"Why do men only care about the size of a woman's breast? All they want to do is fuck me and leave me." She would think to herself. "To hell with men!... I'm done with them for now. But how do I still get to go out to the bars and not get hit on by them?" She keep thinking about this while cooking and eating dinner then figured to go out shopping. Once at the local store she brought hair clippers, men's jeans, a baggy button-up shirt, boxers, socks and some old school Converse shoes.When at home. Dipping the springy thingy into the bubbly water, I drew her leg up and onto my lap, so she was reclined back in the tub. I scrubbed her toes, the sole of her foot, tickling the arch and over her heel. I washed long, slow paths to her knee and back to her foot, taking tender care over a bruise that had developed after the football game. I scrubbed slow circles over her hip, down her thigh, under her leg and back up again, teasing her with the motion of my hand as well as avoiding contact with. "I started writing a linear story when I arrived home that day, but it never went beyond page ten.We got to know each other far too well.But there's much more to that subject. After I gave up I told her so."My stories are linear," I argued. "Just not in time. They are a build-up, a sequence of sometimes apparently uncorrelated facts that slowly form a picture. They have to be presented in a certain order, not to be to random or too obvious." That's an excuse," she said. "It's like an abstract. ” Eddie, Glenn’s best friend since First Grade moved like a zombie, standing and moving toward the kitchen without his eyes ever leaving my body. I could see his hard-on bulging out the front of his jeans. My outfit certainly had an effect of him. “You know where the glasses are,” I said as we entered the kitchen. As Eddie reached up into the cabinet for the glasses, I walked up behind him, rubbing my breasts against his back.He turned and stared into my eyes. He was trapped between my body and.