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It was getting dull anyway, screwing someone who didn't get the game. Her blushes when you pushed her down on her knees were getting old. She was no good anyway, dragged stand up comedy her teeth, and no matter what you did stand up comedy to her she never came. You little neophyte, you couldn't even grow a beard, though you stand up comedy were trying to be Kerouac or Dylan, and you'd read about female orgasm but never seen one in the act. The thought obsessed you more than the possibility of being beaten with the Bible had once. The biggest question of your life was: why waste your time with a prissy little bitch who can't come? Except then suddenly your mother got one big headache that wouldn't go away. That turned out to be a brain tumor and killed her fast, lying in a hospital bed with her sisters flown in from Boston praying around her like a gaggle of would-be nuns who were just too pretty for men to let get away unfucked.
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