Dear DJ,

Do you remember how Greg's sister would call us dweebs as if that was something people actually said? My haircut back then was shorter, spiked up in the front like a wave. This was in 7th grade, before everyone else started spiking their hair up in the front. I was inspired by the lead singer of my favorite ska band and, looking back, I like to think I was cutting edge. Nobody cared though, least of all Greg's sister, who said it made me look like Ace Venture, clarifying: "and not in a good way."

We'd sleep over at Greg's house simply because his sister (a Junior!) would have slumber parties with other cheerleaders. We'd walk to the kitchen at 2 am, telling Greg we wanted fudgesicles, knowing that once we opened that freezer door, we'd instead find a bra.

"Yeah," Greg explained every time. "Whoever falls asleep first gets her bra put in the freezer as, like, a prank. It's really stupid."

Not to us, DJ.

One day, as we left Greg's through the laundry room, you told me to keep a lookout. Instead of watching out for Greg, or his sister, or his gremlin-like mother, I watched you grab two pairs of panties from the top of the washing machine and stick 'em in your pocket.

On the way home, enveloped by lines of trees loitering on pristine lawns, you examined each pair closely. One was purple and shiny, the other was a white thong with a cartoon penguin on the front. You seemed significantly more interested in them than I was. Not that I didn't like them, they seemed awesome, but only because Greg's sister's vagina was occasionally in them, and when said vagina wasn't in them, I didn't see a whole lot of worth there.

You did.

Without even looking at me, you handed over the thong with the cartoon penguin, "You can have these."

When I got home, I scrubbed the underwear you gave me in my bathroom sink with a bar of soap, trying to get two, small, reddish-brown bloodstains off of them.

I can see why you didn't want them.

I used cold water, as cold as I could get it. That's how my mom would get blood out of her shirts before my dad had moved out of our house.

I let the underwear dry by hanging them behind my bedroom drapes.

The next night, holding the fabric of the panties between my thumb and pointer finger, I masturbated to the thought of Greg's stupid sister. To be honest, it didn't really seem to enhance a whole lot.

Did your jerk off into yours?


Don't tell me.

I don't want to know.

- MJ


Nothing could get those bloodstains out.

Not even my semen.


Fwd: >