made him call in to work sick, and I kept him at my place
that whole time. We was fucking for two days straight.
Sometimes sleeping and eating, but mainly fucking.
I did most of the cooking, but to his credit, he made
sandwiches for us. But I didn’t go in there and watch him
make them, because I didn’t want to see that dead baby
hand on my food. I kept that image out of my mind.
Eventually, I took him back to his place, and I kept
thinking this thought:
How can I take him around my friends?
On the one hand, I think I love this dude. He’s an
amazing human and the best sex I’ve ever had—just so
loving and caring. He was the shit to me, the awesomest in
the world.
At the same time, he’s handicapped. ͳere ain’t no way
around that fact. I can’t take him around my friends. I can
hear their voices in my head:
“You dating a handicapped guy who rides the bus? Is you
serious? You getting community service for this? Did your
probation officer tell you this counts or something?”
“Tiĉany, you were an extra in an Xzibit video! Why are
you messing with this guy? You could be fucking Xzibit!
What’s wrong with you, Tiffany?”
“He can’t keep his drool in his mouth! He only got one
arm that works! Bitch, what are you doing?”
Over and over it went, in my mind. ͳere was no
escaping the fact that I cannot date a handicapped guy.
• • •