Bawl. To the point of being unable to breathe evenly. And no one, not even my father, can tell whether or not I’m faking. I have always been a very,...very convincing crier. And it has gotten me out of more trouble than I can tell you. You know the argument about nature versus nurture? My crying is all nature: I was born with it. My dad didn’t see any of this coming and he didn’t react quickly enough to block me from reaching his lap, and so there I landed. Crying and crying and crying,. It is so sweet, and my hand is reaching down - down to my boxers, swelling, as my feet dangle in the warming swimming pool. The first tangle of my hairs - I lick my finger, and can taste the sweat of it all, each meal and fibre of my being, emenating from me, as I feed myself my own desire by the water. Ah - and there it is, my hand grasping my shaft - half-spent, already sticky, already salty - as if any second I might gush upon my stomach. I feel my holes clam-clench, salt and fragrance in. More

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