Olga, she looked like an Olga. You could tell she shaved a beard, left the mustache. Didn’t take much coaxing either. Band practice rooms, cellars, you name it. She wasn’t very good though. Her sloppy mouth, ugly doe eyes looking up at me. Desperate to guzzle that seminal fluid that I truly didn’t want to give up to her. Sitting on that piano bench, a bad song interrupted by naive girls pushing on the door blocked by one of a multitude of boxed strings and hammers. Thank the gods!

Yet even with my disgust, I still followed her home another day. Underneath the house in a cellar I found myself with her, alone. Just me, her mustache, and I was kinda lost in a daze of confusion and possible guilt. She laid her coat down on the floor. Cold concrete. Jeans and panties tossed aside. Her dry but virgin cunt begged for my cock. She was easy, but I couldn’t blame her. Poor girl. I came prematurely while tightly pressed against her hymen.

Instant remorse.

She said she had a condom, but I couldn’t do it. So I walked out into the sun from that dark cellar and left her to marry a man who used her to hide his homosexual nature from his family. It took her several years to realize the sham, poor sap. She was miserable when she found out. I thought about saying something, but I didn’t know how to phrase it.