What I Remember
What I remember is that Friday night after the swim rally when Vickie Vanderlugt finally let me put my hand down her bra and my middle finger grazed her right nipple before she made me stop. I was so jacked up I thought I’d never come down but next morning I lost the 200 free to Joey Distephano (craven bastard) and—fuck me!—I started to cry. Forget it, he’s just a dick, you said as you draped your spare towel over my head so Vickie wouldn’t see what a pussy I was. I felt so fucking grateful I wanted to kiss you. Then you turned to talk to Tim Regan, your back to me, and I wandered into the crater of that puckered-up scar sucking on the alabaster of your left shoulder.