Holly Lorka - Handsome

Handsome

Copyright 2020, Holly Lorka

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, digital scanning, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, please address She Writes Press.

Published 2020

Printed in the United States of America

ISBN: 978-1-63152-783-8

ISBN: 978-1-63152-784-5

Library of Congress Control Number: 2020907228

For information, address:

She Writes Press

1569 Solano Ave #546

Berkeley, CA 94707

She Writes Press is a division of SparkPoint Studio, LLC.

All company and/or product names may be trade names, logos, trademarks, and/or registered trademarks and are the property of their respective owners.

Names and identifying characteristics have been changed to protect the privacy of certain individuals.

This book is dedicated to my father,
whose sense of humor and stalwart belief in me
have made this life of mine possible.
Im really sorry about some of these stories, Dad;
we dont ever have to talk about them.

And to George Michael, whose sweet ass keeps
showing up at important times in my life.

W hen I was four years old, my friend Mikey told me that when he went downhill fast, like in a car, it made his pee-pee feel funny. I didnt understand what he meant until it happened to me. I was on a roller coaster with the Seven Dwarfs. All eight of us were sitting politely in our little cars, chugging up a steep incline with our hands on our safety bars, and when we descended rapidly while screaming and smiling, I got the greatest, most excited sparkly feeling in my pee-pee. It woke me up immediately. It was easily the best dream Id had up to that point in my young life.

With some time and experimentation, I figured out how to make that feeling happen on purpose while I was awake. My mom had to take me to the doctor with frequent urinary tract infections because I was too young to understand the need to have clean hands when I had them stuck constantly down my pants. The doctor asked me, Have you been touching yourself a lot down there? Like I was going to admit to manually rubbing out thirty or forty sparkles every single day. I shook my head innocently and realized that I was either going to have to start washing my hands or figure out something else. So I made up humping, because I was smart.

I began rubbing around on my bed and bedroom floor with the fervor of someone on fire. My bedroom was upstairs, though, and in an effort to be more efficient, I discovered that the downstairs bathroom was also a fine place to hump. The floor was covered in blue shag carpet, and there was a lock on the door. The only problem was that because of the size of the bathroom, when I lay down on the floor to do it, my face ended up just behind the closed door. Unfortunately, this meant I could see everyones shoes in the space under the door when they walked between the kitchen and the family room. Do you know how hard it is to keep your hump concentration on Shirley from Laverne & Shirley in the episode where she gets hit in the head, gets amnesia, thinks shes a stripper, and takes her clothes off at the Elks Lodge, when you have to watch your mom with her big toes scoot-clapping on by in her Dr. Scholls?

But I would not be deterred. I humped soundlessly, all the while keenly aware of how long I was taking so as not to raise suspicion about what I was doing. When I was through, Id make sure to fluff the shag back up. I was a careful little humper.

By some lucky fluke, I discovered that if I put something down between my legs while I rubbed around it felt even better. New and improved sparkles!

At first I used the My Size Barbie I won in the fourth-grade softball throw. I was pretty pissed when they gave it to me. I mean, what total jock wants a stupid My Size Barbie? The answer was: this horny little kid. Barbie was great, and the kind of pretty I liked, but I was lanky and I outgrew her quickly. Soon after, I started humping the hamburger pillow I sewed in sixth-grade home ec. It was just the right size and shape to fit where it needed to fit, so I got down with that pillow for years. I went on so many secret nighttime dates with that thing that I eventually rubbed one of the sesame seeds clean off the bun. Sure, it was a hamburger, but we had a good thing going.

Eventually, like when I was eighteen, I broke up with my hamburger, which by then had zero sesame seeds left on it, and I started exploring the possibility of making sparkles with other people, because thats what normal folks do. Things became awkward very quickly. I initially blamed it on the boners.

The first boner I met belonged to a cute bodybuilding guy. It was our second date. I was still living with my parents, and my dad was taking a nap in the bedroom next to mine. I brought my date into my room. We started making out and things got a little out of control, perhaps because our date was spent lifting weights at the gym. Next thing I knew, I felt his boner on my leg. As this was my first experience with a boner, it very quickly became the only thing in the room. I swear, it rose up and blocked out the sun. Everything became just bonerbonerbonerboner. My brain began shouting, WHAT DO I DO WITH THIS BONER WITHOUT WAKING UP MY DAD? The obvious answer, of course, was defuse the boner. Or, in other words: hand job.

Id read about hand jobs. When I hadnt been busy humping shit on the floor of my bedroom, I read a lot. I tried to learn about having sex with other people from reading books because there was no Internet yet. In those books, the sex always seemed so amazing, hot, and perfect. I went on sleepovers where we stole my friends moms paperback novels like Wifey or Endless Love. As any curious kids would do, we turned immediately to the ends of chapters, where mens kisses set the skin of womens milky white breasts on fire and women handled the heavy throbbing of a mans member against her thigh with finesse and expertise. Their sparkles seemed easy and abundant.

Those books were obviously not written about a naive, eighteen-year-old honor roll shortstop whose only sexual experience up to that point had been with a doll and a hamburger.

I did a hand job with as much finesse and expertise as I knew how. Unfortunately for my date it was probably something close to yanking his dry penis off of his body while making sexy groaning noises and wondering why nothing actually throbbed. Luckily, he was a nineteen-year-old boy, so it only took him about three minutes to come. When he did, I closed my eyes, because no way did I want to see that. The problem was that he closed his eyes too and neither of us saw where his come went. It wasnt on my hand or on either of our pants. It had disappeared. I still lived with my parents. Sometimes they came into my room for stuff. WE HAD TO FIND THE COME BEFORE MY PARENTS DID.

Looking for come with someone youve only been on two dates with is a little awkward. My dad was still sleeping in the next room while we scrambled around in mine searching for it: on the bed, on the carpet, in my hair, on the ceiling (he convinced me it might be there). This was horrible and the least sexy thing I could imagine, aside from doing a hand job. We never found his magical disappearing come, which is how I always thought of it, until a girlfriend pointed out that maybe it was the worst hand job ever and probably it was so awful that he faked coming just so he could get out of there before I gave his dick an Indian sunburn. I was pretty sure no one was going to be flipping to the end of any chapters to read about this.