Which leads me to a confession: I’ve decided to save myself for Sarah Foster. There. I said it. I can’t believe it, but I said it. I’m saving myself for Sarah.

That’s my new slogan.

And if she tells me she’s ready now, well, hey, that’d be wonderful. However, if she wants to wait until our wedding night, which, knowing my luck, is exactly how this thing will play out, then I guess that’s fine, too.

Thinking about all of this makes me think about condoms. That’s the one item I haven’t been able to steal from Huey’s. They’re in the store, off to the side across from the orange lottery machine, and, strangely enough, right beside the adult magazine rack, but I just haven’t felt the need to take any yet. Now, however, standing here in the humid bathroom and dreaming about Sarah, I realize I need to carry protection with me at all times.

So I take a good look at my body, which is nothing but skin and bones.

Man, Victor was right, I probably could use some D-Bol.

Anyway, what about my butt? Girls like guys with nice butts, right? Does Sarah like my butt? Has she even bothered to check?

I turn and look over my shoulder into the mirror. Yeah, my butt sure looks good to me. A little flat and bony maybe, but it’s still a fine male butt. I shake my hips back and forth. The flesh on my butt cheeks barely jiggles. I bend over and grab my knees, sticking my butt out as far as possible. How could a girl not like my butt? It’s beautiful! The symmetry, it’s perfect—nice and balanced, like two bowling balls resting beside each other.

Satisfied with my rear, I turn to survey my front, lanky but sexy … I think.

I trace the curved outline of my ribs with my index finger. Then I raise my arms and flex my biceps. Man, screw the D-Bol, because I actually look fairly good in this pose. I start swiveling my hips like the male strippers do on the trashy morning talk shows. Fully into the fantasy now, I picture Sarah in the front row. Moving my hips faster, I smile at myself in the mirror and …

… I hear a sound outside the bathroom door.

Damn. Back to reality. The door handle is turning.

Justin busts in and falls over laughing.

“Jesus, Justin, you heard of knocking?” I reach for a towel and wrap it around my waist.

“Where were you just now, a strip club?”

“Screw you. Get out of here so I can shower.”

He stands there looking at my waist, then starts laughing again. “Be careful or you might bust through.”

“Get out,” I yell, cupping my hands over my mid-section and turning to the side. “Mom!”

“Easy, big guy. They’re not home.”

“So get out.”