The Man from Nantucket

by Fernando H. F. Sacchetto – sep. 2008

There are those days when you’re so pissed off – not for any particular reason, that’s hardly necessary, just pissed off – that you don’t have any business getting out of bed. You know the deal – you look like you’re always chewing down a sour lemon laced with glass, you don’t speak as much as snarl, everything you hear is an insult, everyone and everything – even your damn toaster – seems out to get you, and even cashing in a lotto jackpot feels like torture. That was one of those days – not for me, but for God, from the look of the shitty weather. Wind, rain, the sort that annoys you rather than get you wet, sky of a color that said “piss off”, the works.

A guy – who was probably wiser than all those theology doctors and priests – once said that the difference between the angry, vengeful, smite-happy God of the Old Testament and His more chilled-out, understanding, “just love thy neighbor, okay” self in the New Testament was that He got laid in the meantime. Well, it was one of those days when it sounded like He could use another round. Not me, though – rare as it may be these days, my mood couldn’t be further from the weather’s. And yes, a girl had something to do with it. But don’t they always?

This may sound awfully cliché – probably because it is obvious, in this sort of situation – but Corinne was the sweetest thing ever. I couldn’t help seeing her everywhere I looked. Yes, there was some sex involved, of course. Call me a pig, but it’s simply the truth – nothing makes a man care more about a girl than when she makes him come, and hard. And Corinne was kind enough to give me that opportunity, at a time when I sorely needed that release. But I’m getting ahead of myself – let me start over, from the beginning.