First Lines to Stories I Haven't Yet Written

When Alex wanted to emasculate Martin, really pop the testicles right off him, she'd make him repeat whatever she had just said.
 

When his fist used to connect with face, it would land with a thud, weighty, baleful, but on the October night he won the title — the night they draped that magnificent belt over his arm and hoisted him on their shoulders and carried him out of the arena before he could even toss off a quote for the reporters, he remembered that part well — on that night, his fist, as if hollow, only went thwap.
 

Standing with my toes just across the start of the sand, with the beast monstrous before me, I could think only of journalists' tendency to describe things in terms of football fields. 

 

The third time I cheated on my wife was the first time I had no excuse.
  

 If you must know, what first attracted me to her was the way she was happily flipping through "War and Peace," like it was some kind of rainy-day pulp. Perfect, I thought. Another girl I'll never meet and book I'll never read. Two things beyond my capacity.
 

I always assumed I would go bald — every family reunion provided dozens of looks into a hairless future — but I also assumed it would happen more or less at once.
 

After an early morning in which the jackhammering was outside on the sidewalk and not in my bedroom, I was ready to get out of the shower, but my penis was not, and we got into a bit of an argument, slapping each other silly.
 

My father was the kind of man who could tell you the exact month his unborn son should begin speaking but — when the power of speech came, and the son began experimenting with conversation — had nothing to say to him.
 

John Waters provided the inspiration.