Bill was on his knees in the master bathroom, pants around his ankles, his semi-erect dick in his right hand. His arm hair was matted down from sleep. The hem of his tan sweater was tucked under his chin, giving him a clear view of his progress as well as an unencumbered area to work his full range of motion.
On the blue tile in front of him was a Money Magazine article on the rising price of college tuition. Bill, 41, focused on the photo of Amanda, a student at the University of Florida.
Poor Amanda was in debt. The look on her face was serious. Vulnerable, perhaps, but unbroken. A zoology major with a passion for the environment, Amanda wore a tight UF t-shirt and denim shorts. If Bill squinted he thought maybe he could see an outline of a nipple against the cotton.
“How’s it going in there?” It was his wife Nancy, straining to be casual.
“Fine,” Bill said. Just leave, just leave, just leave.
“Because we can’t be late.”
“I know, Jesus,” Bill half-shouted. “Two minutes.”
He heard the footsteps fade and then shifted his attention back to Amanda. He imagined her slowly pulling the shirt over her head inside her dimly lit dorm room. Her roommate was gone for the weekend. So take your time, Amanda. Her bra? What kind of bra was she wearing? Bill considered this. Maybe something sporty? She was in shape, like the girl who handed out towels at the gym. Bill put her in something tasteful from Gap Body. Black.
Boom, that did it. Bill took it to stage two. Bra-clad Amanda was in her room — which his imagination had draped in red velvet — working on a term paper. She sat at her computer, grew distracted, and began licking her lips. She reached behind her back, undid the bra’s clasp and then did that thing Nancy did where she sort of shrugged her shoulders a bit while the bra eased off her chest. Why was she taking off her bra while working on a term paper? Because Bill needed to ejaculate into a cup, and quickly. He felt his balls constrict. He wheeled around on his knees, found the specimen cup, placed it right at the head of his penis, and out came the prize.
Oh, man. Nancy would be happy. Bill held up the plastic jar and looked at the little markings on the side. He sloshed the contents around. Seven milliliters. A good haul this time.
This was the sixth month. Bill tried not to think about why he was on his knees at eight o’something in the morning on a Tuesday. Because it wasn’t a why. It was a who. And who was Laura, his late daughter.
But, no. Not late. That was how reporters referred to old timers who’d died after a lifetime of something. Laura had had 10 years of stomping on wet worms and taking things apart with a screwdriver. 10 years of being terrible at sports and drawing underwater cities with colored pencils. 10 years was nothing.
Another tap at the door, this one louder, more urgent. “Bill?”
Bill took one last glance at the hopelessly indebted Amanda. “Done. Be there in a minute.”
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