J.A. Rock

“Maybe with the right person rocking it with you, change wasn’t so bad.Maybe panties and kale juice were just the beginning.”

“This is your last chance to go home, son.” It was the loudest I’d heard him speak.I froze.Cock, meet jeans. Jeans, please contain cock.”

“Anything else you want to discuss before we begin?”“Who cuts your hair? You should run them through with their own thinning shears. You have a wonderful face, and so much wasted potential for—” He stepped forward and grabbed my ear. “Ow!”

“He pointed at the paper. “I want you to write me a description of every foot you’ve put wrong since we met. Make sure I can read your writing. You have five minutes.”Write about every foot I’d put wrong. I peered down at my feet.I started to write: My left foot is a size eight point five. It has a high arch, and my big toe is longer than my second toe. There is a light smattering of hair on the top of my foot. I paused and stuck my left leg out, studying my shoe. Right now I am wearing Nike Frees for m—“Bring me your paper.”I glanced at my paper. “I’m not done yet.”“One . . . two . . .”I brought him the paper.”