The Grownup by Gillian Flynn EPUB & PDF – eBook Details Online
- Author: Gillian Flynn
- Genre: Fiction Short Stories, Psychological Thrillers, Short Stories
- Language: English
- Formats: PDF / EPUB
- Status: Available For Free Download
- Series: None
- Price: Free
- File Size: 2 MB
To David and Ceán, you sick, sick people.
I DIDN’T STOP giving hand jobs because I wasn’t good at it. I stopped
giving hand jobs because I was the best at it.
For three years, I gave the best hand job in the tristate area. The key is to
not overthink it. If you start worrying about technique, if you begin analyzing
rhythm and pressure, you lose the essential nature of the act. You have to
mentally prepare beforehand, and then you have to stop thinking and trust
your body to take over.
Basically, it’s like a golf swing.
I jacked men off six days a week, eight hours a day, with a break for
lunch, and I was always fully booked. I took two weeks of vacation every
year, and I never worked holidays, because holiday hand jobs are sad for
everyone. So over three years, I’m estimating that comes to about 23,546
hand jobs. So don’t listen to that bitch Shardelle when she says I quit because
I didn’t have the talent.
I quit because when you give 23,546 hand jobs over a three-year period,
carpal tunnel syndrome is a very real thing.
I came to my occupation honestly. Maybe “naturally” is the better word.
I’ve never done much honestly in my life. I was raised in the city by a oneeyed mother (the opening line of my memoir), and she was not a nice lady.
She didn’t have a drug problem or a drinking problem, but she did have a
working problem. She was the laziest bitch I ever met. Twice a week, we’d
hit the streets downtown and beg. But because my mom hated being upright,
she wanted to be strategic about the whole thing. Get as much money in as
little time possible, and then go home and eat Zebra Cakes and watch
arbitration-based reality court TV on our broken mattress amongst the stains.
(That’s what I remember most about my childhood: stains. I couldn’t tell you
the color of my mom’s eye, but I could tell you the stain on the shag carpet
was a deep, soupy brown, and the stains on the ceiling were burnt orange and
the stains on the wall were a vibrant hungover-piss yellow.)
My mom and I would dress the part. She had a pretty, faded cotton dress,
threadbare but screaming of decency. She put me in whatever I’d grown out
of. We’d sit on a bench and target the right people to beg off. It’s a fairly
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