continuation of last post

Becky, no, not Becky, Becky’s that broad who kept biting my nipples. I was bruised for a week. Just find the shoe and leave, just find the shoe. And how does a woman put a table there? By the dim light of the streetlight that cast through Sarah’s open window he finally spotted his elusive shoe on top of the television in the living room. In the eleven minutes following Sarah’s murmuring and the destruction of his toe, Steve managed to find his clothes, put them on, brush his teeth with his index finger, open and close the front door, and drive home, but not before tripping over one of Sarah’s cats resting in the outside doorway.

Steve couldn’t leave any place without brushing his teeth or rinsing with mouthwash. It was one of his little known idiosyncrasies that made leaving women in the morning trickier. He’d been caught in the bathroom before stealing some woman’s toothpaste before making his way to the door, and not a few times. She’d want a kiss, he’d want to leave. Slipping out before your one-night-stand mate awakes creates more problems than it’s worth sometimes.

After showering and scrubbing his body nearly raw for twenty minutes with a sand-paper like lufa, another one of those habits to tell a therapist about, Steve began chronicling his evening with Sarah. In between sips of bitter Starbucksä coffee the cells in the Excel spreadsheet starting filling: name, measurements (before fucking he had to know her cup size), hair and eye color, occupation, meeting place, pets, format for sex (this category listed what technique he used to get the woman into bed (lying, embarrassment, singing, empathy, fighting, nice guy, asshole, cheesy line, etc), oral (with places for giving and receiving), orgasm (his, her’s, multiple), cumming (see orgasm), positions, places, repeat visit, and miscellaneous. In the four years he’d logged his encounters Steve had filled up nearly one partition of his hard drive with these spreadsheets.