In my younger years I acquired a reputation for tearing off underwear. It all started the night I got too drunk and passed out in a girl’s bed. We had come back from the bar to her place where we continued drinking until the bottles were empty. I remember her hand and her mouth and even her feet at one point, but the vodka had put my penis behind a two-way mirror and all I could do was watch while a female detective interrogated a criminal with very bad posture.
Eventually I fell asleep and with a cramp in her jaw so did she. But then at four twenty-six in the morning I was slapped in the face, “You like it rough?” she asked, positioning herself above me. I looked up at her as she spat into her hand, rubbed her vagina, and glared off to my left like the devil himself was sitting there waiting his turn. Following her line of sight, I glanced over and saw her G-string snagged in the stretchy metal band of my Timex watch.