Youth in Revolt: The Journals of Nick Twisp Read Online Free
Author: C. D. Payne
silence.
After the show, we lurched off to find our own secluded spot for some manual hydraulic relief. My explosive discharge felled a mature eucalyptus grove. Lefty’s dislodged a dozen three-ton boulders. Yet afterwards we bothagreed crazed teen horniness locked us ever tighter in its torrid embrace. My body is broadcasting a desperate signal: It needs it bad. Very bad.
SUNDAY, August 12 — Another fun-filled Sunday in Marin with Dad and Lacey. One of the tragic consequences of divorce is that the kids are legally obligated by the courts to spend a fixed amount of time with their dads. In normal families, dads and children happily ignore each other.
It was a killer hot day. Even though the air conditioning in Dad’s Beamer was on the fritz, he made us ride over with the windows up so the other motorists wouldn’t think he didn’t have any. The only compensation was an outrageously sexy bead of sweat the stifling heat brought out on Lacey’s upper lip. I longed to daub it off—with my tongue.
Once in Kentfield, Dad said he would take me to buy some school clothes if I washed his car. I agreed and got totally fried by the sun while de-griming the fine German steel. Dad watched me like a hawk lest I drop the sponge and pick up some paint-marring grit. (We both suffer from extreme blemish anxiety.)
After lunch (at McDanold’s) we went clothes shopping in the shiny Beamer—to the Sebastopol Flea Market! I got three shirts, two pairs of pants, a jacket, and a belt—for a miserly total of $8.65. Dad was prepared to spend more, but I drew the line at previously owned shoes. This fall I shall be going to school dressed in the height of fashion—for the year 1973.
Lacey had on a groin-swelling yellow polka-dot sunsuit and alien invader’s sunglasses. She flirted with all the bikers selling motorcycle parts and even knew two of the most criminal-looking by name. Dad was extremely jealous and did a lot of inward seething. He looks like heart-attack material to me; I just hope he’s adequately insured.
Dad sprang for hot dogs at the flea market, so he didn’t feel dinner was called for later. I took my hunger and new wardrobe back to Oakland. (But I am not going to let him weasel out of the promised birthday dinner!)
While I was cooking up some frozen french fries (I feel the link between fried foods and acne has not yet been positively established), the sailor dropped by with two of his buddies looking for Jerry. It seems the Chevy went only 17 miles before the engine blew up. They also found evidence of a banana in the transmission. When I told them Jerry was out of town, they looked quite crestfallen and promised to return. They also left the dead Chevy in the driveway. Across the camouflaged hood someone had spray-painted, “Pay up or die!”
MONDAY, August 13 — Millie Filbert is getting married! To Willis, the alleged father of her alleged child. She’s 15 and he’s 20. Martha heard about iton the grapevine and woke up Lefty this morning with the news. He exclaimed, “This is a day that will live in infamy!” Just kidding. Actually, his precise words were “Great fucking balls ache!”
Lefty came over immediately for some peer counseling. I told him Millie was a cheap tart and he was well rid of her. He agreed and said he hoped she had a long and difficult marriage to an inveterate wife-beater. He said if he’d known she was such an easy lay, he definitely would have gotten up the nerve to ask her out. Instead, he wasted all those years worshipping her from afar. Then, for emotional closure, I had him tear up the
Penthouse
Millie-look-alike Pet. Lefty said he was feeling better, so we had a morale-boosting whack-off session. Even though he has been sneaking extra doses of his vitamins, he still looks as crooked as ever. Millie will never know what she missed.
I think the sunburn helped my acne. So I am trying to spend more time outdoors. Even if I die of melanoma in 20 years, I feel it will have
After the show, we lurched off to find our own secluded spot for some manual hydraulic relief. My explosive discharge felled a mature eucalyptus grove. Lefty’s dislodged a dozen three-ton boulders. Yet afterwards we bothagreed crazed teen horniness locked us ever tighter in its torrid embrace. My body is broadcasting a desperate signal: It needs it bad. Very bad.
SUNDAY, August 12 — Another fun-filled Sunday in Marin with Dad and Lacey. One of the tragic consequences of divorce is that the kids are legally obligated by the courts to spend a fixed amount of time with their dads. In normal families, dads and children happily ignore each other.
It was a killer hot day. Even though the air conditioning in Dad’s Beamer was on the fritz, he made us ride over with the windows up so the other motorists wouldn’t think he didn’t have any. The only compensation was an outrageously sexy bead of sweat the stifling heat brought out on Lacey’s upper lip. I longed to daub it off—with my tongue.
Once in Kentfield, Dad said he would take me to buy some school clothes if I washed his car. I agreed and got totally fried by the sun while de-griming the fine German steel. Dad watched me like a hawk lest I drop the sponge and pick up some paint-marring grit. (We both suffer from extreme blemish anxiety.)
After lunch (at McDanold’s) we went clothes shopping in the shiny Beamer—to the Sebastopol Flea Market! I got three shirts, two pairs of pants, a jacket, and a belt—for a miserly total of $8.65. Dad was prepared to spend more, but I drew the line at previously owned shoes. This fall I shall be going to school dressed in the height of fashion—for the year 1973.
Lacey had on a groin-swelling yellow polka-dot sunsuit and alien invader’s sunglasses. She flirted with all the bikers selling motorcycle parts and even knew two of the most criminal-looking by name. Dad was extremely jealous and did a lot of inward seething. He looks like heart-attack material to me; I just hope he’s adequately insured.
Dad sprang for hot dogs at the flea market, so he didn’t feel dinner was called for later. I took my hunger and new wardrobe back to Oakland. (But I am not going to let him weasel out of the promised birthday dinner!)
While I was cooking up some frozen french fries (I feel the link between fried foods and acne has not yet been positively established), the sailor dropped by with two of his buddies looking for Jerry. It seems the Chevy went only 17 miles before the engine blew up. They also found evidence of a banana in the transmission. When I told them Jerry was out of town, they looked quite crestfallen and promised to return. They also left the dead Chevy in the driveway. Across the camouflaged hood someone had spray-painted, “Pay up or die!”
MONDAY, August 13 — Millie Filbert is getting married! To Willis, the alleged father of her alleged child. She’s 15 and he’s 20. Martha heard about iton the grapevine and woke up Lefty this morning with the news. He exclaimed, “This is a day that will live in infamy!” Just kidding. Actually, his precise words were “Great fucking balls ache!”
Lefty came over immediately for some peer counseling. I told him Millie was a cheap tart and he was well rid of her. He agreed and said he hoped she had a long and difficult marriage to an inveterate wife-beater. He said if he’d known she was such an easy lay, he definitely would have gotten up the nerve to ask her out. Instead, he wasted all those years worshipping her from afar. Then, for emotional closure, I had him tear up the
Penthouse
Millie-look-alike Pet. Lefty said he was feeling better, so we had a morale-boosting whack-off session. Even though he has been sneaking extra doses of his vitamins, he still looks as crooked as ever. Millie will never know what she missed.
I think the sunburn helped my acne. So I am trying to spend more time outdoors. Even if I die of melanoma in 20 years, I feel it will have
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