“O Bryanie-whiny, my little Indian grey mongoose, I can’t go on telling so many lies of omission,” Jenny cried, after our first bedtime exploit; “I’m gonna give it to you straight: the truth is that you’re not my first lover.”
Upon hearing this, I blinked and two teardrops rolled down my cheeks: “Who was this precursor of whom you speak?”
Jenny gulped and said: “Well, it wasn’t just one single precursor; it was actually multiple precursors. Remember all those ladies I was partying with, when we first met at the kegger? Well, those gals and I were members of a collective undercover romantic partnership. But please note that all this was only in the past — for I haven’t been attending their meetings since I met you.”
I had been frowning while listening, but now I tried to smile. “I accept your past history; all that is just water under the bridge,” I said, wiping my tears away. I really did try to mean these words, when I spoke them; but the ugly truth was that Jenny’s confession drove me out of my mind with jealousy. — I drank a few more beers real fast, but instead of relaxing me, they acted like fire in my veins. Soon I exploded and began to swear and cuss. “You strumpet! You trollop!” I shouted at Jenny and punched the wall.
“Oh, I see,” she shouted back, “now you’re going to act like a classic drunk, just because I participated in beautiful activities on the Isle of Lesbos.”
Try as I might, I couldn’t think of any other mean things to say, so I just stomped around the place roaring and punching dents in all the walls. Jenny joined in and screamed and yelled while pounding her fists on the furniture.
All the commotion alarmed our neighbors, so they called the police. Soon, two whole squads of patrol vehicles arrived outside of our place with flashing lights and blaring sirens.
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