Just a quick note here. This is my NaNo for the summer of 2007. I want to apologize in advance for any typos, words, or themes that may offend anybody. R/R please, since concrit is always appreciated. Thanks : )

I was halfway through fucking my last girlfriend (her name's Janice, but that's not important right now) when I realized I'd never really liked breasts. As in, finding them sexually attractive. Come to think of it, I'd never really enjoyed what was in her pants/skirt/hideously ugly mini, either. Sure, I'd watched enough porn in my lifetime, but "Girls Gone Wild" failed to, you know, get me going, unless I was actually…

Enough of this. You get the point. Basically, what I'm trying to say is, just before I climaxed and Janice screamed like a crackwhore giving birth, I realized my adverse hatred of boobs. Perhaps hatred is too strong of a word. Dislike sounds better.

Janice, being intuitive for the thirty seconds she'd allotted herself in her entire lifetime, noticed something was up. Sure, she'd never paid attention when I'd been laid off, or that time I got mugged, but now, when it concerned her sex life, she picked up instantly. Stupid little…

"Danny," she had said to me, leaning over, perfectly aware that I hated it when she called me "Danny." "Danny, what's wrong?"

"Nothing," I'd retorted, rolling over, sort of in shock. I mean, I'd carved myself out as a straight guy, and now it was apparent that I had some weird form of erectile dysfunction. I thought that could only happen to old people, but apparently I was wrong.

"Danny…" she'd protested. I'd ignored her, and finally fallen asleep. Thank god.

So now I stood at the bus stop, with my friend Simon Peters (probably my closest buddy, really), holding some godforsaken overpriced Starbucks and my briefcase, waiting for the 135 bus. Simon, his own coffee in hand, seemed to think that my problem was hilarious.

"You don't like breasts?" he said. More laughter. "That's fucking ridiculous."

"Not so loud," I corrected. At times like this, I wanted to punch him in the gut. Hard. Maybe that would prove that I was a man and not a fairy.

Simon took another drink from his cup. "So what then, do you like dicks?"

"No," I replied, rather sternly. I gave him a glance that meant it was time to curtail this discussion, but Simon usually missed those glances, for some strange reason. He was now distracted by the clickety-clack of high heels coming down the street.

It was a woman, maybe twenty-five or so, with a skinny little pinstripe suit and a Coach bag, complete with collagen filled lips and botoxed skin, even though she lacked wrinkles to begin with. And with Simon, especially now, this spelled disaster.

"'Scuse me, ma'am," he said as she walked by. She stopped, probably expecting him to ask her what time it was. "Would you mind letting my friend see your breasts?"

She hit Simon across the face, something he deserved, while I hid my face behind my briefcase. "Simon," I said, my voice rather muffled, "I absolutely hate you."

"No you don't, old buddy, old pal," he replied, still grinning wildly, the smile distorting the handprint-shaped red splotch on his face. "You tolerate me, for lack of better words."

The 135 pulled up, the grimy old Pace bus reeking of gasoline and cigarettes. "Tolerate is pushing it, Simon," I snapped as we got onto the bus. Simon pushed me at the shoulder.

I hated taking the bus. Smelly, dirty people, crowded at rush hour, usually hot and stuffy, or humid when it rains, with grouchy drivers and loud children- it was like a nightmare on wheels. I passed by about ten seats before I found a couple that weren't crowded with gum, and other gross looking stains. Seriously, what some people did on these buses was atrocious.

And now the CTA was trying to "renovate" these buses. Like, replace them and add new routes and stuff. What a load of BS that was. There were just too many damn cars in this city. I remembered when I had been in London, on a business trip, and how efficient their public transportation was. Europe certainly had us whupped in that department.

I got off at Water Tower place, and hoofed it to my office. I took the elevator up to the fourth floor, the button all gummy because the janitor never bothered to clean the lift, and got out in the lobby. I passed by Rochelle, our secretary, who was more concerned with her nails than anything else.

"Morning, Dan," she says apathetically as I walk by.

"Morning," I say over my shoulder. I find my cube, drop my jacket across the back of my swivel chair, and log in to my computer. Sitting on my desk are various pieces of kitsch I've accumulated over the years, knick knacks and things. My mouse mat was currently a little Ouija board, but I had another one, which was a Rosetta stone mousepad. Taped to my monitor were a few Far Side cartoons, mainly ones about the office. Resting near my mouse were a couple of figurines from Futurama, a cartoon show that had been axed by Fox a few years back. My ex named Lynn had given me those, before she moved to Malaysia to teach for a year. I missed Lynn. She was probably the best girlfriend I'd ever had.

I spent the day screen sucking, searching up stupid queries on Wiki and Google while meandering through pages of code for our new database. I worked for Washington Mutual, in an extremely obscure position, which basically meant I was their technology-proficient lackey. At one o'clock, I headed down to the lakefront for lunch, finding myself back in the office at quarter to two.

The day dragged on, until Simon sent me an email. I decided not to open it, seeing as it was Simon, the bane of my existence, and forwarded it to my home email account before deleting it. Janice had sent me one that asked what time I'd be home. I told her the usual time, knowing that she had some nagging lecture in it for me.

Janice herself worked as a secretary for a temp agency, directing all their calls and stuff. The way she talked about it, you would have thought she worked for NASA, however. This and that, demands and requests, and her apparent evil overlord of a boss, one that she colored as Satan himself.

I clocked out early, and headed home on the bus just as it started to rain. I ended up dashing through puddles on a gray street outside my apartment building, dodging the raindrops as though they were bullets. Well, they would have been, if I were the Wicked Witch of the West, which was how Janice made me sound.

She was coming down the stairs, holding a suitcase in her hand. There was a U-haul parked on the street, the back still open. I could see the rest of her clothes and tacky, plastic, obviously-bought-from-Target furniture in there. She jogged down the last few steps, catching me outside in the rain.

"Janice…" I began. "Janice, what's going on?"

"I'm moving out, Daniel," she said, tossing her case in the back of the U-haul. She reached up for the top of the screen that came down over the back of the truck, grasping futilely for the khaki canvas strap, her fingers barely skimming it.

I reached up and grabbed it for her. "Here."

"Thank you," she said, pulling it down, the sheet metal making an awful rattling noise. She locked it at the bottom, as if locking me out of her life. She sighed, looking at me. I must have been an awful sight. I was sort of pale, seeing as it was October and I'd spent my summer indoors, with my brown hair plastered to my face from the rain. My clothes were soaking, heavy and wet, clinging to me more than Janice ever did. "I guess this is goodbye," she said.

"What?" I protested.

"Daniel, get serious. You're either cheating on me, or you just don't love me," she said, wiping away a fake tear. That girl probably went to acting school, but she still wasn't very good at it.

I dropped my briefcase. "I'm not cheating on you! What kind of-"

"Well, then what happened last night?"

Erm…How exactly does one tell one's lover that they're just not attractive anymore? "I…I…"

"You see, Daniel?" she said, taking out the key to the U-haul. "You and I just weren't meant for it. I had a nice time with you." She leaned forward and gave me a hug, kissing me on the cheek.

The U-haul's white door opened, and she got in, starting it up. The headlights faded out into the rain as she drove off, leaving me standing there like a fool. But then again, I'd always been a fool, and not just in love.

Simon needs to learn how to leave a voicemail. He rambled on and on, about the most useless of things, before he finally got to the point about ten seconds before the machine cut him off, saying that he wanted to meet me at the bar for a drink. I was still sopping wet, getting water all over my floor in my seemingly bare apartment, which was empty except for my few pieces of furniture (the ones Janice hadn't tossed out) and a few straggling dust bunnies.

So I changed, toweled my hair off, and tossed my clothes into the dryer before setting off again. Before I left, I took one last look around my lonely apartment. It felt so weird, like she should just come back and be her loud self, with her obnoxious comments and her sassy actions. As I left, I realized it wasn't really her I missed, but her company. I just didn't want to sit alone like some freak bachelor who orders pizza every day and who didn't move out of his parent's basement until he was thirty.

But I had a head start. I'd moved out at age nineteen. I couldn't take any more of my mom's cooking, to say the least.

Simon was sitting at his favorite black leather stool, a Budweiser in front of him, lazily playing with the little cap. He raised his eyebrows upon seeing me and my messy hair. "What?" I asked, setting my coat down on the stool beside me. Simon just shook his head and motioned for the bartender to give me a Bud as well.

I hate Budweiser. And Simon knew that. He just refused to order me something else, thinking that Budweiser would make me straight as a board and solve all of my problems, because that's what Simon invests in. He thinks that booze will cure cancer, end world hunger, and dismantle nuclear weapons.

Not to say that he's an alcoholic, or anything. Just that he drinks a lot.

"Janice left, eh?" he said.

"I'd rather not talk about it," I replied, taking the cap off my beer. It'd go untouched, just watch. I wasn't a big drinker, unlike Simon.

He took another sip of his. "She called me, you know. This morning, after I got into the office. Wanted to know if you'd said anything."

"And…?"

"And what did you want me to fucking tell her, Daniel? That you were madly in love with her? The woman was a bitch- be glad she's gone."

I flipped my coaster over. "What'd you say, Simon?" I asked.

"I told her what you told me."

"You told her that?"

"Yeah, but I said I thought you were some kind of homo toward the end. No offense."

"None taken." Jackass.

I couldn't really be mad at Simon. Janice was a waste, and my only regret now that I thought about it was that I hadn't been the one to dump her, and a lot sooner. She was just some kind of horrid drain on me, I guess.

Simon took another drink, a long one. I'm guessing that he'd had a hard day at the office, some long tedious problem that the other morons he worked with hadn't solved and had left entirely for him. Simon's a hard worker, when you get down to it, and it's a shame he hadn't been promoted past his current position. "Daniel," he began, "I've really got to ask you something."

"What?" I said, flipping over my coaster again. It was one for the Cubs. I was a Sox fan myself.

"I mean, don't take this the wrong way, but you never like to watch girl porn," he said, drawing out the words slowly. "And I've never seen you with Playboy. You never really look at girls, y'know. And now this thing with Janice… Daniel, are you sure that you're not…" he continued, his voice getting low, "gay?"

I bite my lip. That's about the equivalent of a slap in guy-land- the straight-faced gay accusation. But I mean, Simon does have a point. Was I really…gay? Maybe I was rushing into this, maybe I should just take some time off and relax… My mind started to reel. I didn't want to be gay; the only things I'd ever heard about gay people (men, principally) were that they were flamers who shaved their balls and sometimes molested little boys. And, frankly, I didn't want to be part of that crowd.

I paused too long, and Simon took it as offense. He's a jerk most times, but he knows when someone's offended. "Dan, I'm sorry. I didn't mean-"

"No, it's okay. I was just thinking…"

"Just don't say you were thinking about undressing me, that's all." He smiles in that same in-your-face way.

Undressing Simon's the last thing on my mind. "Simon," I replied sternly, but I couldn't keep up the façade. He made me laugh, one way or another. "Simon," I begin a minute later, "you'd still be my friend even if I was, right?"

"Gay? Sure." He drained the last of his beer. "I honestly don't give a damn if you're queer, Daniel. Because absolutely no one else would put up with me on the bus ride."

He's got that right.