I'm Short a Comma, But

I'm experimenting with capitalization.
it doesn't mean anything anyways
(and I'm still hungry)

NG writing forum! I am back after a massive hiatus, no thanks to a lack of popular demand...

So here is my latest (semi)fictional story. I hope you enjoy it:

Forgive me, Reader, for I have sinned.
I sit here listening to Piano Sonata #9 from Opus 68 as it was composed by Alexander Scriabin, a noted synesthetic. Synesthesia is a mental disease that causes the brains sensory passageways to become twined together, like two oak saplings growing together to form one bulbous, thick-trunked adult tree. Alexander Scriabin had been blessed with the ability to see sound... to compose color.
All I need is the ability to see black and white, wrong from right. I feel a bit like a passing note on a chromatic scale, a one night stand that, when incorrect, makes the entire scale sound wrong. Last night, I was out of tune, but I have yet to see if anyone noticed.
Last night, a girl invited me to go for a late night walk. We had been good friends for a while; she was my neighbor. She's been good looking pretty much forever, but my image of her changed from "cute girl" to "hottie" when she entered high school. I don't know if she ever looked up to me or saw me as anything other than the weird, older kid that lived near her, but we've had a secretive past that goes beyond friendship. Late nights past legal curfew making out on a local golf course, long walks filled with kissing and hand-holding, banned dancing at homecoming. Together we surpassed boundaries that would have, in any normal couple, made them look at each other and decide, "Yes, we'll date for a while." There must be something about the cosmic timing that always prevents us from taking it a little farther, but we always withdraw back to the safe haven of friendship before too long.
I digress. Two nights ago, it had been the Fourth of July; the sky was lit up with fireworks. My dog was having a conniption the floor below. The girl called me and said that, it being summer, we should hang out. I agreed readily. A condo awaited me in a few days, so we decided on the next day (which in the current timeline of the present, was yesterday). I went to bed without a thought in the world, not thinking about my girlfriend.
My girlfriend is a very nice girl. She's pretty, smart, and thoughtful, and, for once, I actually care about the girl I'm dating. However, for the past week and next week, she is in Europe with some musical program. Just before she went, I sent her flowers wishing her good luck and a fun trip. We'd been dating for about a month. However, for all the positive things about her, she has spurned my attempts to go farther that cuddling in the movie theatre and holding hands; she's only kissed me on the cheek. I suppose that's a negative of dating a strongly religious girl. But, since I actually care about her, I had decided that I was going to go at her pace.
Zero hour. Half past eleven, I left out the front door of my house, flashlight in my pocket, and walked up my street and met with the girl. We chatted idly and purposelessly for a while. She dropped her cellphone, and, when she turned to pick it up, I read the back of her pants. "Black," I read, not really thinking. She laughed at me then started to grind into me. It felt good. But I stopped her. We kept walking. She didn't know about my girlfriend. As we were walking in the night, I wrapped my hand around her back. A little later, I smacked her ass, causing her to catch her breath. I got behind her and kissed her shoulder lightly, licked her earlobe, and sucked a little on her neck. It started so innocently; if there was ever a time for a cold shower, the night of July fifth, at around 11:50 would have been it.
The moon was out in full. Now that I look back on it, I feel as I was a werewolf. All the vestiges of my normal self: gone. Where's a silver bullet when you need one, Reader? Where? I started to reach down her pants, but she stopped me. But she did not stop me from reaching over her bra, kissing her areolas, nipples, breasts in broad, open moonlight, in public. I could still hear people inside their homes, watching TV, drinking a beer, having a midnight snack. She moaned and clutched at my pants, but only to find my flashlight, at least on first grasp. There was a flurry of similar activity, and it's all a blur to me now. It was romantic, torrential, spontaneous. Our actions were chosen by the primordial, hormonal, but most of all illogical parts of our brains; the kind of decision that was the utter apex of teenagerdom. And, we parted on a kiss. The moon had been obscured by clouds. I was a tourist in La Vallee.
Such a level of depravity was never reached by me before, at least not in public, and much less not while I'm supposed to be in a committed relationship. I'm out of tune... I'm guilty, Reader. And, I don't yet know what will happen to me in the next few days. It's been grey out today. When I woke up this morning, I felt like the newsman in Alan Moore's Watchmen: obliterated. I don't know if I want my girlfriend to know. I'm torn by wanting to be honest and wanting to maintain the relationship. This is no longer just some far away paper on game theory by some professor with a degree in psychology. It's fucking now. By now, the song has changed; it is currently What Goes On, by the Velvet Underground.
Reader, it has been zero minutes since my last confession.