Chapter 10

A siren whoops. One, then two short bursts. George sits up, eyes wide. And sure enough, I shoot jet after jet of cum—into my lap, onto my clothes, all over the steering wheel—as my foot crashes repeatedly, heavily, onto the gas pedal with every spasm. By the time I manage to wrench the car onto the shoulder, I’m sweaty and panting, covered in my own mess, and laughing out bursts of joy that feel at once inappropriate and insufficient.

We could have been killed—we probably should have been killed. If I get arrested by the Utah State Patrol on Christmas Eve and have to call my parents, I may yet be killed. But I’m not dead yet, and I’m pretty sure in nineteen years this is the most exhilarated I’ve ever felt. That weed I used to sneak from my brother was sometimes pretty good stuff, but it never got me this high.