It certainly isn’t mine. That’s what I was thinking as I looked. I mean really looked. I have a great ass. I’ve always had a great ass. I’ve known that since my freshman year at Colgate, when I pledged Tri-Delt and my first night I drank two plastic cupfuls of cherry punch with grain alcohol and allowed a cute Sigma Chi to kiss me while we danced. His name was Paul Didier and he had close-cropped auburn hair and blue eyes, and a general goofiness about him that didn’t seem quite as annoying drunk as it did sober the next day when he showed up at my dorm with a dozen roses. That was the end of him. Cute and goofy is fine for dancing and slightly sloppy kisses but no more, and certainly not for roses. When he saw the lack of excitement on my face for the flowers, I actually felt sorry for him. He looked like a puppy who’d peed in the house and wanted—really wanted—to go back in time and undo it. But, you know, dogs can’t clean up pee, just like goofy boys can’t pretend not to have bought you roses after one night of drunken smooching.
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