I don't remember exactly when I met Molly. I had stopped off for the night in Des Moines on a long coast-to-coast haul It was a long night, with lots of drinks, and the earliest I can remember we were chatting like old friends. She was one of those girls with no barriers: everything she thought came straight through her mouth, and she had kind of a dirty mind. There need to be more girls like her.
"So," Molly said, slamming her beer on the table with the authority of a judge's gavel. "What's your biggest accomplishment in life?"
I was taken aback. It was never something I had really considered. "Well, uh... I've been driving a truck for three years without flipping it over and dying in a fiery wreck. That's a pretty major one."
She laughed. Molly had this weird way of laughing where she would throw her head back, her shoulder-length brown hair whipping back to hang straight down, and let out a deep, guttural belly laugh. Then she would tilt her head back forward as if resurfacing and give you a wicked grin. It was off-putting the first time, and attractive by the third (though that may have just been the beers).
"So what about you?" I said. "You have any big accomplishments?"
"You bet." She put her arm on the table and curled it, showing off some muscles. "High school girls' state wrestling champ two years in a row. Grip like an iron... tool... thingy."
"Cool," I said. "You go do that in college? I've heard people are nuts about wrestling down here."
"Not for the girls, really. But I gave it up in senior year because I wanted to seem more feminine. It has its practical benefits though."
"Like what?"
Molly put on a shit-eating grin. "Best handjob in Iowa." She pumped her fist suggestively.
"You sure about that?"
