She never came to our house, mostly because I told me wife I never wanted to see her sister again. But there she was anyway. And then I'd come back to reality for a few horrid seconds. Yeah, I'd say to myself. She's here because my wife is dead.And then there were a whole group of people coming in and out of my house. Some I knew, some I didn't. They were saying things to me I wasn't hearing, grabbing my hands, kissing my cheeks, smelling too strongly of something, then, thankfully leaving. I remember wondering if someone had told anyone not to let the cats out. My wife loved those little babies, and she'd be so sad if any of them got out and got lost, or worse.I have clear recollections that my sister-in-law came to take me to the memorial service, although I didn't see where we were going. She took me inside, holding me as if I would fall. Some guy said a few words, then more people one by one said more words. At one point everyone was looking at me. I learned later that they. Skipping the shower, as discretely as I could—didn't want the other guys to notice, or catch on. Then jet home as quickly as I could. It was like a race going down the stairs to the basement, pulling my kicks off, and huffing on them like a d**ggy huffing glue. I would take deep whiffs, inhaling my own foot funk. It got better throughout the year as the sneaks got more and more dirty, and thus more and more stink. My jeans would come off quickly—then flat on my back with dick in hand. Pulling hard on it's massive 9”, well---massive for a freshman, rite ? Pulling with my right fist, with my left arm raised up to the back of my head, I would now start huffing on my hairy pits. Still wet from practice, and sometimes still dripping sweat down my rib cage, I would tug hard on my engorged dick. It usually didn't take long---like I said, all that funk turned me into an a****l. Sometimes I would stick my middle finger up my hairy hole, and then get a whiff. Yup---than was nasty, but I fuckin.
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