about what he was doing; usually he stopped drinking two weeks before a fight, this was one week out, —Pedro was 4-0 and Coach said he had a legitimate shot to win Nationals, —but rectitude was a damn drain, why delay gratification in every aspect of my life while everyone out here is skipping around in a lascivious joyworld, —one drink turned into a dozen, aided by Brick Street’s most heinous concoction: the Trash Can (a dump of clear liquors washed out by Red Bull), woozy, libidinously open to limitpushing, he spotted Carmen. In class he’d sit a Few rows back and diagonal from her, watch her take her coat off: all scanty and sexy underneath. “Hey Pedro stand up and show the class your boner!” the professor would say in his nightmare.
Carmen had noticed his leers, she said. Soon they were kissing grinding he was squeezing her, hands inside her shirt it was good to feel someone full and buxom, —I like that you’re bigger than my girlfriend, —that would be insane to say, —kissing biting on her neck which she recoiled from until persuaded by another glug of a Trash Can to throw that ass back.
I don’t think Pedro realized that there was a ferocity and impetuousness to his drunken behavior that actually made him quite frightening. Last year some girl in his hall described him as “that scary guy,” because one night at Brick he was drunk (in his mind inebriation was an alibi) staring at her with silent predatory ardor until she literally had to flee the bar.
But maybe Carmen found that boundary-pushing ferality attractive, that’s what Pedro thought, that the boxing and the dickswinging (though his self-proclaimed lotharioity was a front) were part of an ancient attitude toward life that he was reviving, to beat off (no pun intended) the world-siege of emasculating forces.
Come home with me baby, he hotly whispered in her ear to her (what he perceived as) reluctant declines until her friends finally pulled her away, but not until she gave him her phone number, written down on a napkin.
Two nights ago, on Thursday, they went out; he got fucked up (the closest he ever drank before a fight) ate sloppy midnight Jimmy John’s and he fingered her in her dorm lobby. She knew he was going out of town this weekend and she texted him on the van ride over: “good luck :)”.
PEDRO CUNHA KNEW it was time to cease the exertions, his heartrate was astronomical, he was close to barfing, the Thursday night Red Bull debris wafting up from his esophagus making him sick, —wouldn’t be the worst thing though, puking, would help with the cut.
He walked back into the hotel room, now that he was done moving his sweat was turning to ice, encasing him in his double-hoodie. Everybody was asleep. Ricky & Adán were seniors, seasoned with more than twenty fights apiece, Coach’s little exemplars, course they were on weight (156 and 125 respectively): his bedmate Big Trevor was more like him in terms of laxity, hustle, but the fat bastard was a heavyweight, so he was snoring peaceful unemaciated dreams.
Pedro walked in the bathroom, stripped down. Mirror mirror on the wall: where’s that sixpack you promised them all? If it’s Modelo gimme the whole case and I’ll take it down. Stepped on scale. Cold. Everything’s gonna be so fucking cold today. 197.5. Coach wanted him at 195. Just to get used to doing it for Nationals. Today they got a two pound allowance. 197 was all he needed. Might as well. He stuck his hand down his throat and threw up.
Better get that W if you’re doing all this, Pedro.
COACH WAS ONLY five foot five but he stood as erect as a revered rooster, and thanks to his days as a literal drill sargent he didn’t balk barking at nobody. “The fuck’s wrong with you huh?” Coach said, after Pedro processed off the scale in Lock Haven’s locker room second to last in the line of pale sickly post-evaluation cattle. Last was Lucian McNamara, his chiseled fracashungry opponent. “You look horrible! This guy you’re fighting is serious. This is the kinda guy you gotta beat to win Nationals!”
“I’m good Coach, just wait on it, you’ll see,” and he did believe in so far as expressing the belief outloud hardened the soft pulsating doubt gnawing at him since he had that dream where Lucian knocked him out, plus it bolstered the pie-in-the-sky estimation he had of his own ability, of his sheer propensity toward violence, of the ungamified pleasure he took in leaving a body flattened, crumpled, via age-old simplicity: fist to skull bashing; dispositions that would surmount paltry obstacles like being out of shape or a few weeks of bad training.
I do believe Pedro really wished he was junkyard mean, the kind you couldn’t fake, like Ricky and Adán and Big Trevor and probably Lucian had. Instead, he had to construct a psychological scaffold of lies to bring himself to enter the ring.
I’m a bad motherfucker, I’m a bad motherfucker he’d write over and over, filling up a whole page in his journal.
WHAT’S THE POINT? he’d think sometimes when Coach scolded him, all this work to go to this rinkydink town to fight in front of maybe eighty fifty ok THIRTY spectators with rinkydink lives, enduring the vicissitudes of training sparring rationing food and water: all for six minutes of ineluctable conflict, six minutes where you couldn’t lie to yourself any longer. Worth it for that brief glory, when the Ref raised your hand. IN THE RED CORNER PEDRO CUUUUNHA! But if you lost. Then the patience discipline sticktoittiveness was worthless in fact just amplified the humiliation: —humiliation lingered, unlike glory: —hard truth that hardwon didn’t make it eternal.
Boxing was starting to feel to him like Audrey. The agonizing arduous build. For what? Fidelity, closeness, comfort? Wouldn’t any warm body do? Why was he staking and suffering so much for her? What was the lasting eternal thing? Mudanity?
Poor Pedro. He does think he’s suffering.
THE BOXERS WERE hanging out at the ostensibly palatable Dutch Haven Restaurant after weigh-ins. Pedro, Ricky, Adán, Big Trevor. It was only noon and the fights didn’t start until 8PM. Pedro was last, the accidental main event. Waiting waiiiiiiiiting waaaaaaaiiiting. All day watching the gallows in the distance: Just hang me already!
The young pert waitress standing at attention. How does a town like this sprout a girl like her? Though you could see it in the teeth when she smiled. “What the fuck Pedro you can’t eat chocolate chip pancakes before you fight! You gonna be slow as shit!” “Ricky’s right bro.” “I won’t put syrup on it, I’ll be ok.”
Know-it-alls, telling the only undefeated fighter what to do.
“So chocolate chip pancakes?” “Yup thanks.” “And I’ll have the chicken and waffles and could you bring me a side of bacon?” “Why don’t you get on Big Trevor’s ass?” “Yoooooo, nobody’s getting on nobody’s ass.” “Trevor’s fat bro, it don’t matter what he eats.” “Motherfucker I ain’t fat, I’m strong.” “That strength’s wrapped up in blubber.” “Are yous in the boxing tonight?” “Yeah baby,” Ricky said, smooth like he had a rose between his teeth. “I love boxing.” “Why don’t you come and see?” “Maybe I will.”
Her and Ricky exchanged charmed looks and she walked off blushing. “Damn she was sexy.” “You shouldn’t be thinking about women before a fight bruh, I mean I know a thing or two about power, it’s cause I retain my seed.” “Easy for your ugly ass Trevor.” “You can fuck but you gotta make em squirt that’s how you get the power back.”
Adán’s crass comment and their robust group laughter made them eminently conspicuous; the local looks made them laugh louder.
WE CAN IMAGINE how she was feeling during the drive, the girl in effervescence, animated by the pure sudden impulse of surprise, miles hastened by the expectation of his luminous face giddy from the reveal, why not go see him in the active fruit of his toil, he was in her state, PA, nothing else to do (she took off from work) and it was those bright morsels of care that made the kind of relationship they were building worthwhile (like when they first started dating he showed up at her doorstep with lilies and her coffee order from Starbucks, sure it was easy enough but he remembered her drink and her favorite flower, liked her enough to differentiate between flowers, though, I hate to add, that was two years ago and she can’t think of a semelhant recent example); though, —she would never think lest a bleak doubt subsume her, —it didn’t seem likely that he would drive three hours on a Saturday to see whatever her equivalent of a boxing match was, no, she didn’t think, he didn’t vest her victories like she did his, —he cherished their separateness while she was trying to merge them into a consummate US, —really, this trip, was a hopeful act of conjuring, as if enacting the things she wanted from him would compel him to anticipate her needs, reciprocate (Be the change you want to see in the world, unfortunately she was thinking, ghandily); and if she was being totally honest with herself which the blasting Kacey Musgraves inspired playlist was staving off (honesty, that is), she might admit that the notion that he might only be a quixotic hologram of all the tangible things she wanted out of life was starting to itch like a single louse that would soon become a complete infection.
PEDRO REALIZED THE pancakes were a mistake by the time his butt was sore of sitting on the toilet for his first bout of the day: this one with brutal diarrhea, not the easy gush it’s over but the kind that makes you feel like your bowels are an anchor dropping thru you down into sewery oblivion, shoulda had em before the weigh-in, woulda helped with the cut.
He exited the bathroom and the team was long gone. Soldiers off to play cards before combat; is that what he was? Did all soldiers feel so dumpy and pathetic?
As he was texting Big Trevor, wya?, he got a phone call from Audrey, ignored it, she called again, he answered. “Baby! Where are you?” “Whaddoya mean? I’m at Lock Haven, I got a fight today.” “PEDRO! I KNOW I’M HERE.” “What?”
And she was. Standing right in front of her red 2009 Chevy Colorado as snowflakes started to fall. It was so weird to date a girl who drove a truck, he thought, when they first started dating. Can we ——? They call it a bed for a reason. Her real presence was a shock, memory diluted by distance you can forget how radiant smiley sexy she was despite the unflattering plumpity of her winter coat (she didn’t have fashionable instincts; a coherence of personality that led her to that truck); Carmen two days ago but it felt like an eon, he was stupid in his calculations, attributing to the new girl because of newness, a wild animalic ready-to-bed rousingness he swore Audrey lacked but here she was right in front of him loin-enflaming, kissy, maybe recency-bias ravaged him.
Had he made a grave mistake?
“I can’t believe you came!” “I just had to see you baby, and I got a surprise for later too… but only if you win.” That pinned his enthusiasm, though he tried not to show it; before, the fight was like shadowboxing in his bedroom, sure he wanted to be sharp and good but it didn’t matter, now he had to prove to her, —one of the few humans to whom his successful performance of masculinity actively mattered, — that his ambition and boasting was warranted. “I’m joking, Pedro. I don’t care if you win.” “I know, baby. But I don’t lose.”
THERE WAS NOTHING to do, it was cold and getting colder, but Pedro didn’t want to sit in the gym with the ring brooding for hours, so him and Audrey were sitting on wind-pelted swings on a swingset in some park they stumbled on. The cold, — having shriveled his dick and his lust, — and the boredom was making him surly. “You ok?” she asked. “Yeah.” “Should I uhm have asked first instead of just coming, I’m sorry if that made you feel I don’t know like pressure or something.” “Nah, there’s no pressure. I don’t get nervous.” “Really?” “Yeah.” “Check out my big strong man.”
But it was hard to argue that something was off. I didn’t see them that day, but you can tell when a couple is on its last legs. There’s a translucency, a feeling like when you open a bag of chips and there ain’t as many chips as you thought there would be. That’s it?
They walked in the direction of the gym without talking, hands limply unfervently locked, until he spotted his teammates in the distance on the sidewalk (whom Audrey didn’t know from sight) and he dropped her hand, stood cool. “YOOOO MY BOY! WHO’S THIS?” asked Ricky. “That’s Audrey.”
They were headed to Target, did they wanna come? Nah, Pedro answered for both of them. Oblivious that maybe Audrey, —who hardly ever got a taste of his life when he was outside of her and their shared past, —might’ve wanted to go. “Why didn’t you say I was your girlfriend?” Audrey asked, when his teammates walked away. “I did, didn’t I?” “No. You didn’t.” “They know who you are.” “Ok.” “You’re being weird.” “I don’t think that’s such a weird thing to want, for your friends to know I’m you’re girlfriend.” “They know! Jesus.” “Ok.” “You’re being annoying.” “Excuse me?” “I didn’t mean it like that, I’m sorry.” “Hmm.” “I’m just trying to like get focused, I gotta go start getting ready. Is that ok?” “So you’re gonna go?” “Yeah.” “Ok, yeah, that’s ok. Good luck Pedro. I love you.” “Love you too.”
HE’D NEVER FOUGHT this late, he didn’t even know when to warm up.
Ricky fought first: he was a brawly hardhitting southpaw and he got an easy stoppage in the second round; Adán was up next, —his fights were never in doubt, he was a shoe-in to win Nationals at 125, — as usual he used his slick head movement and relentless pace to win a unanimous decision, hardly getting touched.
Pedro started wrapping his hands, —Coach wrapped everyone else’s hands with gauze, but Pedro was superstitious, in his first fight he used his own red handwraps and he won, so he was sticking to that until it failed him, —bouncing around, shadowboxing, trying to get a sweat going, already exhausted: a horrible sign.
Big Trevor was up. Pedro sparred him all the time, so he knew how hard the dude hit. He was six foot six 260 and got his big ass into every single one of his punches. The only time Pedro had ever been knocked down was sparring him, Trevor hit him with a right cross and when Trevor was giving him a ride after practice, Pedro couldn’t even remember his address. All his fights went the same way, for three rounds he’d stand like a statue with his hands up, getting pushed up into the corner taking damage while Coach and everyone in the gym yelled PUNCH! and then with 30 seconds left in the last round, he’d uncork that big right hand and knock his OPPONENT out. This was his 10th fight and he was 8-1. Big Trevor’s opponent was from Lock Haven and the crowd was in a frenzy for the hometown boy until he was laying flat on the mat like a popped balloon.
Three Miami fighters up, three wins. Pedro had to bring it home for the sweep.
WE CAN IMAGINE how she must’ve felt enduring the weary rigamarole of the protracted spectacle of a sport she didn’t like and didn’t understand; however despite that, it was a thrill watching the other fighters on Pedro’s team win so easily, comprehensibly (when in some of the fights she didn’t understand why the judges chose one boxer over another, there was a calculus to this head-bashing she didn’t quite comprehend), and she assumed Pedro would do just the same, and it would be easy to move on with the night, with her second impending, delightful surprise, and he’d be so euphoric she could ignore all his earlier irascibility; everything, all her in-bleacher loneliness, without the slightest chit-chat buddy to ameliorate the dead-air, everything would be redeemed by watching her love, her man, make his ringwalk and kick some lowly bastard’s ass.
UNFORTUNATELY THERE WAS no way to abridge time to be slumped in the van satisfied at the sweat of his labor, post-service receiving kudos or lamentations, at this moment the result of the fight was immaterial, he wanted it to be over, so he was praying (he was always praying impiously; the nastiest kind of unbeliever, I know I don’t believe but pleeeeeeeeeeasseee can I have something?) for a disaster to strike to gymnasium (that was surprisingly packed, vibrant) leaving all unharmed save the ring which would be too wrecked to continue; it almost happened, really, I saw this myself, while the penultimate fight was in the ring (and 7-2 Lucian McNamara was wailing on the pads like a wild boar and Coach was whispering the gameplan in Pedro’s ear, “you can beat this fucking guy, just stay at your range, jabbing and moving, and when he steps in hit em with those damn uppercuts! uppercuts are free dammit, use em!”) one of the fighters took a hard step and the board underlying the canvas in the ring caved in. He rejoiced. Surely that would be it. A perfect excuse. “That was some bullshit man, I was gonna beat that dude’s ass! He’s lucky!” No. After a 35 minute delay everything was fixed.
It was time to fight.
HE COULDN’T HELP but notice how much more focused Lucian looked than him when they touched gloves in center ring. Pedro was five inches taller than him, but I think he had resigned himself to the fact that he was going to lose, and no advantage would bail him out now.
Pedro flicked his jab lazily and didn’t bring his hand back to his chin and Lucian wallopped right over the top with a big right hook, it ain’t so much seeing stars no it’s like headlights on a pitch black street bash flash it’s over so fast you can’t even remember it before you’re getting binged again and then the woozy feeling you’ve fought this fight before like you’ve seen it in a dream or something; the you-can’t-handle-this-guy despair, three four clean shots before Pedro got going, last-ditch jabbing and moving.
The bell rang to end the first round, Pedro wobbled back to his corner legs like rubber stilts. “I think that round was close Pedro! Just jab, jab, and bust him with that right hand. Don’t let him get inside your range!” Adán, who was helping in the corner added, “four more minutes! Push!”
The second round was a complete battering. That little bastard had somehow found his range with the jab, parrying with the lead hand and jabbing right off it, —a technique all the West Point fighters used, —and he was getting inside whenever he wanted, landing on Pedro’s chin and nose and ribs and liver; everytime he was about to quit, fall to the canvas and accept the referee’s succor, Lucian let up, like he was teasing a heavy bag.
How the fuck was there still another round left?
He walked back to the corner with his nose and mouth bleeding. It’s not like the punches really even hurt. That was one of the first things that shocked him about boxing. The apprehensive fear of receiving the punch was way worse than the contact. But today, he was suffering something new. The terror of being overwhelmed. There was nothing he could do against this guy. He was completely overmatched.
Adán gave Pedro a sip of water so that he could swish it around and spit his blood into the bucket, —while Coach told him, “you’re down, you need to finish him to win the fight,” —pretending there was still a chance, — but Pedro missed the bucket and accidentally launched a stream of bloody spit right onto the judges’s tables where he received an audible, “EW!” —as if he needed another factor against him on the scorecards.
He tottered out for the last round, swearing he could hear Audrey in the crowd, “KICK HIS ASS PEDRO!” but there was going to be no asskicking this round, his only call was to survive to hear the final bell, so he spent the entire round ignominiously refusing to fight, his arms and legs were so full of lactic acid he couldn’t have landed a good punch if it was his fiercest desire, so instead he clutched Lucian like an insatiable koala, “STOP HOLDING!” the referee and West Point’s coach kept yelling at him with wicked ire, the crowd even started to boo, but as soon as he was dispatched he would latch right back on.
But time passed. The fight was over.
AFTER RECEIVING OBLIGATORY knuckles from his teammates, —that confederacy of winners he was excluded from, — Coach pulled him aside, “I matched you up with that guy as a reality check. You’re out of shape cause you’re not training hard enough. You got potential but you need to focus, if you make a splash at Nationals, we could win as a team, ok? Go shower up, you’re gonna be running more than you ever ran in your life on Monday.”
Audrey was waiting to talk to him next. She was smiling, beautiful, —scorning his failure, — robust and ruddy with relief and admiration, but as she went to embrace him, “I’m gross, I don’t wanna get my blood and sweat all over you.” “I’m so impressed Pedro, you were amazing!” “I was horrible. I lost.” “So what, people lose! I loved it.” “I fought like fucking shit.” “Ok, what do you want me to say?” “Nothing. I’m gonna go shower.” “And what, you think I’m gonna wait up for you—” “I mean—” “It’s 11 o’clock—” “Yeah and you got a long drive.” “Yeah well—” “Thanks for coming.” “I mean this was my whole Saturday you know that right, I spent my whole day off to come here and watch you do that.” “What, did you have other plans?” “Ok, see you later.” “Audrey wait! Don’t walk away!” He ran to catch up with her. “Ok… yeah?” “I don’t know what to say.” “I’m not surprised.” “…” “I’m not just gonna stand here while you stare at me.” “I guess I’ll go take a shower. I love you.”
Captivated by his own self-pity, Pedro let Audrey walk away.
AN HOUR LATER the team was at Burger King, chowing with gnashing smucking triumph, having forgiven Pedro for his loss and re-accepted him into their fraternity; the hamburger, the french fries, the milkshake: it was all so absurdly sublime that his pitiable misery felt like an ancient ruin, distant, desiccated of any bloody human drama, until Ricky said, “You got a little baddie don’t you Pedro, huh? She’s fine.” “Bruh that’s why he lost, all that pussy earlier wore him out.” “Nah.” “What you gotta do next time is if you let that shit spill before a fight, you know what I’m saying, you gotta eat six raw eggs, that’s the only way to get the power back.”
“Have some respect while I’m sitting here you jagoffs,” Coach said, … “anyway I got laid before plenty of fights. I ain’t never got my ass kicked like that.”
Everybody laughed.
WE CAN IMAGINE that on the 4th floor of the only Holiday Inn in Lock Haven, PA, — coincidentally coterminous with an onanistic phony in the room exactly below (who you’ll see soon), — she was lying in the bed that should’ve been a conjugal surprise to her weary soldier, being able to spend the night restfully ensnuggled, and though she told herself the surprise (her long-awaited heat) wasn’t contingent on his behavior, at some level it must’ve been because she bided her time to tell him, —the victory wasn’t the thing, she was wise enough to know the meretriciousness of results, — but his whole disposition confirmed to her her worst fear (and we might wonder if she came all this way to confirm a suspicion: a private eye’s ambush), that she might’ve wasted a few years on a unbloomable dud; nonetheless, she thought, laughing to herself looking up at the timemottled ceiling, she was still young and beautiful, she could afford the mistake, plus, kindness and fidelity were their own reward; and so resigned to her fate, I happily surmise, she checked the weather-app before she shut her eyes: tomorrow was going to be unseasonably sunny and warm; and a peace like the presentiment of that sunshine on her head came over her, she had absolutely nothing to do tomorrow or the next day, she would sleep as long as she liked, and when she woke up, she would take a long languid drive home.
IT WAS PEDRO’S turn in the bathroom before everybody went to sleep. Almost one in the morning. He typed out a message to Audrey, “hey I was an asshole today. I’m sorry. You mean everything to me. I love you. I’m so grateful that you came out here to see me! You’re the best,” but he deleted it, she was driving anyway, she wouldn’t see it.
Instead, he pulled up a naked picture she sent him a few months ago, his cherished favorite, and he dryly jacked off into the toilet.
Contemporaneously with the completion, he got a text from Carmen: “hey srry i was busy all day! how did the fight go??”
He texted back: [REDACTED]
I think we can imagine what he said.
I fw you bro