Free Moved by K.M. Liss Page B

his life, venturing out there,
beyond his maximum five dates. This seems to be his magic number,
and the point at which his interest is extinguished. Amazingly,
he's going for a sexed up sixth with Summer. Strange choice of girl
though.
    Mason's constant
procession of so called 'girlfriend' material, typically all
lookalike Barbie fuck-dolls, with big tits, is not only immature
and superficial, but more than a little deviant to my mind. But
then again, what do I know about the needs and desires of men? Not
that much really. But I'd like to learn a little more.
    “You know something? I
just don't get it.” I'm going to push my point.
    “What don't you
get?”
    “How you can
continually jack all these nameless bimbo females? We're not
talking a couple of quick fuck and dumps here, are we? It's all you
ever do. It must get boring, surely? Don't you think you should get
yourself a real girlfriend? Someone you can connect with, talk to
and do normal nice things with. Not someone who you see purely as a
sex toy? It doesn't have to be serious or long term, just someone
you like.”
    He gives me a quick
dirty look, out of the corner of his eye.
    “People are wired up
differently. I'm into ‘get it while you can’, in a package I like,
absolutely no strings, no hassle and no relationship. You know I'm
not like you. You're a hopeless romantic.”
    “Less of the hopeless,
if you don't mind,” I snap.
    “On second thoughts,
you're not just a hopeless romantic, you're plain hopeless. A
hopelessly romantic hopeless person...”
    He's such an annoying
wit-mouth at times. Sharper than a razor. Not that he uses one very
often.
    “Awwww, and I love you
too Mase. You really make me feel so good about myself. Now I'm not
only sexless, I'm doubly hopeless as well. Thanks a fucking lot!”
Then I mutter, “ass hole,” under my breath.
    “You're welcome, any
time, you know that.”
    I slap his ass and
laugh at him, an annoyed kind of laugh.
    But I lighten up as I
look at his face.
    He has the cheekiest
grin ever, plastered on it.
    Sometimes I just love
him, whatever he says. Insults and all. In a friendly way, of
course.
    We arrive outside our
main door and he lets us in, and then he bounds up the stairs to
the third floor, two at a time, like a rocket on speed. I chase
after him knowing it's a pointless exercise and I've already lost
the race. I arrive in the flat a little puffed and annoyed
again.
    It's the old bathroom
game.
    Since the electric
shower gave up the ghost last week, and based on the fact we can't
afford to get it repaired, we've both been fighting over the first
bath. Obviously no one wants second bath, do they? It's either bath
one with scum, or bath two with lukewarm water, if you're lucky.
The tiny hot water tank takes about two hours to warm up again
after it's been drained. God knows how old the boiler is. Probably
pre world war two, based on the ancient clanking sounds it makes,
when it summons the enthusiasm to fire itself up.
    In any case the two
choices available to me on the bathing front don't float my yellow
plastic duck.
    “Oh for God's sake.” I
shout, as he disappears in the bathroom with a Loaded magazine and
clicks the lock shut.
    “I'll be real quick.
Pinkie promise,” comes the reply, and I hear the water start
running into the tub. He's whistling happily. The noise aggravates
me. He's really getting at me today. It's probably post traumatic
stress, after the lip butchering.
    Mason told me he hates
baths. He's a shower boy through and through. But since our shower
committed suicide, he seems to be spending a helluva long time
soaking his ass for a bath hater. I've renamed him bath boy,
temporarily.
    I'm not keen on them
either. I wish I could dry wash, because I can't stand being wet.
Unfortunately I don't like feeling grimy even more, so it's grin
and bear it. A quick three minutes scrubbing up is all I can be
bothered with, unless I'm washing my hair, and then it's a long and
painful four.