Oh, we didn’t really fight. I apologized and said I’d pay to have the fiddle fixed. I don’t think there was anything really wrong with it. But after we’d dressed and she’d played with it for a while, she sent me home. ***** What bar is this? Oh. Yeah. I have more of a buzz than I should. I’m almost folded over the side of the chair. El foldo. You have to know when to fold ’em. I keep seeing her fold. Fold, fold, folderol, what the hell did you do to your doll? Someone is talking. Mickey. What’s he been saying? ‘That musician. I hear yer going with her. The fiddler.’ ‘Elizabeth Peabody.’ ‘Yeah. Her. Bill told me.’ ‘Okay?’ ‘So I know those two chicks over there. One’s a spare. Want to help me out?’ What fuck’s he talking about? The bar is smoky. It’s breaking the law, but who cares? It reminds me of a pub in London, one that Dickens used to use. It has the same low roof, the same smog. Did Dickens have woman trouble? Mickey’s girls are smoking. Not their looks. Cigarettes. I think they. Corny came a few moments later. My jaw must've hit the ground, since she was wearing the most sexiest, sluttiest outfit ever. She wore latex bras-the sporty kind. She wore a dangle of gold necklaces around her slender neck, a tiny denim shorts, and high purple pumps. I felt my pussy grow wet but I shook off the disturbing thought. "So, what do you think?" she asked, biting her finger naughtily. "Sexy," I said, at the same time when Orla said, "Slutty". We laughed. "Let's go," Orla said. We strut down the hallway like slutty models and guys gaped at our slutty bodies. We giggled like bitches and walked on, sashaying our hips. When we arrived at the boy's locker room, we ignored the signs that said "No Females Allowed" and walked straight in. I was a bit too bold to be doing that-as soon as I walked in, guys with huge and tiny cocks were showering in the stalls. Some were pumping their dicks, some even making out. Corny didn't seem too surprised-but Orla and I were. "Oh, shit,".
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