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Tuesday 200 - #63

Jake was the coolest. He’d take me and Dougie Douchebag (asshole little brother) bowling and miniature golfing. Nothing like those creepy girls who chirped on the phone all night and never let us watch The Brady Bunch.

He grilled the best cheese sandwiches. One night his friend, Cathy, came over. Mom never let girl babysitters have friends over, but she liked Jake.

He’s a good kid.

He’s no kid, Ma. He’s like twenty.

Cathy was wedged into the corner of our sofa and Jake was laying down, his head between her lap and belly. Douchebag was singing along with The Partridge Family.

I didn’t want to stare, but Jake was nibbling on Cathy’s little finger, using his tongue to slowly move it in and around, like hard toffee.

“Gross,” Dougie whispered, “he’s sucking …”

“Shut up, homo,” I hissed, trying to hide the boner nesting inside my Toughskins. I was twelve. Hard-ons came from nowhere, like hummingbirds darting around the sugar-water feeder Mom hung out back.

I wonder what I wanted more — to be holding Jake like Cathy was or to have his grown-up finger lolling in my mouth, getting to know his sweet, fleshy flavor.

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