✔️The Greaser and the Skirtchaser [18+]

3. Danny's Crash Course on Chicks

Guys were much easier than girls when it came to hooking up. When the options were limited, there wasn't any shopping around, so guys always bought in when Blake asked. There wasn't fussing; it was all played hard and fast, and with a guy as hot for it as Vance, Blake thought it was a done deal.

But Vance pushed Blake out as soon as he came and left Blake dumbfounded on his doorstep. Blake was no stranger to striking out—that happened more often than not—but this was the first time he'd ever struck out with a guy like Vance. For God's sake, he came from having his chest played with.

Blake lounged on his back atop the stone wall, staring unseeingly at the clear sky as he took a drag of his cigarette. The guys were raising Cain like usual below him. Paint cans rattled and color sprayed with all the usual laughing and bad jokes.

"Coleman! What's the matter, pal?" One of the guys scrambled up onto his ledge and grabbed his ankle to shake it. The kid had a real pimply face and this slicked-back hair with too much gel in it. "Struck-out with Sallie Mae?"

Blake sat up and flicked ash as the guys started laughing. "Not as bad as you did, Petey."

"Woah, hey, looks like you're in a mood today. You must've really got shot down." Petey's long, thin face leered at him. "Sallie Mae must 'a heard about you."

"Wasn't Sallie Mae." Blake put the smoke to his lips again.

"Ah? There's another girl that's got you hung up?" He scootched closer, ever the nosy Nancy. "Is it Ashley?"

Blake blew smoke into his face. "Screw right off. It's not her."

Petey scowled and demanded a smoke. Blake gave it to him because he'd be pissier if he didn't. "Then, who's this Miss USA that's got your panties in a twist?"

Blake rolled his eyes. "My panties are perfectly fine. She didn't want more, so I'm backing off."

"What—you did stuff with her, and she cut you off?" Petey immediately aired out Blake's case of blue balls to the other guys. "I thought you were a base-snatcher with the ladies."

"Guess I lost my touch," Blake replied airily.

Petey nudged his shoulder and crowed all sagely, "Tell old Petey, and he'll tell you how to win it. Who is she?"

"I never kiss and tell. That's just bad business, Petey." Blake let out a thin stream of smoke, ignoring the goading. He probably should've just played along and made something up if he wanted Petey to shut the hell up, but today Blake didn't feel like it.

"Look at this guy guarding the atomic secret up here on his high horse. You're a real Alan, you know that?"

Said high horse was a wall with a pair of boobs spray painted on it. Blake rolled his eyes and stared at the sky as Petey railed about his brother Alan and how the guy was at some fancy boarding school somewhere playing polo and shoving people in lockers or some crap.

All he could identify was the big dipper, but any elementary schooler could find that. Blake usually just made his own constellations, but he usually forgot what he made by the time he looked up again. One of the favorites was making up a picture of a dog or some crap. You know, one of the ones with the floppy ears and the smile. Hell, that was any old dog now that he was thinking about it.

Really, Blake was just thinking about this mutt that used to walk around his house when he was small—real small. It was an old one, maybe it used to have an owner because it was real friendly since it always liked a good pat on the head. It would let Blake walk right up and pet it—sometimes it'd even come to Blake; that was how good of a dog it was. Blake wanted to keep it, but he knew better than that. He could only feed that dog some crappy scraps like bread crusts, and if they were both in luck, a measly bone. The dog shouldn't live like that. Dogs should be in some green lawn chasing a goddamn stick and getting snuck some steak at a family barbeque or something.