Wet phond chat

But I also felt bad that I'd left Nicole in the lurch, and on occasion I'd still have a late-night phone visit with her.

I just wanted to call and make sure you were doing all right."That night, on the shoulder of I-94, big rigs howling past, I thought of Nicole. We should meet up." There was a long pause, the kind of silence you hear when the TV's showing footage of a plane crash or a natural disaster and the anchorman's at a loss for words. It's fucking freezing here, anyway."Ten days later, I was in Austin. This was the kind of girl I'd move to Texas for. I turned away and headed out of the restaurant, almost bumping into a guy on his way in.

We'd had kind of a nice connection, hadn't we? Nicole suggested we get together at an Applebee's off I-35 at the far-north end of town. I wondered if we'd be having sex in my hotel room tonight. He was black with a shaved head, about 30 years old. Then slowly, shyly, he raised his hand and gave a little wave. We went inside and sat in a booth far from everyone.

For the most part, I stopped answering Nicole's calls.

I was busy, and I was dating real girls—real in that they were in the flesh in front of me, and real in that they were unquestionably biological girls.

"), and then other times, I performed in the voice of a black comedian making fun of the way white people talk, over-pronouncing each word ("Oh yes, baby, golly gee, keep licking my penis, that just feels absolutely stupendous! Only irony could distance me from the sad truth of what I was really doing: jacking off in the back of my van in a Taco Bell parking lot in Jefferson City, Missouri, while talking on my headset to someone who was possibly a man.

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