As we hop the train tracks he shoves a cold beer can into my arm and holds my gaze.
I smirk.
"Nymph" he snickers.
"Pain is good!" I proclaim.
"Pain is a symptom of growth. If you're not growing then you are stale, and if you are stale then you're as good as dead. Pain is life! It is joie de vivre."
Furthermore, I ponder as I climb the hill back to the campsite, if I should derive pleasure from a violent act, if my clit should double in size when my hair is pulled or my ass is slapped then this can only be proof that pain not only is good, but fucking necessary.
The evening prior we park illegally at a campsite in Encinitas. As we pull up, the glare of the moon hits the back of the van in gentle welcome. A kind older man insists on helping us light a fire. He seems rather disillusioned with the company of his wife and glances over at us longingly throughout the night. I imagine early in their marriage they probably fucked 3-4 times a week and now he's lucky if she rubs him out on their wedding anniversary. We drink the same brand of beer and listen to a 1940s mix tape Gene picked up at a garage sale on the way up. A foolish drunk, I jump on the picnic table swaying my body in dance. The tape player jolts every time I stomp my foot. I feel the alcohol going to straight to my head and twice as quickly to my crotch. The less a women thinks about what her cunt looks like to the outside world, the more she can posses it. I feel the wind brush between my thighs slightly blowing up my skirt, left to the night, fired up.
I ask Gene for company on my walk to the bathroom across the dimly lit carpark. The thing about Gene is, he looks like the heartthrob in some generic 90's romantic comedy, but in his true form is the most peculiar freak I've ever met.
On the way back I grab his face caressing my tongue against his,