I wake in sweaty sheets sticky with my own c*m. How old am I again? The last time I pulled this crap, I was barely twenty—I don’t have wet dreams anymore. I don’t remember what it was I dreamt of that would make me wake up slicked with my own juices.
Bradley.
True, I probably dreamed of the boy. Still, I hate the way the sheets peel off me as I stand. I hate the morning air on my clammy skin. I hate the smell of s*x that hits me like a slap in the face when I tug the covers off the bed. Throwing the blankets onto the floor in a tangled heap, I strip away the top sheet, then the bed sheet, ball them in an embarrassed fist and shove them deep into the bottom of my hamper, where I don’t have to think about them.
In the bathroom I run the shower hot enough to pink my skin, but the scalding
