Doug had an extra cup stacked over the one he was drinking from. “Just in case I felt like fisting, ha ha ha.” I offered up a silent prayer, pleading that he’d really meant to say “double fisting.” Then I tried to ignore the image of Doug’s beer-soaked child molester’s mustache brushing over the lip of my cup, bristle by strawberry blond bristle. But I could not. The beer tasted like kiddie porn, and I had to drink it. I felt dirty and sad. For the children, and for myself.
Gross doug
