Clint sat up in bed, the sweat on his body the last reminders of his recent memory of Harvey Jennings fucking the shit out of Tina Morales.
He didn't want to jack off any more.
He didn't want to be alone.
He didn't want his cock to be alone either.
At the age of twenty-eight, Clint Mallory felt that he shouldn't be a virgin, that he should have been able to dip his prick into something other than a calloused right hand.
Shit, maybe something was wrong with him.
Maybe B.O. or bad breath.
Maybe chicks didn't like his clothes.
He got up and dragged himself to the mirror – the one hanging from the closet door.
The face didn't look bad. No scam, wounds, bleeding zits, runny nose. If anything, his face looked drab – like the ones rape victims always describe to the cops: "He was medium height. Avenge build. Masculine face. No… no distinguishing characteristics. Do you think you'll catch him?"
Clint eyed his flesh.
Yeah, avenge build, medium height. God, why couldn't he have some distinguishing characteristic – like an appendix scar, or a double navel, or warts for nipples. Why couldn't he have something unique?
He lifted his cock. Average size. Nothing particularly outstanding. Four inches limp, six inches hard. Circumcised like most clean guys today.
God, why couldn't he have a prick like Harvey Jennings?
Why couldn't his prick be longer, or stronger, or wider?
Why couldn't it have gnarls and moles, or even little bumpy things like he had seen on those well-hung guys on the marquee down at the Boom-Boom theater around the corner – the one that had a picture of a girl kissing a huge that was connected very subtly to some guy's hairy loins.
Shit, why couldn't his cock have a big X stamped on it?
He hefted his balls. A mere handful. Nothing to be proud of. Oh, there was hair on them, and they hung down instead of up, and they were in a wrinkly sac, and one ball was lower than the other one so that when he sat cross-legged it wouldn't feel like he had placed them in a vise.
But God, why couldn't he have big distinguishable balls, some jewels that would make his swimming trunks protrudes with something more than a four-inch cock when limp?
Clint wanted to cry when he looked at himself. The only thing that made him unique was that his right hand wore a size-ten glove and his left hand a size eight.
And, just like the times when he saw Harvey Jennings fucking the shit out of Tina Morales, he felt like he was in the middle. As if his whole life had no beginning and no end.
Shit. He was determined that there was going to be a beginning for him. He would start soon, maybe tomorrow, or the next day.
No, he would start right now. He would have a beginning or else he would have an end.