“The keys!” “Listen,” I started, my mind spinning and my emotions in a turmoil. She grabbed my wrist and pulled my hand towards my purse. “The keys!” Goosebumps spread from the spot where she touched me. I slowly dug out the ring with the spare keys, and she snatched them from my hand. “I’ll be moving in tomorrow morning. Make sure you’ve coffee and donuts ready.” And without further ado, she stood up and left, the keys in her pocket and a spring in her steps. I felt dumbfounded, outraged, humiliated and confused. And aroused. Incredibly aroused, but I couldn’t for the life of me understand why. I had disliked her from the moment I had laid eyes on her, but her touch triggered something inside me which I couldn’t control. It was only now that I realized how hard my breathing had become. I wanted to cry, because I could make neither heads nor tails of my own reaction. But most of all, I wanted to push my hand between my legs and finish what she had started. I wasn’t a slut! I would. ’ Only one friend, who I will mention later on, called me ‘Mr. California.’ Talk about embarrassing. I arrived in California with my dad at the age of 17. Two to four weeks after our arrival, my dad gets a steady job at a surf shop (after two months he would receive a manager’s position) and enough money to rent out a nice condo near a beach. I would finish the last days of grade school at the local high school there, and eventually make a load of friends. I graduated and received my high school diploma. In the summer after graduation, I would turn 18 and was honored by my dad, who was able to give me keys to a tricked-out truck of my own. I would do the things a natural teenager would do. Summer had its pros and cons. Even though I burst out of high school with a Hiroshima bomb full of excitement, at the end of summer I was left with a firecracker. It seemed that the curse had crept up to me and was going to come up behind me and snap my neck. At 17, I was cool with my dad, spending.
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