Busted!

Sexual partners since last visit plus last number. They’re even more uptight about what’s considered sex than the Baptist Church. Going down counts. Hand jobs count. Anything involving junk counts. Oh, boy, this was going to be work.

How many gigs since Debbie caught me with Shayla? Let’s see, that was October, so I was dealing with the holiday trifecta gig count—Halloween, Christmas, and New Year’s all tucked in between regular weekend gigs, plus the few private parties we played. Okay, focus: number, not names. No time for reminiscing about that redhead’s tits in that t-shirt, firm bottom boob bouncing under that jagged line where she hacked the bottom of the shirt off, probably with a pocketknife. She tasted like apples.

Ouch. That’s the problem with these clinics—they want you to take a trip down memory lane to answer their questions, and it makes me think about these hot chicks who give me high school boners, and it hurts like hell with these swollen nuts and the goddamn itching. Different plan, just count gigs, no thinking about that Peruvian girl’s thighs, the blonde’s mouth. Oh, shit. No thinking about that blonde, but holy fuck, her mouth was better than pussy. Better than anything, really. What I wouldn’t give for another night with her.

Focus. Okay. A dozen or so gigs, a chick and a half per. You calculate your numbers your way and get off my dick about how I math my own damn numbers. I note that my percentage is up from last time as I fill in my new magic number and give myself a mental fistbump. I finish the forms and take them back to Connie Cool.

You won’t believe who walked in before they called me back. Yep, the blonde, with a big, nasty sore on those luscious lips. Probably would have been safer to fuck her.

So all of that was spinning in my head when they called me back. I’ll spare you the details of the exam. Let’s just say I had a scrip in my hand when I checked out.

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