Monday, December 29, 2008


John D. was the man. We were thirteen and he was having sex. Actually, he was fourteen when we were thirteen -- that's how man he was. Failed a grade or two, bouncing from school to school, hanging out at Ray-Cam*, selling drugs, boasting faint 'stache, being all Portuguese and pudgy-faced and polite. That's why he got the girls: he did dangerous manly things while saying "please". He'd hold the door open for a customer coming into the corner store he just shoplifted. John D. was the nicest thug to ever take your sedan for a joy ride.

"...she wiped her mouth and then we fucked," he told me with a shrug of his shoulders and flick of his cigarette.
"No way!"
"You had sex?" I shrieked.
"How long?"
"Like, with making out or actually fucking or when -- "
"Sex sex?"
"Sex sex."
"'Bout twenty minutes..."

*Rough community centre in East Van don't front

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