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The erotic light of channel 501 swallowed the space, and my thumb pressed mute.
A pale, blonde female security guard sat alone in a surveillance room: naked.
The community is tight and secluded; the campus sits in the middle of a 4,000-resident farm town. I’ve only seen alcohol here once, have never heard porn through the concrete walls but have a hunch the guy two doors down smoked pot when he went home last weekend. The University officials who penned the work named it after Dietrich Bonhoeffer’s book, "Life Together." Bonhoeffer, a radiant theologian, was hanged by the Nazis for planning an assassination of Adolf Hitler and reportedly died a virgin.
In this place, which boasts of conservative roots, there is vocal guilt attached to sex: “Should it actually feel good? He showed no regret in missing out on sex, claiming to have lived a full life — although a sexual summary is an unfair judge of the honest man.
My left hand dictates the steering wheel, while my right hand is clasped to Becca’s manicured fingers.
A double-looped, olive scarf and a single chestnut braid contrast her blue eyes, dilated juniper berries that have been expertly framed. Although her allure lay somewhere beyond my league, she, the graceful cheerleading captain, and I, the mop-headed metal drummer, found an immediate Eros — one that remains clothed and censored by burgeoning, Christian morals.
Now, we drive as college mates, best friends and eager lovers.
There is necking and driving, reckless passion born of young frontal lobes.
She leans her shoulders toward the passenger window and fixates on the moonlit fields.
His tail swayed in anticipation of play; dull claws scratched at linoleum. I wasted days by flipping through channels, looking for skin.