Page 22 of The Fed Sex Man

6

Tyson

Saturday mornings weren’t set asidefor the sole purpose of cleaning my car, but I often found myself in the driveway doing just that. After wiping the final drop of water from the hood, I stood back and surveyed the car for any areas that needed attention.

Shawn studied the top of my car for a moment, and then turned around. “Let me get this straight. This chick puked all over the top of your Cobra and wiped her mouth off on a microfiber towel. Then you let her suck your dick with her dirty puke-covered mouth? That’s nastier than fuck.”

“Her mouth was clean. She brushed her teeth after she puked.”

“If she carries a toothbrush in her purse, that makes it even worse.”

“She doesn’t, but how the hell would that make things worse?” I asked.

“If she carries a toothbrush, she’s a certified puker,” he explained. “Pukers have issues deeper than puking, dude. That chick will end up keying your car when you dump her. Or, she might stab you in the eye with something. She might even cut off your dick while you’re sleeping. Rest assured, motherfucker, she’ll do something.”

Completely paralyzed by his ridiculous warning, I stared at him with tired eyes and an open mouth.

“I’m tellin’ ya, Gary was dating a puker,” he continued. “Freaky bitch wore that dark purple lipstick all the time and had him whip her with a wire coat hanger while he was fucking her. When he broke up with her morbid ass, she drank a bottle of fuckin’ Drano. Sucked it down like it was an ice-cold Budweiser. Her sister found her naked body in the bathroom with a note to Gary written on the wall in purple fuckin’ lipstick. The nutty bitch ended up in the hospital for damned near a month. Spent a week or so in there to fix her burned up guts, and two more for a psyche eval. They figured out she was mentally bankrupt, and the cops hauled her crazy ass from the hospital to a nut house in Austin. Bitch is still there, wadded up in a straitjacket and suckin’ her meals through a straw.”

I was completely lost by his lipstick laden tale. “Who the fuck’s Gary, and what’s a puker?”

“Gary’s a forklift driver from work.” He poked his finger in his mouth and acted as if he was gagging. “A puker’s a chick that pukes up her food after she eats.”

I looked at him as if he were insane.

“Your chick’s a puker,” he insisted. “Did she run to the bathroom after you guys ate?”

“No. You’re talking about bulimia. She’s not bulimic.”

“They never admit it.”

“She’s not bulimic, you idiot.”

His eyes narrowed. “How do you know?”

“It was nerves. She’s gets anxious in front of people she doesn’t know, and she got really nervous. She just puked. After that, she was fine.”

He arched an eyebrow in disbelief. “How big is she?”

I shrugged. “Average sized.”

“Compared to who?”

“Compared to everyone.”

“Compare her to someone.” He put his hands on his hips and cocked his head. “Give me an example. Compare her to someone in school.”

Shawn was my closest friend and had been since we were kids. He was a running back on our high school football team, and never quite let go of the memories associated with that four-year chunk of his life.

The haircut he wore throughout high school – a faux hawk – was typically worn by gaunt-cheeked teens and douchebags who rested their white Oakley sunglasses on the backs of their heads. Nevertheless, Shawn still wore his hair in the same fashion.

My father had always referred to him as being an instigator, but I disagreed. He did, however, have an opinion about everything and seemed to enjoy voicing it through the dramatic stories he often told.

“I don’t know.” I rubbed a water spot from the passenger side window. “Karen Felper.”

He threw his arms up in frustration. “Who the fuck’s Karen Felper?”

“Blonde chick that was dating Chad when we were freshmen.”