“She’s got him bad…”~~~As I looked to see where Daisy dragged me the first time we met, I thought about how me and my friends talked about girls daily in high school. The questions were: Who would get that pussy? Which girl is a freak? Which girl is a slut? All of this because for the first time they see a g-string up their butt. It’s sad really. But I, on the other hand, I was a geek.I was shy but I had hormones too. I felt for them. But instead of saying:“When you going to let me hit that?"Or…“Damn, that ass is fat!"And give said ass a slap.I befriended those girls who were called “sluts” and were called “freaky girls.” I really didn't know why… until now. I think it's irony that even now they would be associated with a guy with me.~~~As I searched for Daisy, a door opened.An older man came out saying to me: “Oh, so, you’re the boyfriend? Hmm.”Another man came out.“That’s him?” He looked back at me, then at her, and patted my chest. I looked over and overheard:“He’s got a good one. I felt like an incredible fraud. I felt like a mysticalfreak of nature. I had none of the support intrinsic in the Mongculture. . . . . .I finally had to tell someone. It was Jim, one of my editors, a goodfriend, who I'd shared several global and barroom adventures with. I'dgiven him a sketchy outline of the Laotian story before I'd left. Now,over the phone, my female voice confirmed what I was trying to tellinghim, but it didn't convince him. I told Jim I was scared and felt veryfucked up. I told him there was proof and how he could see my privatev-blog. I gave him an email address to contact me.He'd written at 3 a.m.: "Fuck, Mike! It happened, didn't it?"I wasn't ready to meet him. I wasn't ready to see anyone. I stayed inmy apartment mostly, slipping out at nights for groceries and things inan overcoat. I continued my daily recordings and my editor friend Jim kept watching. He continued to email me. It was the night I drank the scotch that I just lost it. I was.
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