Chapter 4 Etta Smith - Four months ago
My name is Etta Smith and I'm a
twenty two year old math addict. You heard me correctly. I didn't say meth
addict, I said math addict. Ever since I was a kid and learned that mathematics
was the only true language I was doomed. Knowing that every little bit of even
one small sapling was an exact distance from every other particle in the
universe and that these figures were changing every millisecond, well it was
'doing my head in.’ I was a math junkie, and it was ruining my sex life.
Math and paranoia, the two main
enemies of enjoyable sex. You want an explanation? I'll give you several. Let's
start with mathematics. When my golf pro boyfriend Caleb, with the film star
looks shot his load all over my belly, I was wondering what exact area in millimeters
it was covering. When his fingers were searching for my G spot, I was wondering
if his knuckles had reached my event horizon (the point of no return) crazy
right?
As for the paranoia part, after I
found out that sperm was supposed to be good for the skin and since a pimple
had decided to show up that very morning, I persuaded Caleb to give me a
'protein face pack' as he so eloquently called it. After he had emptied the
entire contents of his rather large nut-sack over my entire face, I massaged it
in. I thought only crazy-glue dried in less than ten seconds. It felt like
I had just had a face lift. Too tight, so I had to wash it off right away.
Another time, I worried that
Caleb's nut juice had too many calories, therefore I chose not to swallow,
which pissed him off a bit. I’m pretty sure he was still pissed off when I
asked him if he knew of any non-surgical procedure that could make my boobs a
bit bigger. He suggested that I rub them with toilet paper. When I asked him if
he thought that would work, he said, and I quote, "Well, it worked for
your ass." A funny comment I had to admit, but he laughed harder than I
felt the joke deserved.
Besides which, I've never had any
complaints about my ass and the truth is I've had many compliments, but now I'm starting to wonder if when Caleb
says, "Back that ass up,"
he is really thinking, "back that fat
ass up." Would you believe me if I told you he was a minister’s son?
Hah! I know what you're thinking,
minister, boring. Minister's son, probably even more boring, am I correct?
Let's start with his dad. Byron Carter, Presbyterian minister of Carnock Parish
Church. The poor man has developed what they call Tourette Syndrome, which I
believe means that he swears a lot when he doesn't really want to, does that
make any sense? Anyway, he is a really nice man, always upbeat, has a great
sense of humour and I would get off my deathbed to listen to one of his
sermons.
Jesus effin' Christ, he makes
that Bible come alive. Warring tribes
no longer smote each other, no sir,
they fucked each other up. Samson
didn't have the strength ten--or was it more?--no, he was a muscle bound
fucking freak who was obsessed with
that big titted trollop Delilah. You have to leave early to get a seat near the
front on a Sunday, but no matter how early I get there the front pew is always
taken up by the same five old dears. I overheard the minister call them the faithful in a remark to one of his
church elders, or deputies as I prefer to call them.
His son Caleb is tall, broad
shouldered, has a wicked sense of humour and, I think I already mentioned this,
has film star looks. My friends tell me that he is on a mission to screw every
girl under twenty five years of age in the village, but that can't be true.
Moira Anderson is at least twenty eight. Anyway, I think it's just jealousy
talking. He is mine, all mine. I had come to believe that he only wants sex
once a day. From nine in the evening until four the following morning. When
will he let me sleep?
Yesterday my world came crashing
down. As from yesterday, I can get all the sleep I want. My only crime was to
ask about his mother. How bad could that be? True, I did push the issue when he
ignored me the first time I asked. Just like that, Caleb proffered his excuses
and said his goodbyes. When I asked, okay begged him for a reason, he gave me a
couple of flimsy cop-out stories and then added, "You do the math."
"Aagh!"
Was I just another notch on his bed's
headboard? I sure as heck felt like it.
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