...But we are starting a new blog and you may see a few re-posts here and there for our new followers, but we hope this is just as interesting and entertaining as "The Games of Dating."
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Thursday, February 11, 2010
...But we are starting a new blog and you may see a few re-posts here and there for our new followers, but we hope this is just as interesting and entertaining as "The Games of Dating."
Posted by That Girl at 2:18 PM
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
You know you may possibly have an addiction to getting dick stuffed in you when you’re bein’ banged right next to a fucking trash dumpster with an unstuffed, stained, old broken green couch strewn out in pieces in front of it. I consider it more like breathing…. living… shamelessly enjoying the one true carnal pleasure this shit called Earth has to offer.
If skuzzy, trashy (see what I did there) bangin’ is a crime, then lock me up cause I’m fucking guilty as all hell and a chronic repeat offender. I’d say this dumpster hump is the low point, but I’m pretty sure there were times I was lower and just too damn drunk to remember. God bless alcohol, it usually always gets you into these situations and then out of the kindness of its heart ensures that you remember none of it. I’m also not at all certain that I won’t go lower. Dumpster just doesn’t feel like my rock bottom. Seeing as this latest incident, I have no explanation, no excuse; I was sober as a damn judge… just fucking hornier than a 13 year-old who just found his dad’s porn collection. There is no stopping the fury of the clit when she is pulsating. A sacrifice must be made to her no matter the circumstances. Dick must be inserted and milked. This is why I found myself humping homeless-style in the back lot of a tire store.
Last week, I left work early for a dentist appointment. I get giddier than Bill Murray in “Little Shop of Horrors” when I go to the dentist, not because I like the smell of tooth decay or the feeling of being drilled (in this capacity that is) but because my dentist is a sexy fucking hunk of man meat. He looks just like a dude I’ve seen belly button dry-humping on Skinamax. I’ve resolved that this is how he paid his way through dental school. I just wish they’d actually throw you a cock shot once in a while, so I’d know what I’m dealing with here. It’d probably never be as glorious as I’ve already dreamed it is. When I’m waiting in the chair, I constantly fantasize about our own Skinamax episode. I lean back, close my eyes and he sticks his hard, pink man drill in my mouth. Then it’s nothing but *Bow Chicka Bow Wow,* baby. Now that’s the kind of check up I’m talkin’ about. I wouldn’t miss a one… probably double my appointments. People would be required to wear protective shades when I smiled. On top of my dentist being hotter than the surface of the sun, he’s married (yawn) but his office is down the street from my equally-sexy-in-a-different-way Mechanic (#24), who is single, who I’ve recycled for years, and who is one of my preferred whores/victims.
I passed Mechanic’s shop on the way to my appointment and saw him outside, tinkering underneath the hood of an old school Caddy while he dragged on a clove. I instantly hatched a plan to destroy him. After the dentist sent me off with a massive case of blue labs (as in Labium Majoris) I couldn’t wait to suck that ashtray-flavored tongue right out of his mouth. Why not instantly fuck up those freshly cleaned pearly whites with some cigarette-infused tonguing followed by a salty rinse? I don’t smoke, it’s pretty rat ass, but it doesn’t mean I won’t fuck someone who does. Besides I’m in black out mode. Like Lenny-pet-the-rabbits, I want to pet the purdy penis. I’ve got my mind on the dick and the dick on my mind. When I reach this point, I’ll take it any fucking way I can get it and get it good.
Hence, dirty bird.
After my appointment, and the cunt teasing eye-candy, I had the Jetta on two wheels. I pull in hot to Mechanic’s shop. I scared one of the customers. He comes up to my driver side windshield and I stick my finger, which was just in my gushing pussy, into his mouth. My pants are undone and I’m breathing like the fucking Gatekeeper in “Ghostbusters.” I’m a wild fucking fuck monster and about to hurt somebody… badly. He barks something at his brother in Russian and jumps in the car. I peel out like I’m behind the wheel of K.I.T.T. We start mauling each other as I’m driving. I only manage to drive about five businesses down the road. Just because Mechanic’s a mechanic doesn’t mean my insurance gives a shit. I turn the wheel hard, grab some curb and the car goes flying into the back lot of a tire shop which, thankfully, is closed and off the main street.
The car comes to a screeching halt in the far end of the lot, next to the dumpster, rank broken couch and a pile of old used tires. We were too preoccupied to bother with the romantic scenery. We are violently making out. I tear his shirt off and rip his wifebeater down the middle Hulk Hogan style – I’ve reinvented his signature move to work with my lifestyle. Hulkamaniacs rule! I have his belt off and pants down in roughly 2.4 seconds. I start sucking like I’m working a blowjob booth at the county fair. Except instead of a teddy bear I win a throbbing cock ready for insertion and penetration. I’m here to tell you, I won, may have been no competition but I won. I’m workin’ the dick like a magician; I’m the love child of Hoover and Houdini. Suck, disappear, suck, suck, disappear… then rinse and repeat. Gag tears are streaming, the window is fogging. He’s about to blow my head off with his man chowder and since that shit has to service the Queen herself it can not deflate.
It’s my turn. Since I don’t have a dick, getting oral pleasure in a compact car is some tricky ass shit. The only saving grace would be the leather seats, which makes clean-up easy and efficient. It’s literally my favorite feature… okay, maybe besides the seat warmers. When it comes to getting a cock full, I become a fucking Cirque du Soleil acrobat. I can do poses that would shock and amaze my yoga teacher seeing as I can’t even get a quarter of the way there in class. Motivation is half the battle and when it comes to some rock hard dick, I can fucking move mountains and lick up oil spills. So there I am, feet behind my ears, getting eaten like Thanksgiving dinner. He’s practically in the back seat, leaning over me in one of the most awkward ways. It’s like a fucked up one way 69. Thank God the windows were completely fogged up since its 5:30pm and still very much daylight. There are houses, blocked by trees, right behind the shop. Someone may possibly be getting a very severe anatomy lesson, but fuck it, I’m getting my o-face on and they need to learn sometime. After the first pussy tremor and partial leakage I’m ready to get filled up and stretched out. One problem, the fucking car was obviously not designed to get yo freak on!!! Damn V-dub. My ass has been out of high school too long and I have no idea how I used to successfully fuck in such cramped quarters.
He tries to maneuver himself in front of me in the passenger seat and we are so close together all he can do is stick his dick in but there isn’t any room for traction, the old in-out, some sweet pump ‘n hump action. The anticipation of getting fucked when a huge, hard dick is inches from your dripping pussy is comparable to being stranded in the desert without water for seven days and stumbling upon a crisp, cool looking water fountain. You HAVE TO HAVE THAT SHIT… NOW! Since the car is not working for a vagine beating session I have to improvise… which basically means getting out of the car to get fucked against the wall.
We do this, using the dumpster to block the view into the houses. And the stacked used tires to block the view from anyone who may also be screeching into the parking lot to fuck. Other than that, no one is around. We go at it makeup sex-style although neither of us was ever mad at each other. Love that shit. I instantly get a pretty mean case of concrete burn on my back which made for a sexy combo of pain and pleasure. When my fucking vagina is being hammered all the other senses shut down, so I couldn’t smell what had to be the stench of rotting trash around us. I could no longer even see the couch or the dumpster itself. To me, I might as well have been getting railed on silk sheets while an 18-piece orchestra serenaded us. I start convulsing into my orgasm seizures and he let’s out the typical I-just-blew-my-man-wad groan. We stand there panting for a bit, laughing about how ridiculously nasty and high school we are acting when we hear some squeaky car brakes come to a halt.
Through the stacks of tires we see that the 5-0, bacon bits, po po, one-time, piggies have pulled up across the lot from my car. Yay. Had they rolled up like literally two feet closer they would have seen our heads peeking over the top of the dumpster. We duck down and use the tires as our fortress. I’m really hoping I can now add public indecency to my rap sheet. It’s like collecting different color achievement stars in the third grade all over again but now its illegal charges I’m rackin’ up. Mrs. Pardon would be so proud. Our clothes are still in the car. I’m only wearing platforms and my bra as a necklace. He’s in boxers. Luckily we had shut both car doors and it’s parked normally. It’s just the only damn car in the lot and the shop is closed. The coppers are about 20ft. away from where we are holding each other naked behind the tires and dumpster. I can see its two male cops and they are eerily still in the car just starring straight ahead and not talking. Can they see us? Do they not want to see us naked as much as we don’t want them to see us naked? Ten minutes go by and our stand off is still under way. This is weird… and creepy… and taking FOREVER. Ten minutes in an awkward position like that might as well have been a fucking hour… or an entire day.
The tires are completely blocking us, I’m sure of it. I can only see through the tiniest wee little cracks between them and we have literally not moved a fucking muscle. I have a killer charlie horse under my knee, which I often get after orgasm and it’s now being severely agitated by freezing in a squatting position for this amount of time. Not being able to walk around and stretch is a mothafuckin’ biatch. It's involuntarily, borderline obnoxiously shaking causing my platform to continuely tap. Mechanic has to hold my leg down to get it the fucknig thing off. They have us right where they want us, fuckers. Why are these aholes just sitting there? They don’t even get out to investigate? Some fucking mom in those houses must have called the fuzz on us... can't really say that I blame her, I may myself one day fall victim to becoming a no fun having, dried up vagina owning, husband-fucking-the-secretary-man-hating-but-I stay-for-my-kids-type-of-woman. I can't judge. Although, I think I'd be more the type to look fondly on two young whippersnappers having a little reckless fun, and if the kids aren't home the type that gets off while I watch.
And still waiting, c'mon already bitches, make your move. Is this some type of cop psychological torture? They’ve got to be running my plates, which are clean… in this state at least. Mechanic’s phone starts to blow up in the car. It stops and then rings all over again… non-stop. He’s starting to worry because he knows it’s his shop probably wondering where the fuck the owner went. I'm a little more worried about the damn cops sitting 20ft. away that may finally get off their lazy ass to check out the constant ringing and we have to come out from behind the dumpster - me butt ass naked - most likely with hands up, get dressed in front of them and then be subjected to a cot and a hot for the night. I can see the condom wrapper, which had fallen out of the car on the ground next to the driver side door, slowly inching away due to the breeze. Why won’t these porkers do something? I’m literally freezing my tits off since we are no longer banging which was, at the time, keeping me warm. Now the sweat on the back of my neck may kill me by way of hypothermia. The trash also fucking reeks.
Just as my leg is about to give out and the ten minutes of silent immobility is about to drive me insane in the fucking membrane the siren comes to life and annoyingly wails as they peel out of the parking lot at rocket speed. This is Torrance, there is never a reason for this Charles Bronson type of behavior. They'll probably be the fifth unit to come barreling up on the crime scene of three 5th graders skateboarding in a parking lot they're not supposed to be in.
I refuse to move for a good two minutes, partially because my leg is now completely paralyzed - by the way nothing sexier than being naked in this type of crouched over position - and because it takes that long for the notion that nothing happened to actually sink in. Seriously? No idea how I dodged that one since I have negative amounts of luck with the law but I couldn’t be happier that I did. There’s no way they saw us because if they had I know we would have gotten rolled. I guess smart people would take this as a serious warning but I’m pretty sure my fuckcapades will continue operating as normal, making me my own worst enemy. Not bad as far as enemies go if you ask me… at least she’s hot and likes to have fun.
I am really glad I got to dodge the sweet scenario that would most definitely have taken place at work. “Hey girl, why didn’t you show up for work yesterday?” “Oh you know, the usual, I got caught fucking my mechanic after my dentist appointment behind a trash dumpster and got hauled in.” Hey, fuck it, if these are the risks a bitch has got to take for some dick action then so be it. I didn’t make the rules I just play the game.
The moral of THIS story: Fucking by a dumpster might not be your thing, I can dig it, but I’m gonna get mine while I can because some day when I can hackie sack my National Geographic titties on my knees and no one wants my shit I’ll regret not acting when I had the chance. When opportunity knocks, (as Mark Walberg so eloquently put it in “Fear”) open the fucking door!
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
A few years ago, I made the mistake of falling for one of my brother’s friends. I don’t, for the most part, go through life with my head up my ass, so I knew this was a risk seeing as, generally, the one way to ensure monumentally pissing off your much older brother is by dating and fucking one of his buddies… and doing the latter exceptionally well and anywhere at any time. The man had a dick the size of my forearm, hung like ox, so I had no choice, abso-fucking-lutely none. It’s all my bro and their friends could talk about:
Elephantitis? Really? That’s it, I was in love. Lost under the spell of the skin flute’s sweet song. Seeing as I always fall for the man in the pink helmet and he couldn’t resist a blonde with a nice snatch we were both powerless to the attraction. So for three months over the summer the heat in the bedroom made the sweltering summer months feel more like an early winter. We rocked that headboard so hard it put a hole in his wall. His neighbor asked him to move the bed and started using sleeping pills. I, at times, needed aspirin for my beat up pussy. He’d pull chunks of my hair out. We’d slap each other all over the room. Shit was ON. It was the porn version of WWE, except co-ed. I’d have trouble walking normal and taking stairs, but would promptly sit on it and ride it whenever it was around. Those were my glorious Rodeo Days.
But, much like hot sex, it ended in a mess all over the place leaving a semi-bitter taste in my mouth. All I could do is swallow my pride, clean myself off and get the feck over it. Turns out I did indeed monumentally piss off my brother and since he’s a dick, he and his other friends plotted to set the Ox up with another chick. The Ox didn’t have the balls (seeing as they were tiny, like two limes trying to look desirable amidst a watermelon) to tell them to fuck off… or maybe he was over the Fuck-a-thon and wanted a woman with more “substance” who wouldn’t suck his dick nearly as often or as well, who knows. I wasn’t too surprised; I knew it would come to an end and figured my brother would happily squash it. I just didn’t think the Ox would be such a fucking d-bag about it. Instead of being sent to my relationship grave with dignity, he breakup email’s me at work. I’m sorry, am I Carrie Bradshaw? Is this Sex and the City? I guess this is where “he’s just not that into you” applies, although I think that shit should be rephrased to “he just doesn’t give a fuck about you, bitch.” A little face-to-face “you’re the biggest loser” talk would have been appreciated, but I guess if I had to choose between the Ox doing one thing well I’d leave it at fucking and not communicating. On top of the totally awesome email - the preferred breakup choice of leading vaginas everywhere - which consisted of two heartfelt poetic sentences, by the by, I show up at my family river trip in Arizona a month later to find the Ox there holding court, acting like nothing ever happened.
This is the story of #33, the Pussy, who is to thank for my introduction to *#34, Convict # 27901356764.
If I know I have to see someone on a somewhat regular basis or they know and/or are friends with my family, I usually like to keep the line of communication flowing, even in difficult times so everyone can get over their issues in a non-dramatic somewhat healthy adult way and move on. I’m not a fan or practitioner of the passive aggressive pussy ass shit. But I was now thrust into that environment, so fuck it, what could I do? Not give a shit, is what. My family just loves the Ox, thinks he’s so cute and is such a great catch, which added juuuust a pinch of lemon to my paper cut. That, and him being heavily involved with the girl my brother helped set him up with was like a cherry polyp on top of the shit sundae. But fuck it, I live a big girl life, knew what I was getting into and that I’d probably get screwed (which I did… many times… in every position). Only thing to do now was party and get shitty.
And during the day, par-tay I did. I tore that river up, it was 1999 all fucking over again. I was there to kick ass or chew bubblegum and, you bet your sweet ass, I was all out of bubble gum. Oh yeah, I went there. I shook my money maker, drank some drank, smoked some smoke, mingled with some sausages. Truly didn’t care that the Ox was ten feet away the entire time. The river has that power. All was good in this bitch's hood until sundown hit the horizon, and the drunken brokedown palace ho’s staying at the house next door to my brother’s invited themselves over and started an impromptu stripper party, that I became less than pumped. Since I didn’t have anyone to gyrate on and the Ox insisted on locking eyes with me every time one of the coug’s started grinding on him I was ready to mosey on to the next leg of my river adventure sans the Ox and his stupid face and its stupid smile. Normally, the mere mention of “stripper party” would be go-time for me but since my family was around I decided to split to the kick ass Indian Casino down the street instead. I promptly went inside, put on my shortest skirt, my tightest, lowest top and doused myself in so much perfume I smelled sweeter than a French Whore House - when its 95 degrees out with no breeze that shit straight lingers. At about 8pm my sister, cousin, niece and I peeled out to the casino, which should change its name from Bluewater to Bluehair. I’m pretty sure they have weekly drink specials for anyone hooked up to an oxygen tank. This particular weekend it was dead – shocker - and I couldn’t very well show up the Ox’s cougar with my very own Silverback, who may or may not have control of his own bowels. You followin' my National Geographic shit?
So, we hop in the whip, which in this case was my sick ass Jetta GLS, and go to the Roadrunner, a river-front bar that serves a 60oz. drink called the Roadraper. What’s better than a drink with the word rape in it? Nothing, that’s what. Who needs roofies when you’ve got the Raper? Gotta admire things that get right to the point. Unfortunately, this little gem of an establishment was also dead. Our options were either Willie Nelson’s toothless grinning twin at the bar or Dom Delius’s chunkier cousin who was staring from two tables down. I’d fuck just about any man: fat, short, tall, skinny, bald, dreaded, hairy and horny but I couldn’t get a hard on for either of these trailer treasures. After about an hour of being somewhere between bored and bored we bone the fuck out. My sister keeps a death grip on her Roadraper refusing to part with it. See, chicks dig it.
Just before the last turn to my brother’s house my car passes an Arizona Deputy traveling the opposite direction… until, of course, he immediately flips a bitch, rides my ass and lights me up. This is no good. The car is flooded with a blinding tractor beam ray and I was half hoping this was in fact an alien invasion as opposed to a traffic stop. I pull my ride over and out of the eye-piercing glare walk’s a teenager with a shockingly severe acne problem, pants hiked up to his nipples and a badge. I jump in my seat a bit. He notes this, taps on my window. I roll it down and study what it is I’m looking at. I mean this guy could be Freddy Krueger for Halloween and not have to buy a mask. They clearly do not run Proactiv commercials around these parts… or have mirrors… or soap… or friends that clue you in.
“Clocked yew at farty two in a tharty fave, were you off ta in such a hurry?” Freddy Krueger asks.
“Nowhere sir, just going back home to my brother’s house down the road there.”
“Lisanse and registration, and foller me to the back of the ve-hickle, ma’am.”
Ma’am? I’m like a year older than this pig. But his face scares me and he’s Johnny Fuckin’ Law, so I oblige. He immediately proceeds to give me a field sobriety test, which I pass. Ain’t gonna catch me gettin’ any DUIey’s. No way, no how bitches. I can tell Freddy is pissed, he expected some shit to go down and was spittin’ mad. He starts pressuring me to search the “ve-hickle.” Uh-oh; I’ve got a cowboy on my hands with butt loads of pent up high school aggression to take out on someone who is nowhere near as unfortunate as he is. I mean this kid is a skinnier version of Pizza the Hut; his face actually looked to be melting in several different areas. I try to tell him I don’t understand why any of that is necessary, I haven’t done anything to warrant a vehicle search. He does not like my resistance.
Dick. Again with the ma’am.
“Ma’am, if you have nothin’ to hide than thur should be no problim with my inspecktin’ ur ve-hickle. Now we can be her all night, it don’t make no diffarance ta me."
I know this prick really has no right to search my vehicle. I listen to Jay Z. But I lack that intimidating black gangster rapper vibe you need to back yo’ shit up. I’ve got a miniskirt and boobs and this guy is not giving up. I mean I can practically rest my chin on my tits and he hasn’t looked below my neckline once. Probably never seen a pair of funbags and has no idea what they are. I’m sure he thinks I have some pectoral inflammatory disease or some shite. That or he can’t see them over his raised, puffy facial goiters. I, eventually, reluctantly agree to let him search my vehicle, which was a dumb shit move on my part. Always fight The Man to the end. He pulls all the girls out of the car. Lines us up Usual Suspect style against the chain link fence. It was a typical family affair.
This is when I realize I’m going to jail. In my haste, to get out of the Ox’s presence I grabbed the same purse that I had on the boat earlier, which had a tiny bit of what was left of my happy plant in it. I practice a serious green lifestyle at the river. It’s somewhere in the vicinity of a Phish concert and Woodstock. Sure enough, the Krueg comes up with my bag,
“Whoose pank and green bag is this?”
I raise my hand which feels like it’s made of lead and step forward. Freddy freaks out, unhinges his holster. Yells at me to,
“Stay right were ya are. Don’t move.”
Is this douchebaggery for real? Did he really just make for his gun? This is already the longest, worst night of my life. He asks me what is in the bag. I tell him everything that’s in it except for the Mary Jane and pipe, of course.
“Is that all?”
“Ya wouldn’t be lying to ma, wouldja? That would be against the law.”
I figured the “less is more” motto was a good one to follow at this juncture.
“Then what’s this?!”
*DUM, DUM, DUM.* He dramatically comes up with my weed kit.
“I don’t know what that is, but it’s not mine.”
“Tell it tew tha jedge.”
And like a typical Cops episode he slaps the cuffs on me – I note that on-duty is the only time a woman would let him cuff her - and hauls me off to the clink leaving my sister, cousin and niece in the dust. But not before he writes my sister an open container ticket for the RoadRaper. You can have a gun rack of sawed-off shotguns in your car, go through the drive-thru liquor store and buy a handle of Wild Turkey while ten of your kids sit in the bed of the truck, but you’ll get pinched like a motherfucker for committing a heinous crime like open container or cutting down a cactus in the great state that is Arizona. On the ride back to the jail I truly wished I was the head of a notorious gang so my henchmen would ram the car, pinning the officer as it is pushed onto the train tracks and I could make my escape just seconds before the car was struck… I’ve seen The Fugitive, like, a lot. But no, I’m just a dumb stoner who was lookin’ for a little Ox-free fun and wound up getting hassled by an adolescent redneck cowboy. Fucking rad sauce.
The last thing you see before the big steel door to Mesa County Hell closes is the “Welcome to California” sign for an extra dash of fuck-you-you’re-fucked. The jail was home to some long-term prisoners, who lounge about like the last period bell just rang. One of the prisoners greets Freddy when we walk in,
“Hey, how’s it going Officer *wet ass explosion*?
To date that is some of the gnarliest ass blowing I’ve ever heard. It was wet and loud and long and sounded a bit painful. Freddy is clearly highly respected around the jail. The incoming garage leads right into the booking room and I’m sat in a chair in front of one of the holding cells. Immediately I notice, but do not make direct eye contact with, a man who, no doubt, was Ed Norton’s body double in American History X. Although he was lacking the barage of different sized Schwaztika's. I know this because he's got his jumpsuit pulled down exposing his ink... it was all very Cape Fear. I was waiting for him to break out some pull ups. He sways back and forth while he eye-fucks me from the other side of the glass. At this point, because of the cuffs, I haven’t been able to adjust shit, so my miniskirt is more like a hula hoop and my nipples are a split-hair’s length from exposure. I’m practically lying in the chair because if I sit up I risk exposing not only g-string but partial labia… bitch needed to readjust, shoot.
According to the booking whiteboard, the other two prisoners in the cell are George “American Horse” Jones Jr., an (shocking reveal here) American Indian who was charged with violating parole – awesome - and Jimmy Blanchard, who looked like a giant mound of swept-up salon hair with Birkenstocks sticking out the bottom. Hippie, like myself, was rolled for possession of the Ganj. AHX’s charges were not listed, I assumed due to lack of board space. American Horse and the Hippie both looked just as terrified of AHX as I did sitting safely on the other side of the glass. AHX starts yelling and jumping. An officer the size of a teenage elephant comes shuffling into the room.
“Dammit Sebastian, I told yous to knock that shit off. I ain’t gon’ tell ya gain.”
I’m starting to think that the Texas Chainsaw Massacre family may have relocated to Arizona to run a jail. And do white trash people really name their children Sebastian? On the board it reads “Billie.” I don’t think that’s short for Sebastian, but I had bigger worries at the moment, trying not to puke at the sight of Freddy’s face in the fluorescent K-Mart lighting as he questioned me and took down my information. I could see every juicy detail of every single white and blackhead. Freddy wasn’t a fan of popping. The elephant throws a 20 lbs. blanket made of Brillo Pad material on top of me.
“Yous stirrin’ up the animals with those.”
Fuck, yeah. At least someone noticed them. I don’t give a shit if it was the “animals.” After I’m questioned, its mug shot time. Something for mom’s fridge, yay! And as a bonus because I’m like a Manson-style criminal, and charged with a double felony I get pictures of all my hardcore tats taken. The butterfly tramp stamp is by far the most menacing. It must have been like Paris Hilton leaving Mr. Chow’s when they photographed all of AHX’s tattoos… or maybe they’re on file at this point. After my photo shoot, I’m then taken to a bathroom that looks like a medieval dungeon and handed some eye-shattering fluorescent orange scrubs with matching bleach-spotted Vans and boxers. Okay, ew, some prisoner’s dick and balls has rubbed up in these. I’m told to undress, shower and change into my new pretty prison uniform. I can barely touch the boxers let alone put them on. Freddy locks the dungeon door on me and I run the shower, to appear to be doing what I’m told. But there is no way in Lucifer’s Inferno of Hell that I was getting in that thing and showering. Fuck no. AHX was just washing his cock and balls in there not even an hour ago. I wait long enough for it to seem like I’m showering, never mind I’m about to exit the bathroom with my prom-do still intact. I put on my new favorite and brightly-flattering, prison uniform but leave my underwear on; prison crabs is one avenue I never really wanted to travel down.
I exit the bathroom to find Freddy in my face, which scared the shit out of me as I feared one of the cysts might rupture in my direction. He yanks the clear plastic bag containing my belongings out of my hand and inspects the contents.
“Wer’s ur undiegarments?”
Probably the first pair he’s seen besides his mom’s. I’m still not understanding why he talks like we’re filming a scene in Deliverance, but I simply move on and respond by telling him that I’m still wearing them. This sends Freddy into a near panic attack.
“Yew will dew as ur towld, dew you understand me? You’re in a world a trouble and it's time yew start realizin’ that. Now, yew will go back into that bathrewm and remove all of ur personal beelongin’s.”
I march back into the Pit of Despair and “dew as ‘m towld.” Fuckin’ genius doesn’t even notice my hair’s as dry as Death Valley in July… and just as hot if I do say so myself. When I come back out, with a fresh new case of crabs, he takes me further into the back of the prison to the bedding section where I pass the women’s holding cell aka “The Beaver Trap.” I see two twitchy tweaker bitches pacing the cell and a very large, and I mean very B-I-G woman on a bunk with her back to the door somewhat firmly punching the brick cell wall. Holy shit. I always thought I could handle my own… but I never factored in prison fights. So, I grab my thin blue gymnastic-type mat and Brillo pad blanket and prepare to try and not shit myself. Freddy tells me that the women’s holding cell is for the long term inmates and I’ll be held in the drunk tank which is right next door to AHX and the boys. Yipee, never thought I'd be Xmas morning overjoyed to hear I’d be spending the night in the drunk tank next to some guy who could probably break through the wall with his head. But seriously, I had negative interest in tangoing with Tweaker Flora and Junkie Fauna nor their Orangutan, which is exactly what that thing in the corner looked like in a prison uniform. As I’m walking into my cell AHX starts screaming and pounding the glass. I cannot for the life of me understand what the fuck he is saying or what language he’s saying it in for that matter, it’s complete and utter gibberish.
I try to sleep, which is impossible due to the amount of times the incoming door right outside my cell is opened and slammed shut and because I now fear that prison crabs have fully invaded my honey pot. I slept like Al Bundy hand-in-crouch style all damn night, trying to pretend that was enough to protect me from prison syphilis. On top of my STD issues, I’m having a blast nodding off about every 20 minutes only to reawake and repeatedly realize where I am and what happened.
Morning finally breaks about 47 fucking hours later and I’m brought out of my 10 degree below zero drunk tank to find the Indian, Hippie and AHX shackled together at the wrist and ankle. Thank God the Arizona prison system allows for court on the weekends, which is the only positive I can draw from this experience. There is no sign of Freddy and I breathe a sigh of relief, I can only imagine how abundant that garden of zits would have appeared in the sunlight. There is a new officer taking charge of us felons who I lovingly refer to as Mongoloid or Mongo, he just had that air about him. Mongo handcuffs me, but secures only one wrist, the other bracelet just slides off my arm. I tell him I’m not properly cuffed.
“I do not want to hear any complaining, if it’s too tight that’s just too, damn bad!”
Ooooo-kay. Never mind that I said they were not on all the way! Dipshit. I just go with it. I figure if AHX starts to lose it and break free of his shackles, not being cuffed will raise my chances of getting out of there alive. Speaking of, I quickly eye AHX's shackles to make sure they're snug and secure. We are told to line up and AHX is now directly behind me. I hear him sniff my hair. It’s creepy when a dude does that in a bar, it’s now happening to me in fucking jail by a guy who has face tattoos. Two enthusiastic thumbs up, folks. For added fun, the courthouse is three blocks down the road, so I get to walk outside in my outstandingly attractive prison uniform with The Three Stooges shackled and shuffling along behind me. I prayed to God a bus of college football hotties or something would drive by on their way to an away game so I could show off my fly new irresistible style. Before we get to the outdoor fun though we go through about ten bank vault-style steel doors and have to wait for the door behind us to close and lock before the one in front of us can be unlocked and opened. The only thing missing was being strapped to a dolly like Hannibal Lecter. AHX decides to break the ice. Goody. I have to ask him to repeat himself about five times because I cannot understand a fucking word he is saying, the reason I can’t understand a fucking word he is saying is because AHX is deaf and talks as if he’s a 5 year-old with a disability, and since one of his biceps is the size of my head it’s clear he is not disabled… at least physically. Then I see the hearing aids.
I finally gather that he is trying to tell me that he wanted the teenage elephant to give me his blanket last night because he knows how cold it gets in the cells. And how upset he was when he wouldn’t give it to me. Now, if sacrificing your prison blanket isn’t love I don’t know what is. It was fucking cold in that brick cave. I turned back around hoping that he’d stop talking to me because it’s really hard to understand what he’s saying and I’m afraid I’ll piss him off if I say “What?” fourteen times in a row again. But he, of course, does not stop talking to me. He winks at me a lot as he talks, maybe so it’s clear that he’s flirting with me. He goes on to tell me that I shouldn’t be in there – no shit – and that I’m the prettiest girl he’s seen in his whole life (how long has he been in here?) and that I smell very good… and I even skipped the dungeon shower so that’s impressive. He offers up that he has to stay in the drunk tank cause he gets in too many fights in the Men’s Holding Cell. I’m already picturing telling people our “how we met” story. Designing neon orange wedding gowns in my head. Mongo readies to open the last vault door before we are outside in the 109 degree desert terrain. He warns AHX to,
“Stop talking, this isn’t the senior prom.”
Really? Thanks, cause I thought this was just a new and creative prom theme and that I’ve been shot back in time. AHX is not amused by Mongo’s outburst. You never cock-block a shackled convict runnin’ his game, everyone knows that. He cracks his neck in a very I-could-kill-you way, as if to say “try me.” I just sort of scooted closer to AHX and flashed an “I’m with him. Now what?” smirk. Mongo opens the door and I consider running, I’m not cuffed after all. He produces a shotgun and I quickly reconsider and pray to the big guy he doesn’t now notice that my cuffs dangle from one wrist and think I actually am trying to escape. A squirrely guy is not someone you want holding a shotgun. This just keeps getting better and better. We have to walk at a snail’s pace because The Three Stooges can only shuffle so fast. I’m constantly told to “slow down!” as the shotgun is raised on me. I’m in neon fucking orange, in the middle of the damn desert; he’d be able to see me three miles down the road in every direction, where am I going to go?
I’ve never been so excited to reach a courthouse and go through a preliminary hearing in all my life… until the judge enters and I see that she is roughly 101 years-old. I’m parked at the defendant’s table and The Three Stooges are sat in the jury box. If I’m being judged by these peers, this bitch is home free. It takes Judge Dinosaur with the shaking head about 5 minutes to get through my name. She finally releases me on my own recognizance and into my sister’s custody, who, praise Jesus, dragged her hung-over ass out of bed to come get me. It’s all I can do to patiently wait in my seat as she goes through the other three guys’ charges at a painfully slow, shaky-voiced pace. I was ready to take the bailiff’s gun and end it all as she struggled through AHX’s list, which included but is not limited to – possession of an illegal narcotic, possession of an illegal narcotic with the intent to sell, possession of an illegal weapon, assaulting an officer – can’t really blame him there – grand theft auto, three DUI’s and a partridge in a fucking pear tree. Out of nowhere, a *pounding* begins on the courtroom door. The bailiff opens it and one of the finest looking trailer trash couples (like Jerry Springer worthy - in its heyday) I’ve seen to date comes charging in on a rampage.
“Do not, I repeat DO NOT, release Sebastian. Our son is a rotten apple, a danger to himself and others, he’s been kicked out of our home for being a druggie and if you release him he’ll have no place to go. He’s a no good junkie!”
I'm now understanding the bigger picture of AHX's life. Where things may have gone wrong for him. They are yelled at to stop with their outbursts, but the Barney Fife bailiff works himself into an uncontrollable coughing fit so they carry on until the fossil behind the judge’s bench finally works up the strength to bring down her gavel. AHX is fully sobbing at this point and, I’m not gonna lie, I was misting up. He instantly begins pleading with the judge claiming his innocence, telling her he’s been sober for seven months and to please test him. He really doesn’t want to go back to jail again, please. That’s really all I could make out through the deafness and tears. Although the pleading was much longer and heavier. I gotta say I felt for my prison boyfriend, while he looked like a skull-cracking convict dick on the outside he sounded like a little boy and the desperation behind his eyes pierced through each one of us… except his pink flamingo collecting parents, of course. It felt like he was really trying this time and just couldn’t catch a break. I never thought I’d have, well, anything in common with a near lifelong felon but I did at that moment more than anyone else sitting in that courtroom. Who knows though, I could have still be stoned... I only smoke the chron.
Mongo interrupts the heartfelt saga when he barges in with a toothless drunk who was picked up and immediately brought to the courtroom of Judge Fossil for sentencing. I was miraculously released and ordered to return back to the jail with him. As I exited the courtroom I locked eyes with AHX and mouthed “Good luck to you” in which he responded with some gibberish I interpreted as “Thanks pretty girl, you, too. Take care of yourself.” And that was the last I saw of my prison stud. Maybe he's immortalized our love by adding me to the black and gray naked lady collage on his back, I'll always be left with that uncertainty and hope. On the walk back to the jail, the officer’s crosshairs on my back, I couldn’t help but wonder… shit, do I really have prison crabs?
The moral of THIS story: Never judge a multiple felon by his prison tats.
*While AHX and I didn’t have sex, I’m pretty sure we shared some prison crabs and other such juices which definitely qualifies him for a consummation number.
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
The following will explain why 99.9% of the time I’m only down to fuck.
Dating. I’d rather have five root canals, undergo Chinese water torture and take a hot load to the eye… flushing immediately, of course. Dating fucking blows, mainly because no one is normal, present writer included. But there are times when I see a tasty morsel and I simply must have it, even if it means going through all the awkward bullshit of a first date and the “getting to know you” crapshoot. I mean, I know there isn’t a straight man (or gay one, for that matter) out there who doesn’t appreciate a good, hot, dirty slut, but it’s kind of hard to use those tactics on the street (unless, of course, you’re a streetwalker) as opposed to in a bar where it’s the name of the game… and everyone is three sheets to the mothafucking wind.
Last week, I was coming out of Rice Things (awesome lean teriyaki chicken dish by the way) and I passed a jaw-droppingly HOT piece of man ass on his way in. My mouth was running and I was hitting on him before my brain could even process what the hell was going on. He was on the phone, this didn’t matter to me one iota. I waited by my car, leaning, one-foot-up style, lookin’ pretty bad ass, for him to come back out of the restaurant. He bee-lined toward me. Big titties - works every time. Cue the flirting, giggling and number exchanging. He’s a fireman. I wanted him to spray me with his hose right then and there. Instantly the tingling of horniness and excitement danced through my body. Why I was excited I have no damn clue. When are dates ever awesome… or fun… or worth it? In my case, fecking NEV-ER! Peter Pan can fucking suck it, I said NEVER, fucking EVER.
We had a couple phone convos before the weekend and there weren’t any awkward pauses and I didn’t have to do the high school bullshit and have my roommate call me on the other line, so I could make an excuse to get off the damn phone. We set a date for Saturday. Turns out, randomly, a mutual friend of ours is having a party at his restaurant. Sa-weet.
One red flag was tossed on the field, though.
His voicemail, on his cell phone by the way, says “You’ve reached *Hot Fireman,* Michelle and Lisa.” Huh? Who has more than one name on their cell phone; do people actually share the same one? They cost like ten dollars these days. And these were female names, unless he’s living a Jack Tripper lifestyle, this is no good. Since us two kids were gettin’ along pretty well thus far, I decided to remain Positive Patty. Patty was about to get bitch-slapped… hard.
Saturday night rolls around. It’s go time. I’ve got everything shaved, smell like a whore factory from all the perfume and have on a new outfit, so I’m feelin’ fine as wine and confident. At about 5:00pm the text messages start to roll in:
Hot Fireman: You around to go to the party tonight?
We’d already discussed this a few times and I agreed to go more than once, but I guess there’s nothing wrong with a little quadruple checking.
Me: Yes, of course. What time should I expect you?
Me: Whenever you want me to be, what time will you be done so I know
About twenty minutes go by…
Hot Fireman: What time u going
Me: Huh? I thought we were going together?
Hot Fireman: Need to get my friend an outfit first change then go can cum by after that around seven thirty give me and address. But going somewhere right after. Don’t want you to get stranded so if u want to drive there and then we can take it from there. Ok.
Two more red flags are thrown on the field, this guy is now trying to get out of the date altogether. And now his friend is coming along. Although this is a mutual friend’s party, I didn’t know about it until Hot Fireman invited me, so it’d be weird to show up alone and it’d be weird anyway since this is, or was, supposed to be a date.
*Stranded is in bold because this is not a word you want to throw out when you’re about to take a girl out. Stranded is what happens when your car breaks down, or your boat gets caught in a storm and is marooned on a deserted Island, or your flight gets canceled in some foreign city. Not something you should expect from someone who, as of less than twelve hours ago, couldn’t wait to hang out with you - unless you’re a real fucking bitch or dude was obliterated when you met and you’re a complete hose-beast – even then it would still be lame.
At this point, I am reminded why I hate this shit before I’ve even left the house. I’m trying to stay pumped, but really just want out of the whole thing. Good thing this fucker is smokin’ fuckin’ hot.
Me: Wasn’t really planning on driving, unless you’re really planning on stranding me.
Hot Fireman: Ok I’m in. Then I will be there around that time.
You’re in? I didn’t invite him to go out. He invited me. W-T-F.
I call his ass. Texting is some weird shit sometimes and I needed to know what the hell is going on here. He doesn’t answer. Instead:
Thx? I promptly go downstairs and make a drink. The comfort of an old friend is exactly what I needed at this point... or a good fuck. Since I couldn’t get a booty call lined up quick enough. Sangria and I had a little tryst.
O-kay. I feel mildly better, mildly is a strong word.
Hot Fireman arrives with Buddy. I’ve been downgraded to a threesome friend date. I can roll with it. Fuck it. We go to the first party and have a really swell time. We’re getting along just fabulously and his friend is cool. It comes time to go to the next party, and H.F. and Buddy insist I come along. I guess I passed the “cool” test. That was a close one.
We get to the party. Walking up to the house H.F. is all over me, complimenting a bitch like a motherfucker. What I didn’t know at the time was that this was my Dead Man Walking moment. He was just buttering up the prisoner before they arrived to their ultimate doom. Inside everyone is nice. One older woman gets up and bolts toward me, “Hi, what’s your name?” I tell her. “Very nice to meet you, very nice.” Um, okay. Weird.
H.F. introduces me to the Owner of the house and a couple other people. As I’m talking to one of them, I think I hear Owner say “wife.” Nah, he couldn’t have. Right? Wrong! Sooooo God damn wrong. I was wrong like crimped hair in the 80’s, wrong like Two Girls, One Cup, wrong like Ehhhhh *buzzer* YOU’RE WRONG, LADY! H.F. and Buddy go to the kitchen to make drinks. Owner decides he wants to take me around and introduce me to some more people. Clear as crystal he introduces me as, “This is H.F.’s wife. H.F. is in what division of the fire department, again?”
All eyes are abruptly on me. I’m trying not to swallow my tongue, and pray to God my voice doesn’t crack when I answer, which will indicate just how thrown I am. “Uh, I’m not H.F.’s wife.”
The Owner looks like he could cry. “I’m so sorry. I’m going to try and remove the gigantic foot I just shoved in my mouth, although I’m pretty sure it’ll be impossible.”
The other people standing there are now looking at me like I’m some young, 20-something year old tart, who’s getting played, which pretty much sums up exactly what I was. H.F. was watching all this go down from a distance in the kitchen. I excuse myself to the bathroom.
Bathroom: I text two of my girls, telling them, reminding them, why I only like to fuck guys. I, literally, like some cheesy romantic comedy, look out the window to check the distance to the ground. This party is all of three blocks from my house. I could be home in ten minutes tops. I decide to breathe instead; I’ve been holding my breath for two straight minutes now. H.F. knocks on the door, “You okay in there?”
“Uh, huh. Dandy. Be right out.” I decide to remain cool; I’m not a scene-maker. This is H.F.’s deal, not mine. He’s the one still married and dating. I don’t want to get into it too much in front of a bunch of random people at a party, but I have a few simple little questions. I come out and H.F. is standing right outside the door.
“Yeah, so you’re still married?”
“Yeah, I’ll have to tell you the whole story sometime.”
So far this fucker will have to put me on his knee one day and share a whole weeks worth of tales. He, painfully, continues, “Yeah, she’s actually on a date right now, I don’t even want to think about it.”
Jealous husband. One of my all time favorite traits in a first date, I don’t know about the rest of you. This was going just swimmingly. I hoped it would never end.
“We’ve got a three year-old and it’s hard, you know.”
I nod, but no, I fucking don’t know. No clue. I’m not married, have no kids and generally don’t like to drown people in my Katrina-size flood of baggage and issues. I just ask him to assure me he hasn’t brought me into a hornet’s nest, which he does. Its 11pm, H.F. has already warned me he has to leave around midnight because he works early the next day. One hour, I can do this. I ask him to bring me another beer, fuck this; bitch is gettin’ a buzz on. No longer concerned with being the “little lady.”
He returns, and is now all over me, dialing the flirting up to Max. He’s hot, and I’m not gonna lie it was working. His phone, by the way, is BLOWING up hard. Wifey must be home from said date. An Asian woman approaches us, “Hey H.F., your wife is Japanese right? Do you speak Japanese? Blah, blah, blaaaah.”
I begin an inner-dialogue in my head. Japanese? How well do these people know H.F.? If you specifically meant to design a woman opposite of an Asian woman it would be me, in every sense and case of the design. I don’t consider myself insecure in the slightest, in fact I could do with some insecurity at times, because I’ve been told I can act cocky, but something about the White man/Asian fetish really gets me. It’s a fetish that always borderlines obsession and I know I can’t compete with it, ever. Unless I become like “Catwoman” and undergo some serious Nip/Tuck freak-style plastic surgery. I get it, Asian women are hot (not all, but most). White boys can catch themselves some serious Yellow Fever and the Great White Glory cannot under any circumstance cure it, only possibly Nuprin can, “Little, yellow, different.”
As they continue on about Japanese and wives, I, once again, excuse myself to the bathroom. My “sane” room. I don’t even give a shit if the whole party thinks I’m droppin’ deuces and blowin’ it up in there. I come out to find Buddy, “Hey how’s it goin’?”
“Just great! Awesome time.” He’ll always have to wonder, sarcastic or sincere? Since he doesn’t know me well enough to know its complete and utter sarcasm. I can’t help but try and get some insider information. “So, H.F. is still married I hear. “
“But separated, right?” He gives me one of those faces like he’s just seen someone hit hard by something. I guess I wasn’t hiding it as well as I thought. He shakes his head, and pretty much gives me the impression that H.F. and wife have been having trouble for about three years now, but they have a kid so it’s been rough. As far as I can tell they still live together but date other people. I try not to preach, but without being able to control it I respond with, “Wow, that’s great for a kid to be around, for sure. I totally get it now.”
He gives me the, I-agree-but-he’s-my-buddy-and-I-know-a-lot-more-of-the-inside-story-so-I-get-it-more-than-you look. He has a very expressive face. I let him off the hook and continue to have the best time I can. Midnight is here, yay! I get to turn into a pumpkin. Never in my whole life have I been so excited to leave a party and sit alone in my house. He tells me everyone really likes me and I seem like I’m having fun so I’m more than welcome to stay, he checks his phone about three times as he tells me this. I go with, "I came with you and I’d like to leave with you." I think to myself, but thanks for the (fucking weird) offer.
He drops me off. I summon a booty call.
The moral of THIS story: No man in L.A. is single, but he will still shamelessly date you. He’ll tell you he’s single, but he’s definitely got a wife, fiancé, girlfriend, someone he’s dating, mistress, dominatrix, hooker, or massage parlor somewhere. The ratio of single women versus single men in this town is 1,000,000,000 to 1. Dating rocks!
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
My name is Easy Lover and I'm a Cockoholic. The below is just one of multiple testimonies as to why.
My co-worker has one of the biggest, tastiest looking dick bulge's I've seen in a loooooong time.
It's large, curvy and, well, large. It's all I care about these days. Sometimes I go home after work and sit in the darkness clicking my floor lamp on and off while I listen to Madame Butterfly because it's all I live for lately and, yet, we're still not together. I'm slowly beginning to resemble Smeagol, my shoulders are slouching and I wring my hands in a maniacal way whenever D.B., my "preeeecious," is within reach. My obsession, or, um, disease, has begun to hinder my job performance, which was satisfactory at best to begin with.
I realize dicks are everywhere. The grocery store, museums, zoos, schools, malls, the dentist office (mine is hot, hot, hot), church, old folks homes - if you're into that kind of thing. I should have a better handle on this. This isn’t the first one I’ve seen, or played with, or sat on. In fact, I even make sure to get laid on a regular basis, but this is no help. I tell you, this is the bulgiest bulge in all of Bulgeville. It’s simple stunning. I have no choice but to stare. None. It’s beyond my capabilities. For my disease there is no cure. No dick is not a cure for dick lovers. Alcoholics can stay out of the liquor store, druggies can stay out the back alley, hookers can stay off the street corner, but everywhere you go, without fail, there are dicks. Morning, noon and night – dick, dick, dick, dick, dick. I mean there are entire stores and industries based around the dick. And I am only getting worse. Significantly worse. The other day, it grew quiet at work and the slow ticking of the clock began ridiculing me, Dick… Dick… Dick… I thought my ears were going to bleed. It wasn’t until I noticed everyone staring at me that I realized I was clicking my pen incessantly like it was some dick morphine drip inserted into my arm.
First of all, to make matters unbearable, D.B. is constantly being flaunted around the office. Someone in my condition can't be in the CONSTANT presence of such a gloriously abundant meat stick. I mean, there is no reason co-worker can't wear a nice roomy pair of Hammer pants or possibly a kilt - he is Irish after all. But no, instead he accentuates the shit out of D.B., wearing designer jeans that 'pull' in all the right places and in some that simply baffle me. I am, therefore, forced against my will to check it out non-stop and from various angles. I know when it's leanin' to the right and I know when it's leanin' to the left. I have 12-hour surveillance on D.B. at all times. It's my equivalent to too much cleavage. I stare. I foam. I drool. I'm fucking obsessed.
Co-worker sits four feet six inches from me at work and I swear that is the exact length of his dick when it's unrolled. His desk faces mine and when he gets up to do... whatever (he always tells me, but I can't hear him over Handel Messiah's "Hallelujah Chorus," which blares in my head every time I'm in the presence of D.B.), I peek over my computer screen and blatantly ogle. There is no way he doesn't see me do this and yet he still continues to get up from his desk on a daily basis. I mean stay seated for Christ's sake. For extra fun, when co-worker comes to talk to me at my desk, he's juuust the right height, so D.B. floats perfectly above the horizon of my desk like a genie waiting to grant me my one true wish, which in this case would be a shiny new pearl necklace. I can feel that cunt monster with his one-eye on me taunting, harassing and laughing as I'm trying to look at everything but the gigantic hovering cock inches away from my face. I look like I constantly have something in my eye. It's like a train wreck; you're drawn to it like there are magnets in your pupils. You know you shouldn't look, but dammit you have to.
Wait. D.B. is on the move. There he goes. Jigglin' by like a "joey" bouncin' around in his mama's pouch. He winked as he passed by my desk. I saw him twitch under the zipper, like he was waving. I want to suck his sweet nectar. I lose concentration sometimes, sorry.
On top of the constant harassment from D.B., I've been forced to masturbate in the bathroom at work. On the bright side, I work in a fucking sausage factory so the chances of one of the four chicks in the office walking in are slim to not gonna fucking happen. I could never masturbate with just my hand before I got this job. Never. Now I'm in and out in the time it takes to piss. I start pulsating at my desk like the mother ALIEN. The walk to the bathroom warms her up and then all it takes is a flick or two of the bean, I bear down and To the Moon Alice! That's a vital fucking job quality mastered if you ask me.
Not surprisingly, D.B. has wrecked my, already fragile, concentration. I doodle Mrs. D.B. when I'm supopsed to be taking notes and I can't hear people talking to me anymore. I'm simply too wrapped up in my fantasies of D.B. and I holding hands and running along the sand at the beach, or having a snowball fight in the mountains, or making love under the stars. Just me and D.B. D.B. and me. Until I finally realize that constant, annoying sound ringing in my ears is my boss asking me a question.
I've never had a problem boning any co-worker, in fact, besides the paycheck it's my favorite thing about work. D.B. is certainly a top-notch candidate. But I went ahead and made good friend's with D.B.'s best friend, co-worker. We even write together. So, I don't know, maybe its old age that's causing me to care about shit I never would before, like common sense, but whatever it is I wish it would stop and let me be the fun, irresponsible slut I’ve always been. Why does sex have to change things, dammit? It's simply hand shaking with different body parts, just a little bit stickier. Why if D.B. and I get together do things have to change for co-worker and me? These are the daily issues that surround a cockoholic like me.
But, please, don't think for one second this means it won't happen. Like a small, cute little mouse parading around a python in its tank, just because I'm full and content now doesn't mean I won't strike. In fact, I still have yet to christen this job, so no one is safe and packing a Kielbasa in your shorts certainly ain't gonna help matters.
To top all of this off, co-worker has the audacity to order a pair of size 13 shoes and ask my opinion of them. I mean, really? Now he's just teasing the animal, which is never a nice thing to do. Let me just parade in front of your desk in my new size 13 shoes - which look like every other pair of shoes I own - with my huge dick bulge bouncing around everywhere acting like I don't know just how huge my cock is down to the centimeter. Reeeal cool, buddy.
So, it's pretty clear cut... or maybe it's not cut - that's one thing I can't tell from outside the pants. I am weak, I suffer from a disease. A disease which haunts me everywhere I go and is now threatening my job security. If it's a crime to look, then it should be a crime to make me look. I don’t ask for D.B. to be there, he’s just… there. All the fucking time. Every day. All day. Forever.
The moral of THIS story: Don't blog about how big your co-worker’s dick bulge is on your work computer... unless, of course, you suffer from cockoholism like me and don't even realize you did.
My adventures in dick hunting have led me on some wild journeys. Some good, some bad, but always bat shit crazy. Now, while I would never recommend anyone venture out into the wild in search of dick, it has certainly left me with quite the collection of sordid tales and notches on the ‘ol bedpost. Every once in a while nature mixes itself in with pleasure. This is why, in certain circles, I am known as The Dick Hunter. My experience, up until now, in nature's kingdom has solely been with snake charming. And while I’ve charmed a considerable amount of pink snakes(Pinkus Snakus), from Gardener-size to the impressively ample Anaconda, nothing quite compares to this.
This is the story of #20, who was filled with surprises aplenty. (Rhyming is cool.)
The river in Parker, AZ. – my Graceland, my paradise, my people - a little gift from Heaven for all us male and female whores… but with water, and boats and tattoos (I just *creamed* my work chair… literally. I was wearing a skirt with tights earlier, and what you may or may not know is that sitting in a pair of tights for too long makes you itch like you’ve bathed in Poison Oak for ten hours, then dried off and dressed yourself in it, so I ditched the fuckers, and the v-string I’m wearing is all stretched out and shit – hate that.). I’ve conquered and divided my fair share of river cock and never walked away - in some cases bowlegged - disappointed. But there’s one defeat that just simply seems to stand out a skosh more than the rest.
The ragin’ nightlife in Parker consists of the Indian Casino, The Bluewater or the riverfront bar, The Roadrunner – compound words rock! You can only get to the latter by way of one desolate road that parallels the river and is more commonly known as DUI Drive aka You Ain’t Fucking Getting Me to Go Down It Avenue. No sir. Johnny Law is one dick I don’t like to fuck with. Been there, done that - story for another time.
This is why I found myself standing on the casino floor watching blue hairs feed their Social Security into the Wheel of Fortune slots. In addition to the stale cigarette-soaked Game Room off the Main Floor, the casino has a really sweet cover band on the weekends and by sweet I mean absolutely shitty. No matter, this is where the dudes hang and look for bitches to bang. I call it the Hang ‘n Bang… the rooms are right upstairs and come in quite handy. Trust.
River people are a certain type of folk and they even tend to live in the same areas. This is why it didn’t surprise me to find a whole pack of fresh young bucks in matching racing singlet’s from the South Bay, or as some locals refer to it Mouth Bay, which happens to be my home sweet home. I’m usually too drunk to recognize, well, anyone. My roommate, however, has a freaky, photographic I-saw-you-four-years-ago-in-Vons memory and recognized every last one of them. These were our types of ho’s fo sho, so I knew I was gettin’ laid.
This is where I met Rio. Always thought Rio was some chick dancing on the sand somewhere, but in this case Rio was a tall, thick-shouldered sexy beast who was doing “The Worm” across the dance floor in a cheesy Indian casino in Arizona – I mean what’s sexier than the Worm? I cruise over and instantly start worming right above him - NOT my smoothest move - and we *smack* chin to skull. Felt great after drinking all day in the 113-degree Arizona desert sun. Fortunately for me he was pretty lit and had a head as hard as sheet rock (God willing the other one was, too) and he appreciated my enthusiasm in joining in on one of the most celebrated moves in dance history. After our “accident” we needed some booze to ease the pain and headed to the bar to “get to know each other”… or just make out.
Like I said I have a shit memory, no thanks to Mary Jane, but I just knew I knew this kid. By some weird twist of fate, this is when he tried to run some game on me and pulled out a Paramount Studios ID, which is where I worked at the time. Yes! That's it. We work together. I must have seen him around the studio... but where? Talk about small fucking world, to Worm with someone 400 hundred miles away from home that is not only from the same town, your exact age, went to your rival high school, but also works at the same fucking place! Shit was gettin’ freaky.
He asked me a few questions about work: What do you do? Who do you work for? What building do you work in? When I tried to get the same info out of him he pretty much dodged it and pulled me onto the dance floor. I probably would have pressed the issue had I not been forced into the Electric Slide with all the Parker Tweakers and part of the band, The Salty Needles (not fucking kidding). Later, as we Macarena’d (haven’t had the displeasure since Spring Break), busted out the Kid ‘n Play and grinded to PYT, I couldn’t stop racking my brain. It’s like when you’re watching a movie and recognize an actor, but can’t remember their name or where you've seen them before. Frustrating shit, man.
The nights end relatively early in Arizona and as this one was drawing to a close Rio informs me that he’s staying at his buddy’s house in Blythe, a good 50 miles away from Parker, where I am staying with family and friends at my brother’s house. He assures me he’ll drive me back the next day, and that they are planning on launching in Parker early in the morning anyway. He's hot. I'm ready to bone. Sold. There’s just one tiiiiiiiny problem.
Doug is my unofficial bodyguard, but mainly my brother’s middle-aged friend who is 250 lbs. on a skinny day and drunk seven days out of the week. He thinks a 12-pack after work is perfectly normal, I disagree, and that’s a bold statement seeing as I drink like fucking Moby Dick. But I also don’t have to crack a bloody beer just to ease the hangover so I can rise out of bed to go to work… that’s only on Sunday’s… and there is no work to get to. Anyway, Doug lets me know as often as I’ll listen that he would do anything for me, except of course not be my shadow when I’m trying to pick some unsuspecting prey off a herd. When I smacked Rio’s head he pushed him out of the way to see if I was alright and the whole thing was my fucking fault. He’s sweet, but I’m just not attracted to a man that looks like he's most possibly related to the Walrus family. So I asked my roommate to cover me, she’s used to my whorish tendencies and could clearly pick these guys out of a line up if need be, and made my escape when Doug hit the head.
The running start really helped me get into the truck, which was raised nearly 50ft. off the ground. I sardined myself in the back with what felt like a clown car of bros.
Note: These are South Bay bros, not to be confused with O.C. bros - who I still have love for - but while some S.B. bros do drive the raised truck they lack that New Jersey Guido feel that O.C. bros seem to channel (spiked hair, “hard core” buddy pics, sign throwing, etc.). Thankfully the sun over the Pacific is unable to produce that signature neon orange tan the Jersey shore so effortlessly provides.
Lying across them, I could feel boners pokin’ me from neck to ankle, like some fucked up bed of nails. It was kinda cool actually, except for the one jammed into my neck causing a serious kink.
The road back to Blythe can be found in any standard horror movie. It’s lit only by moonlight, no other cars ever seem to be coming from the opposite direction nor is there ever any driving behind you. You can only see as far as your headlights and as they illuminate each shrub and cactus you pass you swear a psycho with a chainsaw is going to jump out from behind it, causing the car to swerve, flip and kill us all. I like horror movies, can you tell? At any rate, here we are at 12:30a.m. driving through the vast, never-ending, can’t-see-shit desert. You know what that means right? Of course you do. The truck breaks down. Oh, yes, yes it does. It never has before, but it went ahead and decided now would be a good first time. Never fear, these are racing dudes, grease monkeys, steel jockeys. They can fix anything. WRONG. Being the only bitch at the cock fest I called for a tow truck, as I’m being told I’m going to have to cancel it because “they fucking got this.” Being in the dead center of Butt Fuck Egypt, I’m told – no joke – that a tow truck wouldn’t be able to get out to us for another three hours. Come again? You’d think we’d be higher on the rescue list, our survival being a little more at risk and all, but no, oh no, we had to wait for them to phone Bubba, the no doubt 300lbs. local tow truck driver, whose probably been passed out for hours from the pint of Thunderbird and18-pack of Pabst he polished off earlier.
After an hour of failed repair attempts, and run around calls from local police this was getting less and less fun by the millisecond. Since we were just a little over 5 miles from town Rio decides we could crawl back faster at the rate we’re going, and that the tow truck could pick us up on the way into town should it come before we make it back ourselves. Seeing as its one long isolated stretch of hell they can’t miss us. Hmm, lemme think, walk through the middle of the desert to a destination I’ve never been, alone with a guy I just met at roughly 1:30 in the morning? Sounds like a plan to me. I may not be the brightest bulb on the tree, but I sure know a good time when I hear one. So off we went. First, I changed into one of the dudes flip flops which were 2-3 sizes too big because my Jessica Simpsons weren’t going to cut it for a desert nature walk.
Even though it’s only 5 miles and was nighttime, it’s the middle of August so it’s still about 90 degrees out. After the second mile I started to feel like Clark Griswald in Vacation. So Rio and I decide to take a break, which of course, means make out which, of course, means fuck. Who can make out and not have sex these days? If you can, my hat’s off to you. Not sure why you’d want to, but, hey, to each his own. So, we move off the main road I’d say about a hundred or so feet using the moonlight and his lighter as our only source of light. We find a suitable rock since he’s about a foot taller than I am, especially now that I'm rockin' the Rainbow flats, and prepare for a little Howl at the Moon session.
On the rock I go, and we’re off. I must say I was impressed with my balance as I’m being pumped from behind at an alarming rate of speed and taking some serious thrusting action – thank you gymnastics for not only balance but endurance. I’m gettin' all into it, moaning, screaming, panting. The stars above us were just magical and there’s something extra special about outdoor sex, kinda like outdoor cooking, that makes it super juicy and it was really makin' this bitch hot. The outdoors, unfortunately, also possess other things, wild things and this was definitely their house we were fucking in.
At first I thought it was Rio making the noise. A sort of weird kind of hissing – hey, I ain’t judgin’ some people do some weird shit when they’re gettin’ off. It grew louder and then a *rattle* began to ring out. Rio and I froze just as quickly as we had started pumping. I couldn’t remember if you’re supposed to freeze around a snake or take off like hell fire, but we both froze so I went with it. I heard him moan, probably because he was still in me and I instantly tightened up. I mean I was trying to balance and remain completely motionless while teetering on a rock in a fucking yoga pose. We then heard movement of a sort, like dirt and small rocks shifting on the ground. In a light, silent breath Rio barely squeaks out, “Don’t move.” It’s somewhere behind him.
In the dead still desert it is deafeningly silent, so the sound of the rattling filled my head like I was standing next to the amp at a heavy metal concert. It was so LOUD I could barely think. The only thing constantly going through my mind, like on one big continuous loop, was the words “difficulty breathing, paralysis, drooling, massive hemorrhaging and eventual death are common symptoms.” Thanks to my shit luck in the third grade during a zoo field trip I drew California Rattlesnake (not anything cute like a Polar Bear or Cheetah, no, a fucking nasty snake) for my animal to study. The above phrase was all that stuck with me from my ingeniously thorough report. I, of course, couldn’t recall anything useful, like what to do when you encounter one or what to do when you’re bit by one, nope, just that the cold hard inevitability of death would come to us if this thing got a piece.
At this point, neither of us knows exactly where it is and if we move we have to do so at the exact same time, so the fucker doesn’t bite one of us. Dude is still in me. What I’m now picturing is him pulling out, the snake striking, and all of a sudden I’m sucking a whole different kind of juice out of his dick. No thanks… but, you know, I’d probably do it. Right now though, I’m trying not to slip off a rock wearing flip flops that are more like flippers. I've got one tit flopped out of my bra, which Rio's hand is firmly gripping, slightly for pleasure but mainly for support at this juncture. He's behind me, pants around his ankles, dick in, but pretty much limp at this point, trying not to breathe.
We’re standing paralyzed, facing the road, a good distance away, when we hear a car slowly approaching. Then oh-so-quietly, voices ring out followed by honking and a set of lights that are most definitely attached to a tow truck... which is driving right fucking by us. Right on. We need to get the feck out of here, now. The rocks kick up again, to our left this time and the rattling gets more erratic, fading in and out. As if linked by our overwhelming desire to not be struck by a rattlesnake and left behind for dead we both take off to the right in one swift synchronized motion. Had there been an Olympic sport for rock jumping while fucking we would have scored a perfect 10 across the board. Rio shuffles along with his pants around his ankles until he can get them up and I’m taking long ridiculous strides trying not to eat shit over my flippers like some goose-stepping Korean/Nazi soldier or something. Seeing as we were trying to get the hell out of dodge and also trying to chase down a truck we weren’t really taking our time or using our only light source to avoid all the cactus and tumbleweed thorn debris along the awesome desert terrain. I could feel how wet my legs were from the blood and my feet were numb from pain five minutes ago. Sa-weet. I figured a snake bite would hurt worse, so I buckled down.
We make it to the road and it’s the chase-down-the-train-or-get-the-conductor-to-hear-you-and-stop scene. Rio and I are booking it like Jackie Joyner-Kersey and Steve Prefontaine. I’m screaming “STOP” at the top of my lungs since I know no one’s name in the damn truck while Rio is calling out all of his buddy’s nicknames like Santa announcing some fucked up reindeer lineup, BOOMER! BULL! TACO! G-MONEY! The headlights seemed to be pulling away from us and while we hadn’t run that far we were running like our asses were on fire… and it was still about 90 degrees out. Rio’s desperately trying not to slow down while checking his pockets for his phone, which is nowhere to be found. It’s probably going through the slow digestion process of a rattlesnake. Aw, damn! Rattlesnake fact number 2, right there. On top of that, he didn’t have any of their numbers memorized; thank you modern technology for speed dialing. I checked my phone - a free upgrade when I renewed my plan, so, you know, it was pretty top-notch - which had no signal. This was evident by the NO SIGNAL text that appeared in place of my bars. In fact, I don't know what is more useless in an emergency situaiton than a cell phone, which never fucking works in places where serious emergencies tend to happen, like high in the mountains, or in the middle of the ocean, or, say, I don't know, deep in the MOJAVE FUCKING DESERT where there are snakes and serial killers, perhaps! Eventually, we saw the lights dim to blackness far down the road and we were fucked. And not in the way either of us wanted to be. We probably had only about three miles to go, but with our feet looking and feeling like ground hamburger meat it might as well have been twenty.
I’m about to start doing something dramatic, like screaming at the sky, asking why God why, when a pair of headlights appear in the distance. Radical. Our serial killer is right on schedule. As the car nears, I see that it’s a small beat up work truck. In other words, Doug! This was officially the first time I was glad he was stalking me. He always told me I’d thank him for it one day, and each time I thought it was totally creepy; as it turns out he’s right. I never told him that though. At first he tried to deny Rio a ride to which I laughed at and responded, “Move over” and we squeezed into his tiny one bench truck. So here I am, sandwiched in this munchkin truck between my evening’s booty call and my brother’s crazy friend who loves me. With Doug looking over to give Rio hard looks every 7 seconds this was already the longest car ride of my life. He refused to take me and Rio to his buddy’s place so we had to make the nearly 50 mile trek back to Parker, which we did in complete silence. That is until Rio and I had a complete crack up, the evening’s events finally sinking in. Doug just drove on, staring straight ahead, wearing his best scowl.
When I got home I didn’t hear from Rio for over a week. I was a little bummed, but not surprised. It’s standard to fuck a guy and not hear from him; in fact it’s usually protocol. Also, to quote SPEED, the bad ass Keanu Reeves action flick, which I watched on Encore last night, “Relationships that start under intense circumstances never last.” I think our little desert exploit would certainly fall under intense. I’d look for him around the studio, but could never find him. I would wonder about him. What the hell does he do? What building is he in? Or who’s office? One day I came to work, like I do any other day, dragging my still cut up, injured feet along in the employee line to get through the Paramount gates when who should I see sitting behind the Security Desk in uniform sportin’ a nametag with his real name on it? That’s right, my Rio in the sand. I knew I knew him. I should have been looking at uniforms not suits. We boned for a few months after that but it eventually fizzled out. I think we blew the provincial wad of our relationship in the desert that night and there was no getting it back. Who knew Speed was so intuitive?
The moral of THIS story: Damn, it’s a small world. Ain't it?
Tuesday, December 2, 2008
My first time was much like what most girls have described their first time to be like, quick, painful and left with a “That’s it?” feeling. Since it was such a horrible experience, I did what all the rest of you did, I did it again and again and again and found out the second, third and fourth time around what all the hot, filthy, wild fuss was about. On top of the awkwardness of the first time, and too many pubes between the two of us, #1 was fucking HUNG, skinny white boys – may not look it, but they pack some serious fucking heat. It felt like I had lost my virginity to a telephone pole or the Jolly Green Giant or a 2x4. It wasn’t until seven hopeful candidates following #1 that I met his challenger and the current reigning champion.
This is the story of #9, who blasted me open like a gold mine.
#9 was a South African living in Australia. One of my best friend’s in life was studying abroad, so naturally I came to visit and check out the “local fare.” She was living in Brisbane, and took me to one of the downtown bars, The Family Circus. All I remember seeing across the room was a skin tight white thermal straining to contain some of the sexiest fucking bulging back muscles I’ve ever seen. My clit skips a beat, she approves. I've found my souvenir.
I mosey up to the bar to “order a drink,” touching my elbow to his, and miraculously conversation is struck. He was a blonde-haired, sparkly blue-eyed, accent-wielding, scuba-dive teaching South African hottie. Complete fuck material. I didn’t care what he said, I just cared that he said it with an accent… and had nice pecs. This guy was every fucking sexy foreigner stereotype imaginable (Scuba diving instructor, seriously?), which kicks ass for a horny American slut like me. His buddy is gay, and mine is dating an Australian who’s out of town, so they keep each other company. His friend is an older gentleman, rich and, without a doubt, man-crushing on his straight pal. He keeps the drinks coming, so he’s a-o.k. in my book – even if mine may be roofied. South Africa and I are vibing. Like brush-my-ass-across-his-cock-on-the-dance-floor vibing. I feel what can only be described as an elephant trunk. Needless to say, this shit was ON mothafuckas.
We close the joint down and I go with South Africa back to Richie Rich’s house somewhere in the Australian suburbs. (NOTE: Do not, I repeat DO NOT, be a 21 year-old IDIOT like me and go off with two men you don’t know in a foreign country while your friend goes home to sleep and has no idea where you are. This was pre-Natalee Holloway, but still highly retarded. Thank you for listening to this public service announcement.) Anyway, this time I managed to escape the danger that could possibly ensue after going home with two strange men and instead stumbled upon some of God’s most beautiful work.
Once we get to Richie Rich’s house – who is completely cross-eyed fucked up at this point – he gives me the complete tour of the premises, including the luxurious tool shed. It was a beautiful house for sure, but like four bedrooms beautiful, not fifteen and I had other things on my mind, very large things, probably the same things he had on his mind. We finally get to the guest bedroom, where South Africa is lounging on a massive Granddaddy of a California King bed; I mean the size of my apartment massive, and it’s covered with a gargantuan white down comforter and equally ridiculous white sheets with white pillows. It was like a cloud from heaven floating in the middle of the room with a big-dicked man resting on it waiting for me to come and sit on it (damn, that shit really was heaven). You practically had to squint to look at the bed straight on. South Africa is holding two glasses of wine and looks like some type of homo-erotic mattress ad. I close my eyes, readying myself for a frolic through dick heaven on a giant Serta cloud with Elephant Man when…
I am stopped by Richie Rich, who is making me feel the quality of the blanket while he proceeds to go into an extensive, life-draining Martha Stewartesque explanation of his custom-made bed with custom sheets and custom pillows. We’ve got a drunken gay man discussing home décor and possibly trying to cock block; we could be here ‘til morning. He tells us that his friend made and stained the bed out of the finest Australian Timber available, and that the sheets are four billion thread count, and blah, blah, blah. I mean he’s very sweet, but Niagra Falls is gushing between my legs because South Africa won’t stop giving me bedroom eyes, so it’s kind of hard to give a shit about Egyptian cotton. South Africa is over it too and escorts his friend to bed. He’s back not three seconds later sportin’ a boner the size of a Titan rocket. I hoped to God that Richie Rich didn’t help him try to launch it. He takes a flying leap into the bed and we attack each other like wild beasts. It felt like we rolled twelve times and still didn’t hit the edge of the bed. This guy was good. He had some crazy South African Tantric Shaka-zulu methods, and was puttin’ fingers and tongue in places that I didn’t know I had and that I didn’t know would feel so fucking awesome.
He suddenly springs up out of bed, and I prepare myself for the main presentation. I sit up anxiously awaiting the arrival of my soon to be new best friend. He drops his pants and I almost pass out. Those random white dots start to trickle in from the corner of my eyes – I’m seeing fucking stars. I hear angels singing. There it was in the flesh before my disbelieving eyes – the infamous baby’s arm holding an apple! It was glorious. I thought maybe he went to the kitchen when I blinked and grabbed a foot long sub for us to share. Like a magnet to steel, I gravitate to the magical flesh sword. I stand in awe, jaw agape. I think I felt a single tear roll down my cheek. I touched it like I was a little girl petting a pretty doggie for the first time. Poked it, is this real? Holy shit, this is real. I don’t even know where to start. For the first time EVER I doubt the abilities of my Whirlpool technique. In fact, I almost blacked out trying to deep throat and slightly ripped the corners of my mouth. There is something so fucking dirty hot about that I didn’t even care, I blew that shit like a meat whistle. Then it dawns on me, I look down at my little lady, who I realize will no longer be little after this. Fuck it. I was 21; I decide to take my chances. This bull, I needed to ride. I instantly start doing my Kegels, hoping to save the walls of my much needed tight vagina. This is the only one I get after all and one day I’ll be turning her back in used up, banged up, tore up and fucked up… but not anytime soon.
Cue the porn music, South Africa’s got me hanging from the fucking chandelier. At one point, he sticks his fingers in with the elephant tusk and in my ass – I start weighing the options of reconstructive surgery. Certain positions I can feel him poke my liver, he of course knows how to breathe and gyrate so the organ crushing stops and we can continue bangin’ it out. Men with big penises have quite the job ahead of them. I now knew why South Africa was so fucking swollen; he had to suspend himself in some of the most awkward fucking positions ever to avoid actually blasting me open. He was making Pilates look like a cake walk. At certain points, I couldn’t tell if I was in pain or complete ecstasy and the craziest part is that it was all fucking working for me. I was the wettest I’ve ever been, broken fire hydrant style. He had something going on at every fucking orifice of my body; playing me like a fucking tuba and I didn’t want it to end. Thanks to the alcohol or the sheer mass of his Donkey Dick it didn’t right away. When it finally did, I looked like I was dropped from a building, during a hurricane and hit every fucking awning on the way down. I slept happily ever after dreaming of dancing, singing schlongs raining down upon me.
The dream was the last good thing to come out of this. I woke in horror. As my eyes fought to adjust, I instantly could feel that something wasn’t quite right. My vision sharpens and I see a blood streak on my arm. What the --? I sit up in bed, the morning light barely peeking through the curtains, which are probably custom-made from the finest silkworms China has to offer. As my eyes continue to focus, I can now see that the room looks like a fucking murder scene. HOLY SHIT. I’m not on my fucking period. Not even close. My heart rate increases. The bed looks like someone came in and splash painted the fucking thing. It’s on the walls, the lamp, the rug, a little on the ceiling – were we flying at one point? This motherfucker really did bust open my liver, which no doubt was already highly weakened by my alcoholic tendencies. He cracked me open like a God forsaken egg, and what I thought was the approval of pussy juice was the assassination of my hymen, who I thought had been dead for years. This is not good, I wasn’t in danger before but I sure as shit was now. I mean Richie Rich spent twenty minutes alone on the delicate fabric of the pillow shams, which are now soiled with my vajayjay blood – sweet. Speaking of which…
My eyes go WIDE. I slowly peel the covers back, look down, check the oil and bring my hand back up to find it bloody. Like the kid in Stand By Me with the leech, I feel like I may lose consciousness. At the speed of a sloth I slowly rise out of bed and practically walk on my toenails to the bathroom, where I immediately turn into a contortionist and flip my leg over my head to assess this very severe situation. I can practically see out my mouth and everything still seems intact and in working order. I clean her up, she looks like she went 12 rounds with Rocky. She’s a little swollen, but the bleeding seems to have subsided so I’m pretty sure she’ll live to ride another cock. My liver on the other hand may be internally bleeding. I’ll need to deal with that later.
I exit the bathroom and look over at South Africa who was dropped from the same building and is breathing heavily still lost in the euphoria of REM sleep. He moves, I freeze and silently beg God to not let him wake up, and not just because I’m standing in the middle of the room butt ass naked watching him sleep. I need to figure this shit out. I consider waking him, it’s the right thing to do, and after all, he should be used to this shit, having a monster dick and all. That is until, he puts his arm over his face and I now see his hands are covered in blood. FUCK! Most guys I know aren’t all that stoked to be covered in some chicks vag blood. How both of us neglected to notice the God damn cunt massacre that took place here is a fucking mystery to me to this day. Panic starts to set in, I want to do the right thing, but I don’t want to die. I picture myself shackled in Richie Rich’s basement, threading new sheets on a spindle like Sleeping Beauty and shit. I decided Richie Rich was rich enough to replace the blanket, and pillows, and lamp, and, well, to redecorate the whole room.
All I need to do now is get the hell out of dodge without making a single peep, should be really fun in a house covered with hardwood floors. Luckily, the "three am slip out" is one of my specialties. I glide through the room like there are invisible laser beams waiting to detonate and seal off the room. South Africa moves a few times and I stop breathing altogether. I manage my shirt and underwear back on, and decide the pants and shoes can wait until I’m outside and about to break out this bitch. I make it into the hallway, yes! Richie Rich’s bedroom is between me and the front door, no! I then notice to the left of me is a door that leads out to the backyard. I take it.
A small path takes me along the side of the house to a walkway that has a gate at the end of it – my ultimate escape. I make my way as quickly and silently as possibly down this walkway where I pass a window that is, of course, Richie Rich’s bedroom. I peek in one-eyeball style, see him stir in bed and try not to shit my pants on the spot. The only thing worse than getting caught is getting caught trying to sneak out and take no responsibility for your actions… in your fuschia g-string. I wait under the window for what felt like thirteen days to make sure he wasn’t getting up or making anymore noise. All I needed was Richie Rich to stretch and gaze out his window to find me army crawling through his garden trying to get the fuck out of there. I make it to the gate, which hasn’t been used in ten years. The latch is covered and locked with a chain, fucking rad! I’m now way too scared to go back in through the house and get caught coming in from the backyard clenching my clothes. This is it. This has to happen. I throw my clothes over, back up a bit, get the tiniest running start on the gate and practically smash myself against it like a squished bug. Adrenaline pulls my half-naked, ass-up body over the gate and I land brown eye first in the wet dirt. Fucking nasty. I hope his neighbors were up for an early breakfast because they just got one hell of a show. Anyway, I’m on his porch in my underwear, begging that I don’t get discovered one second before I escape to freedom or in this manner, since I now look like I’ve shit myself. I dress Superman-style and start sprinting to the end of the block like Forrest Gump. I stop when I realize I’m in a foreign country, have no idea where I am, and need to catch a plane back to the states in three hours.
Like a bad movie and I mean bad movie, I check my phone and realize it’s about to run out of batteries. This was '01 when they beeped once and died on the second beep. Luckily, I was smart enough to get a cab number from my friend for this precise Walk of Shame moment. I dial and cross everything on my body I can. The guy answers and I immediately start shouting the surrounding street corners at him. He asks me to calm down and that’s when the phone dies – SHITTY! I look down all four streets around me, if you could pan up like a movie, I’m pretty sure you’d be able to see that the stretches of suburban houses went on for an infinity, like Death Valley. I do the only thing I can and start walking through the Brisbane streets at 6:30am in my four-inch heels looking like I just walked out of the eye of a hurricane. I come to a few random little stores tucked in between the houses, which don’t open until 8am or 9am, so I carry on, with mud in my ass and determination in my heart. After another half hour, and my near nervous breakdown of being lost in the streets of Brisbane as my plane flies overhead and leaves me, I see what looks like a cab at the very end of the street. I start hobbling toward the car in my stilts. I’m sure to the cabbie I looked like Quasimodo limping down the street, which can only explain his horrified expression as I throw myself in front of his cab. He locks the doors, as I’m trying to explain that I need him to call another cab to come and get me. I then notice the passenger in the backseat who is H-O-T! Of course, of course he is. He rolls down his window and asks if I’m okay, it’s painfully obvious what I’m doing in my heels on a random street at 7 in the morning so I go with it.
“I’m fine, I just rolled over and saw what I went home with last night and need to flush the image out of my eyes before it permanently sets.” He laughs. “Been there, I see.” I look at the cabbie who’s not amused and keeps revving the engine. I explain to Australian cab hottie (ACH), that my phone died before I could call my own cab and I need to get to the airport –
“That’s where I’m going...” He scans my Walk of Shame outfit. “... but I guess you aren’t exactly packed yet. Where are you headed?” This just keeps getting better and better, because I have no fucking clue. “Um, I have no fucking clue… see I’m on vacation and I don’t normally (lies all lies) do this kind of – “
He stops me with a Who are you kidding? look. He’s right, who am I kidding? The mud in my ass starts to itch and it’s all I can do to stop myself from doing the potty dance to scratch it. “Well I can’t just leave a girl in your condition (Condition? Drunk Walk of Shame whore condition?) out here in the street. I grew up here so I know the area very well, you can use my phone to call your friend and I’ll drop you off. “
I want to offer to kiss him, but since it looks like I kissed every Australian in the country last night I’m sure he’d pass, so I settle with a “ThankyouIloveyou” and jump in next to him reeking of booze and sex and mud and God knows what at this point. Cabbie takes off like he’s piloting a space shuttle. I think all the Australian cab drivers are retired Nascar stars because they drive at ludicrous speed and only use the brakes once you’ve arrived at your destination all the while blaring AC/DC. I didn’t mind because I got to keep sliding toward ACH, I can’t say the same for him. To top things off, ACH turns out to be the man of my dreams, except he’s going to visit his girlfriend in the states (which upon hearing I think to myself, yes! I have a chance, if only I were a home wrecker). In this lifetime he’ll have to simply be my ACH, my hero, my savior, and some of the best and longest-standing masturbation material I have to date. I mean he got out and opened my door when we got to my friend’s house and wouldn’t take a dime for the cab. I did one of those romantic comedy moves where I stood in the middle of the street and watched his cab disappear around the corner, hoping he’d stop and run back down the street into my waiting arms. Instead a car honks and I get out of the middle of the road.
You bet your sweet ass when I boarded my plane I scanned every last seat for a sign of ACH, this has to be destiny… or maybe I’m still drunk. I instead find my seat, which is at the end of a cramped exit aisle, and next to a 101 year-old couple who are unable to stand to let me in. Before we even take off the stewardess takes food orders and Grandma and Grandpa order a big ‘ol omelet, of which every other bite actually makes it into their mouth. Eggs and mothballs are one of nature's secret little scents that you don't often get the chance to partake in. I, of course, got the pleasure after a night of drinking and fucking. It should be illegal to serve eggs on a plane or any cramped space where there is no free running oxygen. My stomach instantly turns, and it takes me twenty minutes to crawl out of my space to get to the bathroom. I accept the egg/plane torture as my punishment for destroying Richie Rich’s guest bedroom and try, unsuccessfully, to fall asleep and dream of the baby’s arm for the next fourteen hours.
So you may be wondering, after a vagina massacre, narrowly escaping death at Richie’s house, a grueling trek through Australian Suburbia wasteland, a psycho cab ride, and the sickest I’ve ever been on a non-stop fourteen hour plane ride in my entire stinkin’ life, would I do it again? Hells –motherfuckin’ – yes! Cheers to big dicks.
The moral of THIS story: Kegels, girls, kegels – learn it, live it, love it.
P.S. A Medical Note: Upon taxiing the runway at LAX I speed dial my gyno and tell her I sprung a leak. This was her diagnosis: "He basically poked your cervix causing internal bleeding, next time you come across such a large penis you need to communicate (like when he hit my liver aka cervix I should have said "slower" or "gentle"). While sex with a large penis is not impossible it requires responsibility and it's my responsibility to make sure I am lubricated and comfortable" (I picture myself being rammed up against the wall and one of the hanging pictures dropping as I scream "Harder, harder."). I just nod my head, "Oh yeah, that's totally what I did."
Moral #2: Don't let a big dick poke your cervix... even though that kinda seems like the point.