My self-worth vanished. It was as if a trap door in my gut had been sprung, my insides falling into nothingness. Filling the void was a raging erection. Why? Well, guys get erections, don't they? Do we have a choice in what makes us hard? The truth is that sometimes erections just arrive, like Christmas. I was a dead horse that Kelly seemed hell bent on beating. Was she deliberately picking the bones of my carcass? Or was she merely proud of her brother's performance. The result was that I became an empty shell, an emotional skeleton with a boner. She said, "Dude, he so kicked your ass. He never even broke a sweat." I felt a warm stickiness on my thigh. Looking down at my jeans, I saw a wet spot the size of a quarter. I had sprung a leak. After dropping Kelly off I drove home and went immediately into the basement where I made haste for my designated masturbation chair. It was a ragged old upholstered chair under which I kept a roll of paper towels. Hidden nearby was a stash of girly. I don’t know why it mattered to me that he wasn’t going to be there. Our interactions were limited because of the work they had and the work I had, it was fleeting moments, quick words, a smile from across the sales floor, a soft pinch as I walked by, that made every stupid, exhausting minute over the last five nights seem like they were worth it, the hours left before me seemed to grow exponentially at his absence. I threw myself into work, cleaning employee areas, moving things, rearranging displays, pushing product to the floor. Within the hour, I was sweating and breathing hard and trembling with my false energy. I stood there with my hands on my hips as the Spanish men filed past me to step outside for a smoke break. I wiped my forehead with the back of my arm, ran my fingers through my long hair, pulling it into a ponytail. I was thankful I had chosen to wear a tank-top, and a black one at that, so that no one could tell how hot I was, and I rolled the bottom of my jeans up to.
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