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2am. Playing Kings around the table.
Jack had already downed enough of the grossest apple vodka to last a lifetime. From the looks of the measuring cup he used as a drinking glass, he had consumed a good cup’s worth. It’s 99% proof alcohol for god sakes. It smelled like rubbing alcohol. It burned when you drank it. His body was too weak to reject it. He didn’t vomit. He just turned red and got louder.
Queen. Questions. Molly asks, “How many sexual partners have you ever had?”
We went around the table.
Phoebe: “zero.” I guess her and her boyfriend have yet to reach that stage.
Stanley: “two.” Both long-term girlfriends. Good man.
Jack’s turn. I was expecting a large number. I had accused him all summer of not coming back to the dorm and instead sleeping around. He was always out. Every night. Somewhere. Having a ball. He told me that he was horrible at picking up chicks. But at least that means he has tried.
He says: “zero.”
From his stories of ephemeral lovers and short-lived romances, he seemed to have kissed more girls than I had fingers to keep track of. But somehow, in the conglomeration of hook ups and flings, sex was still held up to a higher standard; enough to remain special, enough to remain saved.
- A summer in summary
Nikon D80 + 50mm f1.8. Overlayed desaturated layer at 50% opacity; desaturation using channel mixers. Noise reduction for a soft-filter effect.