My friends and I are in an on-again/off-again writing club where the rules are simple. Every two weeks you have to submit three short stories that it took you 20 minutes or less to write. These are the results.

She was lying on her stomach on the bed, legs bent at the knees, ankles crossed in the air like a schoolgirl.  She’d bounce occasionally on her elbows, giving me a better view of the crossed racing flags tattooed on her breasts.  We were both shitfaced, had intentionally left the bar to come to her house and specifically have sex, yet she still insisted on going through this ten minute high school courtship preamble, asking such questions as, “What was your worst first day of work, like, EVER?”

I told her I once had to carry a deer carcass off the side of the highway and throw it in the back of a dump truck, a First Day tied with the night at the bar where I ladled chunks vomit out of a urinal.

Her worst day was selling sweaters when some guy stared at her tits and was totally rude.

I guaranteed her she was exposing at least five inches of cleavage at the time.

“Still,” she said.

“You can’t go into work without underwear, lift up your skirt in the jeans section and ask, Why are you all staring at my vagina?”

“He was creepy.”

“Your tits have flags on them.”

“I mean, seriously creepy.  Like Al Bundy creepy.”

“You mean Ted Bundy.”

“Whichever’s creepiest.”

“One’s a sitcom dad and the other—“

“Whatever, he was creepy.”  She chewed on her hair, tried to do it angrily.  She said, “And what are you saying, anyway–the chick who gets raped in a miniskirt was asking for it?”

“No.  But if my dick’s hanging out my zipper when I walk around the mall I won’t act stunned when people stare at it.”

All of which is irrelevant because we fucked anyway.  Not bad.  I’d expected strange angles, a new take on things.  But really she just did the same shit with a different tone of voice. And when we tried to fuck upside down she got uncomfortable.