NOTHING SPECIAL

"You look glum," said Jack O'Connell.

"Give me a break," harrumphed Estanislao Contreras as he stared at the television above the bar. "I dreamt that Kali and I were going to make love, but we weren't connecting."

O'Connell leaned forward in anticipation. He appreciated his amigo's twisted perspective.

"My prick felt like a twig that was trying to find friction in a mud puddle. Out of frustration, I asked her how many guys she had been with prior to me. 'Do I count men that I got back with a second time?' 'I just want to know how many guys you have been with?'"

"Twenty eight," she answered.

"Twenty eight!" echoed O'Connell. "How did you react to that figure?"

"I woke up as the truth dawned on me," sighed Contreras. "I expected ten, maybe a dozen, but twenty-eight discombobulated me. I had nothing special. I had no time to torture myself imagining all those bastards boning her because I had a boner that I hadn't experience in years. It could have been a model for one of those clay replicas that archaeologists find in a primitive king's grave. I could have hung a flag from my cock it stood so tall and erect.

"I looked at the clock and it was 4 a.m. Kali was sleeping with her back to me. In the old days I would have turned her around and fucked her. Now she finds sleeping a greater pleasure when it comes to us. I didn't want to endure the humiliation of her slapping me, kicking me and cursing me for disturbing her. Instead, I moved closer to my edge of the bed and lay there."

"What happened to the boner? Did you whack off?"

"I felt it melt away."

O'Connell couldn't think of anything to say. He thought consoling words might be appropriated, but he chose to remain silent. Contreras didn't say anything. The two friends remained in their chairs and drank beers.