Jessica, still naked, walked into my room without a hint of embarrassment. She sat down on the edge of my bed."I'm eighteen, Mom. You *can't* ground m.... And you can't *stop* me from fucking the Tuckers. I've *fucked* all of them. Nine men. Five women. I like doing it. I'm going to do it for the rest of my life." She glared at me. "When is the last time you were fucked?" How *dare* you talk to me like that? I'm *your* Mother," I barked."I know, but I *am not* like *you*," she said. "I'm a *slut*. Only those who have been right to the brink of suicide willunderstand the etiquette of the situation: even though you're fullyintending to die a horrible death within minutes, the fear ofembarrassment is as real as ever. In fact it's greater, because you needa sense of rightness or you can't go though with it. Suicide is a bitlike sex, I have decided: if you're put off by some errant thought orinterruption, it becomes impossible to reach the climax.This encounter threatened to end in. More

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