Most of the dinner was uneventful, the usual chit chat and get to know you stuff. I'll rephrase that: she blabbered on and on about her hopes and ambitions and Hollywood and hair and famous people she coiffed and I nodded and wolfed down the food like a Zombie at a Mensa convention. Truth be told, 'food' is a very loose interpretation of what she served me. It looked like she scooped up a bunch of weeds and threw them on a plate. I spent most of dinner ignoring her dreams and looking for anything to give my meal some flavor - dressing, oil, Hershey's syrup. Finally, near the end, I got sick of feeling like a rabbit so I asked her if she had some hot sauce or something.

Suddenly she got distraught and said, "Nothing but goodness and wholeness enters my body." She smiled broadly and shoved a forkful of alfalfa sprout into her face.

"Really? Because the other day, I had a piece of a hot dog." I said.

"I consider anyone who eats meat, evil," she said. "Jamie, do me a favor... don't be evil."

".....Okay."

After I helped her clear the table (hey, I'm a gentleman), I walked around her apartment and snooped through her stuff while she washed the dishes (hey, I'm a Man!). There were angels everywhere. I mean everywhere. If there was a flat surface in the apartment, an angel knick-knack was chillin on it. Bobble headed cherubs shook their heads "no" vehemently whenever I walked by.

A normal person doesn't do this, I was thinking. As I continued looking around, I came across a huge headshot of her in the living room, and then more pictures of her all over the place I went into the bathroom, took a seat on the toilet, looked up, and fucking freaked out again - there was literally a life-sized poster of her directly across from the toilet, I guess as a focal point for anyone having a fecal matter.

A well-adjusted human being doesn't have pictures of themselves everywhere. I mean how do you wake up every day and say, "Hi me. Me. Me. I love me." And then to break up the monotony of YOU, you place angels everywhere?!? Plus who wants their body associated with taking a shit?

I spent a couple minutes sitting on the toilet composing myself before I came back out into the living room.

"Why do you have pictures of yourself?" I asked.

"Because I wake up every morning and give myself a big hug," she said. "Then I sing."

"Why?" I said.

"Because I'm a good fuckin person," she said. A lil pissed off.

Later on she told me how she used to be a biker chick and a huge slut. She blew all the members of Black Sabbath like ten times each when she was their groupie. I realized immediately that she couldn't have evil enter her body, because she'd had so much of it enter her in her youth. She probably hosted the entire Knievel family at one point. She went on to detail even more prodigious tales of youthful sex and sluttery. She was graphic, she was hardcore, she was filthy. I had a boner.

But NOOOOOOOWWWWWWW? Now she was a born-again Christian and a vegan. I was oh so fortunate enough to catch her in her re-born and blossoming phase. PRAISE THE LORD! Lucky me, a re-born vegan! Why do I always find girls immediately after their slutty phase? I have yet to find a girl who said, "It's cool you met me now! I'm really at the zenith of my deep throating ability. Buckle up!"

On the couch after dessert, I nodded and listened empathetically as she beamed about her new found sense of hope and pride, all the while thinking how best to shimmy off her organic cotton underpants. There was a lot of sexual energy in the air and we started making out like two animals, totally grinding. I started biting her neck and pulling her hair. Going crazy. It was ON like Donkey Kong.

"Oh come on, you're not RRRREALLY a virgin," I said.

"I am in Jesus' eyes," she said.

"....Okay."

I grabbed her tit, took it out of her bra and started nibbling on it because I didn't want to argue with her. She went, "Uh...Yess..No..No...Yes..Yess...No...No..." She would smash my head into her tit until I started to suffocate and then suddenly pull it away. She'd push it and pull it. Push, pull. Smash, slap. I felt like I was either gonna get a black eye or Cauliflower ear.

Finally I said, "COME ON?!?!?"

"Oh my God, my body says yes," she said. "But my head says, No. No. No."

Oh shit, this was crucial, I thought. I have to say just the right thing to tilt the momentum in my penis's favor.

I said, "Um...Why?"

She said, "We're not married and you don't love me!"

"What are you talking about?" I said.

"It's bad to have sex before you're married, my sponsor told me that!"." she said. "I know it wasn't YOU that put your mouth on my breast, it was the devil. I know the devil made you do it."

"No, it was me."

"No it was the devil that made you do that," she said.

"No... it was God," I pleaded "God did!"

"No, God would never make you do that, but the devil would," she said.

Then she abruptly left the couch and ran into her room. I was about to leave when she returned wearing an animal print robe.

For the rest of the night she crawled around her apartment on her hands and knees acting like a cheetah. I would be lying down and she would be crawling over me, going "Rrrrrrrr!" with her robe on. And then when I would try to grab her, she would pull away. "You can't capture this pussy," she would say and then slink away and purr and lick her hand. To this day, if I see a cheetah on Animal Planet, I get wood.

I left, arguably, with the biggest case of blue balls in the history of man. She wouldn't even erk it because "of the evil sperm that would be released in her spiritual sanctuary."

Pelair and I never really went out again.

That night, when she dropped me off at my apartment she said she would give me a free haircut sometime. A few weeks later I followed up on her offer and called her. "Hey Pelair, I wouldn't mind that free haircut now."

"Okay, come to my place tomorrow at 5 p.m.," she said.

At 3 p.m. that day she called and said, "Jamie, I just wanted to let you know that I consider you evil and I don't cut the hair of evil demons."

Then she hung up.

You may find it hard to believe that I was ever this poor and desperate, but if you see any pictures of me from 1994, you'll notice how skinny and emaciated I looked.

Not coincidentally, you'll also notice how fucking long my hair was.

Anyway, in one of my scenes with Denise, a dilemma came up (will the puns ever stop?): should Dick show dick in the movie? In other words, was Jamie going to show Little Jamie in the movie or not? To show peepee or not to show peepee, that was the question.

Personally, I don't think showing junk on film ever really hurts a man's film career. If you saw that movie KINSEY a few years back, you saw clear as day that Peter Saarsgard is hung like half an acorn, but he's still a hugely successful dramatic actor and has been nominated for multiple awards. There might even be an inverse relationship between Oscar trophies and schlong size. I don't want Mr. Saarsgard to 'google' himself and find this (although if he 'googled' himself more when he was younger he might have turned out larger), so I will say, in his hypothetical defense, that he could be a grower and not a shower (you need to pronounce that correctly or that sentence makes no sense).

I count myself as part of the 'grower' family. Sometimes, after a shower (now pronounce it the other way), I have looked down to find something that looked like a sad cocktail wiener in need of a Zoloft - come on, everyone has had LDS before! No, not Latter Day Saints -- Little Dick Syndrome. It's winter, you didn't eat your Wheaties, and you walk around all day with a crinkled, deflated balloon flapping in your boxers. Fortunately, I feel like I have a circus clown living in my taint who can blow the balloon up to an impressive size; at times long enough to be twisted into a poodle. Okay, a toy poodle. Still, it's quite a difference from the piece of fusili I had five minutes before. Or elbow macaroni. Whatever pasta provides you with the best visual. That being said, even soft, I'm at least a FULL acorn in season. Plus, the day of the shoot, I wasn't having any LDS problems, so I figured, "Hey, I'll go all in. Who doesn't love toy poodles?"

Unfortunately, more than a half pint of blood flow to the package region and the film gets an X. Yes, that's correct, you can't show a boner in a movie or its gets an X rating. I was very disappointed when I found that out. On the other hand, I didn't want to risk getting performance anxiety penis either. I know it can get cold when you're hanging out in the breeze, and the last thing I needed was for Little Jamie to not come out of his trailer.

Like most men who go full monty on film, I needed to look casual yet respectable. Since I'm famous, you have to add another inch for what is considered respectable compared to some unknown, for instance, who's playing a tranny Off-Broadway (cough, Bill Dawes, cough). That meant I needed the perfect amount of fluffing. So, seconds before shooting, I sat down with Little Jamie and gave him a stern talking to. I shook him and smacked him around a few times like I was Ike Turner and he had jut messed up dinner

I felt that the proud Mary beatdown resulted in a pretty good balance between 'blood flow ready for action' penis and 'whatever, I'm just a penis chillin' with my two homey balls' penis. Still, the director informed me that just because we filmed it, I could wait until I saw the dailies of the footage (or inchage, rather) before signing off on whether or not it could be used in the final cut of the movie.

Seeing Ron got me thinking back to my "tuna fish" days when I had my first interaction with him. I had just been dumped both by my most recent job and my most recent girl. Not surprisingly, I was broke. And I don't mean like 'I got to wait for daddy's allowance next week' broke, I mean like below the minimum ATM withdrawal amount broke - if I even had an ATM card, which I didn't.

That meant the real worst part about being dumped wasn't 'no more woman for sex', it was 'no more woman to mooch food from.' Unfortunately, I still had to eat. So I trolled the restaurant circuit with my doctored-up resume looking for waiting jobs. For nearly a week I got bupkis (that means "nothing" for your non jews out there). That Thursday, I went to a new-fangled vegetarian restaurant in Beverly Hills in order to audition for their Friday night comedy show. After my 5 minute audition, the owner, a fat Italian guy from New York said, "Hey kid, you're not funny, but I could use a waiter." And THAT was how I "lucked" into my job waiting tables at "The Tofu Hut."

The owner was like a vegan Tony Soprano. He loved vegetables and he swore if anyone stole his recipes he would have them killed. Whenever a beautiful woman would come into the restaurant, he'd whisper in my ear, "Oooh, I'd like to show her my soy dog!" or "I'd like to TOFUCK her!" That one was actually sort of funny the first 148 times he said it.

Working there wasn't just belittling for the women; it was probably the most demeaning job I'd ever had. He kept asking me, "So, you're a comic, huh?" and then he would tell me vegetarian jokes, like, "What's the difference between boogers and broccoli? Kids don't eat broccoli!" All his jokes were vegan. I'm not kidding. His setups were usually about tempeh and his punch line was always some sort of vegetable. After he finished his joke, he'd threaten me, "Don't even think of stealing my material. I'll kill you."

Ron was one of the Tofu Hut's most frequent customers. The owner treated Ron like royalty. Whenever he entered the restaurant, the owner would turn to everyone and announce, "Hey guys, it's Ron Jeremy!" Like we were in Romper Room or Vegan Cheers. Then he would whisper in my ear, "Listen, don't screw this up. Give Ron anything he wants."

I'd go up to Ron Jeremy's table and ask, "Can I help you?"

"Yeah," he'd say. "I want apple juice. But it has to be organic. No chemicals. Okay?"

"Absolutely," I'd say.

"Okay," he'd continue. "And I want the falafel. Steamed, not fried. Has to be steamed."

"Sure," I'd say.

"And I want the organic baby leaf lettuce with the organic tofu and cheese. But not dairy cheese. Soy cheese. I can't have dairy. I'm lactose intolerant. It clogs my intestines."

In the middle of ordering, sometimes he'd get a phone call on his cell: "Okay, you need me at three o'clock? Anal sex scene? Ass to mouth? How many girls? Four? Sure, I can do that."

He'd take the phone away from his ear for a moment, then say to me, "The pumpkin pie. Yeah. Is the crust organic rice crust or wheat crust? Because I don't do gluten."

Back on the phone, "Another scene at four thirty? Two guys and a girl? Okay, that's good for me. Double anal penetration? Not really my thing, I don't want to rub cocks. I don't do gay. Okay, I'll see you in a bit. Yes, I'll wash my balls before I go. Bye."

I'm not a huge aficionado, but I like a good porn here and there, so I've have seen a few of his classic orgies. At one point, I couldn't help but notice that he never seemed to suck on any of the female porn stars' titties. I didn't think much of it, but then it hit me: Ron Jeremy IS lactose intolerant. He probably has a no-dairy clause in his rider.

The second time I saw Ron was at the Scream 3 premiere. He had his arms around two girls with the zepellin 90's fake boobs and heavily made-up faces; faces that belied the fact that either they hated their life in porn or Ron had really bad BO. I told him that I used to wait on him at "The Tofu Hut" and he looked at me bug-eyed like I had just come out of a pod and asked him to take me to his leader.

We talked for a bit and I tried to get Ron into the after-party, but I couldn't. He said, "Thanks anyway," and then said "Hey man, I've always been a big fan of your work." I was about to say "me too" but then realized that sounded incredibly gay. It was surreal. Ron seemed like a pretty cool guy. Just a normal, cool guy who happened to have enormous cockage.

I tried to think about Ron's demeanor while I played Dick in "Finding Bliss". I actually made the choice that Dick would be a fairly decent dramatic actor, as opposed to the easier choice of playing him as a horrible hack for comic effect. I think it worked and the director was happy.

Unfortunately, as the dailies would later show, it is impossible to act a 10 inch cock.

I usually don't go to these types of affairs for two reasons. One, I hate banal conversation. Two, I always get the same annoying question: Whatever happened to the Jamie Kennedy Experience? Normally, I can handle boring, mindless conversation, but I can't deal with THAT goddamn question. When I get it, which is almost always, I immediately want to reply

"I don't know, I've never heard of that show. My show wasn't called the Experience, it was called the Jamie Kennedy Experiment.!!! If you're such a big fuckin' fan, can't you at least get the name right?"

Getting the title wrong isn't what really gets me, though. What gets me is that I have to remind a bunch of people in the industry that my show was...ahhh...CANCELLED! And it happened 3 years ago. That's when they go on to ask me why the show was canceled. Oh, I don't know, maybe because networks are assholes??

On this occasion, my agent told me to go because he wanted me to meet with some producers who might be interested in working with me on developing an idea, and all that so on and so forth bullshit. It felt like your basic Sunday morning Hollywood barbecue with all the Hollywood accoutrements: great food, open bar, massage table, ping pong, swimming pool. So I'm talking to these producers, trying to focus on their empty Hollywood speak, when I spot an attractive little sprite out of the corner of my eye, running around without any pants on. And I thought to myself ...so it's THAT kind of Hollywood barbecue.

I turned to get a better look at her and maybe make eye contact when I realized I wasn't looking at a free-spirited Roller Girl kind of chick. I was looking at a girl...a little girl.. YUCCKK.

I fucking hate that!

There should be some kind of beach code: Girls under 10 have to carry a bright orange sand pail. Girls under 13 have to wear a 1-piece swimsuit. How young is too young to not to wear pants? The sun fucks up depth perception something fierce.

Any rape, I look down at the kid at the barbecue a little further and I realize she doesn't have any bikini bottoms on either...or as I like to call them, UNDERWEAR! Don't get me wrong, I'm all for freedom of expression and being one with your body 'n shit, but this party wasn't being thrown in Thailand so a pantless 6 year old girl didn't really fit.
What's weird is, she was tall. Like abnormally tall. She was either advanced for her age or had some sort of glandular condition, I don't know. All I can tell you is that she was probably seven and if you looked at how long her femurs were, at the top you could just make out what looked like the beginnings of a bush. I know. I know: nasty! But it ain't me, I'm the victim here.

I'm sitting there nibbling at a restaurant-grade KOBE beef burger trying to avoid making direct eye contact with her 1st grade furburger, and what does she do? She comes up to me and asks if she can have a bite. Then, just to add insult to felony, she gets really wobbly and kid-like so I have to hold her up as she eats. Great, I thought to myself, I've got a hairy stumbling pantless toddler eating out of my hand while my other hand rests near her ass region. The whole thing was incredibly uncomfortable.

Now comes the hard part. My hands are full, my attention is focused on keeping the Skittles-addled rugrat upright, and I have to do everything I can NOT to look down and see her exposed you-know-what.

I know what you're thinking...HIT THAT SHIT, JK!! Oh, I get it. It's okay for Roman Polanski to do it because critics love his movies, but not me. Oh...it's not okay? My bad. Kidding!! Some idiot might believe that.

Seriously though, no matter who it is, no matter how old, fat, young, old, mom or nun, if someone walks in front of you naked...you gotta look. An 8 year old walks into a room, you're going to look at his dick. Make sure it's there. Your mother walks into a room...you're gonna check out her twat. Not in a sexual way. It's just a glance and then bye-bye. No judgments. I looked, now I'm done. That's it. You'd do it and you know it. We all do it. It's our nature.

Of course if you're caught, then you're the weirdo. That's the weirdest part of my whole situation: the fact that I might look at her spot and then be the one who is judged. I'm the weirdo!? What about the seven year old with no pants on?! Or the parent of the seven year old with no pants on?! If you're old enough to spell pants, you're old enough to wear them. I love how I am the only one willing to come to grips with this half-naked reality and I am the weird one! I'll never understand.

Fortunately, JonBenet got her legs under her and finished pecking at my meat before her mother and the barbecue's host (The F(ph)at Producer) came over to say hello and ask about whatever happened to the Jamie Kennedy Execution. I ended up talking to them for awhile. The mother said they're on the girl's 3rd school in four months. She can't keep her pants on, is what the teachers and administrators keep saying. Imagine that. Her mom was totally zen about it though. She told me in her typical Hollywood parenting way, "Hey, at least she has a nice ass."

Oh, one disclaimer!: It's important to remember that SHE wanted me to write this "contract" and, since I'm a retard, I couldn't help but make it kind of tongue in cheek and a little ridiculous.

Disclaimer to the disclaimer: I pretty much meant what I wrote. It's one of those things where you throw out a statement that you really mean but then couch it in some goofy way to defend yourself in case someone gets mad at you: like my one gay friend who, at the end of a night of drinking, starts with just the slightest of homosexual overtones:

"Well, no girls at this bar. I guess we could just go fuck each other now! Hahahahahha! Kidding, I'm just kidding! That's crazy, right? Like, any of you guys would like to go back to my place and just suck dicks? Of course not, that's what I'm saying... although it might be fun... KIDDING AGAIN... right? There are no dicksuckers here...are there??"

My point is, my contract falls somewhere in between gospel truth and an absurdist Beckett piece. It's been so long, I can't really remember which parts I meant and which I didn't.

Disclaimer to the disclaimer to the disclaimer: I AM THE PIG! NOT THE GIRL! If I was talking about the girl I would have used a more appropriate word like "slut" or "sucker" or "merciful angel princess". Duh!

Here's a draft:

1.a.) You can go out with anyone you want at any time, unless:
1.a.i) that person is an actor
1.a.ii) that person is a musician
1.a.iii.) that person is Josh Hartnett

1.b.) You can go out with anyone you want anyplace, anywhere, unless:
1.b.i.) I am at the place
1.b.ii.) I am going to be at that place
1.b.iii.) or that place is in the untied states of america

2.) I have to use a condom at all times except for blowjob because you can't feel them that way, right!?

3) No butt sex...for either of us...giving or receiving.

3.) We will negotiate which holidays to spend together since sometimes we may want our space to live it up. For instance: I'd love to spend Thanksgiving with you, but you have to make that pumpkin cinnamon pie with the soy crust I love so much. Christmas is you, Valentine's is you. But Halloween? New Year's Eve? Memorial Day weekend? That may be me. Arbor Day, Flag day, and Chinese New Year is all you, though.

4.) I can go out with other girls to a casual dinner as friends, except December 7th...your birthday. Strippers count.

5.) Threesomes are okay, unless it involves another guy. I would rather you not bring another guy to bed. If you want to fool around do it on your own time.

6.) I will kiss you after you go down on me as long as:
6a.) you brush your teeth first
6b.) it was yesterday

7.) You can't make me feel guilty if I won't let you spend the night. Other girls cannot spend the night. Strippers don't count.

8.) If we fool around on each other and something weird happens--a guy has a wart, a girl has chafing, some guy bites your clit off, etc--we must tell each other about it. Otherwise, be cool, and try to avoid herpes.

9.) We have to call each other before we come over, ALWAYS! ALWAYS! ALWAYS!. Not because of cheating, just because I could be running lines and you know how I hate to be interrupted when I'm running lines with really hot girls.

10.) Try not to have expectations. If someone asks if you're involved, say you're open. Unless of course the guy's a scumbag or more famous than me. Then tell him you're six years deep into a committed relationship. And if it's Josh Hartnett, fucking run.

11.) You should purchase all lubes, condoms, dildos, wigs, and heels. I'll pay.

12.) Always know that I love you and care about you and only want you to be happy. I mean, you may get that part in Constantine and Keanu may want to put it in your poop chute. Then where does that leave me? I'm more useful to everyone in this world if I'm honest. I know this contract is unconventional, but so are we. If people can't accept us, they're unacceptable!

Now, the next few stories might make me look a little desperate. They all involve things i did to get sex. What you need to understand is that these are stories from when I was younger. Am I proud of some of the things I did or suffered through? No, but that doesn't mean they aren't the truth or that they aren't exactly like the things every other guy out there has done when he was young in the service of getting his pencil wet. But I'm older now so I do my best not to stoop to old tricks to get girls in the sack. I've matured and realized that direct honesty is the best way to avoid long term negative consequences. That's why now when I meet a hot girl I want to sleep with all I do is pull out a copy of Malibu's Most Wanted, point to her lips and point to my face on the cover. DESPERATE!!!!

These are the confessions of a future ex-scumbag.

When I first moved to LA, I was pretty lonely. I spent all of my time trying to fit into the mold of the typical Californian (I haven't quite been able to figure that one out yet) and get acting jobs (which were non-existent), and no time on my love life (which was never-existent). Unfortunately, at 17, my penis was painfully optimistic. Every morning, like clockwork, it poked its head up and did its whole "Go get 'em, today's the day!" thing. I don't know why I'm telling you this; I guess because it's a good long-winded way of justifying the fact that I porked an incredibly fat chick. I know that sounds shallow and un-pc, so let me be more clinical in my description. She was "morbidly obese." I don't want to reveal this woman's identity, though, so let's call her Fatina.

Fatrina lived in my building, directly upstairs from me. She was... well, fat... and word on the street was that she was real slutty. I didn't know her and I had only met her once or twice in passing, but people in the building complained about hearing her all the time. Apparently, the walls reverberated with tales of her libidinous behavior. Personally, I suspected the sounds were just her eating funyuns.

One night she came down to my apartment eating a pop-tart and said "lets go to a club!" Like I said, I was lonely and my social life was non-existent, so I agreed to go. She took me to some hole in the wall and we "danced." I don't know if you could really call it dancing, though. It was more just me standing there frightened and her spastically gyrating around me. To make matters worse, she was nearly a foot shorter than me, so her swirling globs of boob flab and back fat kept hitting me in the ribs. To get away from her and avoid injury, I tried to dance by myself, saying "Sorry, I need to practice my moves." Still, she always seemed to waddle her way over. With her like 5'3" and 258 pounds, and me 6'1" and starved Somalian skinny, we looked like Big Bird and Snuffalufugus on the dance floor. When she tried to hug me, we looked like a lower case "b". After a couple of -glasses of vodka from the bar, she pushed me up against the wall and said, "Im gonna fuck your sweet little ass tonight."

I said "Please, God, no," but my dick pricked up its ears and said a resounding "Yes." Despite my internal and external protestations, despite my claims that it would ruin our friendship, and despite my good intentions, I started getting a boner. I didn't want it, but it happened. I was so young and horny I practically lived in a perpetual state of reluctant wood anyway - the type of wood that doesn't quite reach full mast. It sort of guiltily starts bending at the ¾ mark as if to say "I know this is a terrible idea, but goddammit, I'm on standby if you need me."

She dragged me back to her place, and began to do something to me. What's the word? ... oh yeah: rape. She threw me around like a rag doll, pushing me against the wall, into chairs and onto the couch. My erection just got more and more pronounced with each slam into a piece of furniture. I kept looking at it through my pants thinking "How is this POSSIBLE? Really?" Finally, she got on top of me, ready to just jam me in, when suddenly she jumped up, went into the kitchen, called Pizza hut and ordered 2 large stuffed-crust meatlovers pizzas. I shit you not.

She came back into the living room from the kitchen with a condom in her hand. Why she kept them in her kitchen, I will never know. Maybe they were edible. Either way, I definitely wasn't surprised. Before I could put it on she got down on her kankles and began sucking on my shmekl like she was trying to get the cheese out of a piece of stuffed crust. Before I knew it, she rolled on the condom and began her blubbery crawl back up on top of me. Somehow my wang found an opening. Maybe it was just a fat roll with a great angle, but it was wet and slippery, so I let it fly. I felt like I was fucking Jabba the Hut. When she lowered down onto me, I thought my nuts were gonna pop out of my scrotum like the eyeballs on a stress toy.

I wrestled my way out from underneath her after like 5 seconds and started to have sex with her from behind. I came in about 8, no 7 seconds, and wanted to go home. Fatrina wouldn't let me. She said, "you're not leavin' 'til we fuck again, faggot!" I was scared shitless. I was a teenager who had just moved 2500 miles away from his quiet suburban neighborhood to be an extra. The last thing I would have wanted was for my mom to have to bury her youngest son because he suffocated under the weight of an angry, sex-crazed blimp. So I stayed. In about 4 minutes of a war of attrition between my brain and my balls, I got hard again, and we started where we left off. I just remember doing her doggy style and thinking that I was fucking an elephant. My hands had to be close to six feet apart. But I was so horny I couldn't stop. I kept marveling at the scene; like I was watching one of those nature shows on National Geographic HD where they slow the film down during a kill sequence or an elaborate mating ritual. The second time lasted about 1.5 minutes.

I feigned exhaustion after that and told Fatrina I wanted to go back to my apartment. She said, "Just stay here. Let's wake up together."

I got to go," I said.

Then she said, "C'mon, let's just wake up together, motherfucker." It went back and forth like this for a while. She would bounce from being loving to angry, to really hungry. "I'll give you a little treat in the morning, too," she'd purr.

Finally, I stood up and said, "No. I really got to go,"

She looked at me with daggers in her eyes and screamed "fine, no pizza for you!"

Almost on cue, the pizza man rang the doorbell. She angrily took both pizzas, paid, and slammed the door on me and the pizza man. They smelled so good and I was so poor and so hungry. Through the front window I saw her throw them on the counter in disgust. I didn't even get a slice.

Every once in a while, for the rest of the time I lived in that building, I would hear her having sex as I walked in the stairwell at night. It never got me horny, but it made my stomach growl something fierce.

I know, I know--two months and all I got is a story about a fatty?!? Sorry more to come.

jfk