Cold Cream

He can't stop chewing his fingernails.  He likes the grit inside.  The chewy finger dirt.  A blind date once told him it was bad for him.  She said, "You're chewing on shit.  That's actual shit."  She was the same girl who made him lick her fake leather boots.  Then she got all prissy and wouldn't take her shirt off.  She had a dumb tattoo on her calf.  They were making out on her couch while her roommate, a tall awkward girl with thick glasses, watched porn in her own room.  Their wet mouth sounds were drowned out by the moaning television.
      Every time he tried to paw at one of her buttons or zippers, she told him she looked better with clothes on.  He told her he couldn't see anything anyway, with all the lights out.  She said even his hands would like her better with her clothes on.  He started to wonder if there was something wrong with her.  Maybe she had a scar or a fake appendage. 
      Finally she said, "Okay.  Wait," and he heard a zipper being pulled.  Untoothing itself apart. 
      It was just her bag or purse. 
      He heard some unpacking of things and the ketchupy squirt of some lotion.  "Let it out," she said to him.
      He felt her hand move toward him then, something cold poking him in the stomach and moving down.  There was so much of it in her hand, he could barely feel her fingers.  They felt like cold breakfast sausages. 
      When she was done with him, she gave him a wad of toilet paper to clean up.  A bunch of it stuck to him.  His penis looked like a papier-mâché puppet.
      "Can I do it to you?" he asked. 
      "Not today," she said. 
      It really bothered him that she said Not today instead of Not tonight.  It sounded snide the way she said it.  Like thanks, but no thanks. 
      He didn't know what to do with himself.  He felt a deep connection to the couch. 
      He thought he heard her laugh.  But maybe it was coming from her roommate's room.  
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