Pemthouse magazine. The Penthouse Club

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I leapt out of the car, instantly remembering the extinguisher in the trunk. The man of the house pressed the keys into my hand in such a way, staring down the great beak of his nose, he wanted me to know he trusted me more than I did myself. I wilted in the face of all the expectation, of the loss of my sure thing. And in those last moments of summer and freedom, drunk on cheap beer on the outskirts of the city my parents grew up in, I could scrounge up a bit of respect and grudging admiration for the two of them stranded permanently from their monumental love by disagreements that took the form of untruths and rabid tempers. Happens to the best of us, son. Next came the Flamenco-style dress: luscious red velvet worked carefully over my outstretched arms, head, and shoulders.

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They were constantly moving, laterally, up and down, however you moved, they did it, too, only faster, and with a better economy of flow. There was a convenience store in between their houses, where Lake avenue met Falls road. Burnt a whole clear through the seat the size of two basketballs. Glanced through the partially open door. He always answered the same way. He grabbed my fist in mid air.

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Once done playing, I teetered to the bar. Me, feeling like a Rock God—albeit a drunken Rock God in a dress—would smile back. I found a dirt road beer store that would sell to me. Hands, then lips, suction and all. His friend giggled like a little boy. But I managed to scramble out of the house before I said anything terrible. My whole life up to that point could be described as such.

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That was the year I ditched finals and rode around with another delinquent visiting a couple of private girl schools during lunch breaks. I made a quick sign of the cross then sprang from the ledge in a spastic flight of flailing arms and legs. The next thing I knew Marlene was shaking me awake. Ten days later we had fenced and posted and blasted the scrub out of that place so it resembled and honest to God workable cattle ranch. One school had blue skirts, the other, green.

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Pemthouse magazine

Wandering over nonchalantly, my mode of passage unexplained was much cooler. The damn car smelled the same but I was ready to go. A few days later, Les and I had finished up on the ranch. Over and over and over again till the bar of Mennen was a nub. I interacted with them as little as possible, eating microwave dinners, skipping out before they came home from work.

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The border runs right through the place. Here I was, ready to engage in my first ménage-a-trois. But what was Judgment Day anyway? Doug also had this German car, and drove so fast our hair blew back like that old Maxell ad with a guy in a leather jacket and sunglasses sits in a chair, the music blows hurricane force down upon him. Some nights the only other American cowhand would come and watch with me. Check your boots in the morning. I looked up, and realized I shared nothing in common with him. The engine mounts broke on the one side.

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