Personal Narrative-Hardy

I got a hell of a bashing, if you want to know that type of thing. Most people do. That way they can go around and gossip about it. I’m not saying you would, but most people would. Problem is, when people gossip they get the details about what really happened wrong. It’s human nature, I suppose. It makes people do the damnedest things. My old man, the cantankerous bastard, says it’s why I always find myself neck deep in mud. Take for example last night’s big football game between Warburton and Ivory. Now, I don’t care much for football or baseball or any other sport, just a bunch of gorillas with too much testosterone for their own good if you ask me, but the rivalry between Warburton and Ivory is damn near as old as the country. And, Christ, not to attend the game is next to committing every sin possible simultaneously, at least in the eyes of

Earlier in the day we had an argument about this damn game and I succinctly explained my position on not attending. She fell silent at that time and I put it behind me. She didn’t. “Ophelia, why would you want to attend that God awful gladiatorial sport?” “Because it’s fun. And it would be fun to be seen in public with you,” she said as she stroked my chest through my oxford with her left hand. “Please, Benton? For me,” she purred and then gave me a peck on my check with those lips that I can’t deny. Now, I hate my name as much as the next person, but when she let it slip from her tongue and through her lips I know I didn’t have a choice. Usually I’m a lot harder than that, but there’s something about Ophelia. She makes me let my guard down. Makes me want to please her. It’s an unfamiliar feeling I’m still working out, even now. “Besides, do you really want weekend duty in the cafeteria serving or cleaning campus toilets?” I rolled my eyes at her and glared. She giggled a giggle that all girls have, the one that says, “gotcha” and then she smiled a delicious