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He turned over but only to burrow back into the pillow and blanket. She smiled as she left the room, making sure the door didn’t slam shut. Now what? she wondered. Nothing like this had ever happened between them before. There’d been no awkward moments, no hugs that went on too long, no almost-kisses, nothing like that. She’d managed to keep her feelings under wraps. After last night, she wasn’t sure she’d be able to much longer. Not when they were planning this charade for the holiday, and not when she’d be sharing a bed with him again. As she got ready for her shower, she could feel her insecurities rising up again. I do not want to deal with this. I can’t. My boss wants three projects due when I don’t have time for one. Mom has been all over me about Simon. Now this . . . Stepping under the hot water, she decided she just would have to sort it out in her head and talk later. She just needed to get through Thanksgiving, which mercifully was only five days away, and three of those. Turns out, it's more of a curse- instead of getting the nickname "anaconda" in the locker room, I was called "mutant". The k**s used to circle around me and chant "MUTANT DICK,MUTANT DICK! LALALALALALA". I can still hear the faint echos of their torment. My parents had to order custom pants for me. It was rough growing up. Then when I became a horny little bastard of a teenager- it sucked to be in school and to be hard because EVERYONE could tell- I would try to tell people that I had a third leg- somehow that would be more acceptable. I tried taking it out one day and putting a shoe on it but I was sent home. That afternoon, ashamed and sick of my preDICKament- I took out my father's hatchet. There I was, standing in the middle of my grandmother's room in front of her giant, ornate mirror, screaming at my reflection. I pulled out my dick and started yelling at it- spittle (little bits of spit) landing on the shaft "do it! you pussy!" i shouted. I raised the hatched and was about to.
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