It was impossible to deny the thing wasn’t at least a little sexual. I was masturbating every morning in the shower again and, unlike the past weeks, I was able to orgasm. Now my mind had something concrete to focus on—baggy stained shirts, jeans that sagged sadly, crinkled eyes, a ponytail that I wanted to wrap around my fist, pull against my face, rub over my eyes, ears, nose, mouth, see if it had the power to improve my senses, what did pepperoni and pickles taste like on her tongue, I often pictured us standing close but not touching, just saying “Hey” back and forth, her breath meaty and
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