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7.30 am. Saturday morning. I find myself awake unusually early. The smell of scrambled eggs in the kitchen. The bedsheets, pushed down to the end of the twin, compose a rigid, mysterious shape. I'm still hazy enough to be unsure that no one lurks beneath them. I feel compelled to get out of bed. During the short walk downstairs, I slowly become aware of a damp sensation towards the bottom of my white t-shirt. It's too late, as my parents greet me with a chipper, "Good morning!" I had spent the 3 am hour masturbating. Too lazy to make amends, I was unable to rise and conceal the evidence. My mother, an accomplished sleep therapist, was the first to notice. "A wet dream, eh?! Well now we have something to talk about, don't we?" I carefully weighed my response. I could pass it off as an accident, but then I'd have to be subjected to a series of Rorschach tests which would all but ruin my Saturday afternoon plans. My father, an uppity evangelical minister, wouldn't be happy to hear the truth, but I was better able to deal with God's wrath. And then, as he always had throughout my entire misspent youth, Frisco, our family basset hound, came to the rescue. Upon catching sight of his guilty-ass face in the corner of the room, I found my escape. I pointed in Frisco's direction: "The dog did it. He coaxed it out of me." "Frisco???" my parents exclaimed in unison. "Frisco!" Frisco sprinted for the living room. I felt bad for the guy, always taking the fall.
Date Written: June 19, 2006
Average Vote: 3.75