The Girl Who Wanted to Learn to Deepthroat

If you’ve been reading this blog for any length of time, you no doubt realize that I am no great ladies man.  I am not Tucker Max.  I’ve had my triumphs, sure, who hasn’t, but more often than not my stories end in disaster (i.e. The Girl With the Glasses).  But as they say, sometimes even a blind squirrel finds a nut.

And that’s where BJ comes in.

You might remember, BJ was The Mormon Stalker‘s friend, the one I thought was being offered up to me for a threesome.  Alas, that wasn’t meant to be.  And, to be completely honest, I didn’t even like BJ very much at first.

In retrospect, I should have realized she was into me.  After the night we met she started texting and Facebooking me, which I now see was her shy attempt at flirting.  Unfortunately, one of her ways of flirting was to taunt me about my beloved Buffalo Sabres.  Just as they were swirling down the drain of another failed playoff run.

I didn’t take it well.  I was rude to her.  Then, when she persisted, I ignored her altogether.  Bitch, no one gets to mock my Sabres, no matter how cute you are or how perky your breasts are.  And as she was moving cross country to New York for grad school, I figured that was the end of that.  Good riddance.

Fast forward about four months.  It was Labor Day weekend and I was in Nashville for the wedding of my good friend Country, star of my previous post Taking One for the Team(This was the wedding where I met the infamous Long Cool Woman in a Black Dress.  But alas, she still forbids me to discuss her on this blog.  Sorry.)

Actual photo of the Single White Alcoholic being iced

It was a truly epic wedding weekend.  My first night in town we all went out and got absolutely shitfaced on Broadway, the main drag in Nashville.  I skipped dinner to intensify my buzz, and I was successful in my mission; in short order I was a fucking trainwreck.  Among other things, I managed to get iced by a fake-breasted bartender who motorboated me while I chugged my Smirnoff Ice.  (Yuck.)  Somewhere in all that debauchery –I think it was our third or fourth bar of the night– I started hitting on an attractive older woman.  My memory is sketchy because I was so wasted, but fortunately my buddy Dead Wing was there to help.  He was so amused by my drunken stupidity he whipped out his iPhone and started basically live-blogging my pursuit of the woman on my Facebook wall.

12:05am: “I’m recording this for prosperity.  The woman you’re talking to just said, ‘Wow, you’re only 34?!?”

12:13am: “Tell your grandma I said hi.”

12:38am: “Maybe she will get a senior discount on breakfast at Denny’s in the morning.”

1:18am: “Senior cougar”

1:27am: “Then she said… ‘Cedric Benson?  I thought he was in prison.’ Go Bears”

**For the record, I have no idea what that line meant.  Perhaps I was trying to woo her into bed with my vast knowledge of fantasy football?  Yeah, I’ve got mad game with the ladies…**

2:00am: “AARP!”

And that’s pretty much how the whole weekend went.  And little did I know, but from about a thousand miles away, BJ was reading it all.  And apparently my drunken charms were just too much for her to resist.  (I think the fact the Mormon Stalker had told her I had the biggest dick she’d ever seen might have helped too; boy would she be disappointed when she finally saw it for herself!)  By the day of the wedding she had started text-flirting me —I think the kids call it flirxting but I’m not that hip.  Being somewhat intoxicated with vodka, and highly intoxicated by my smokin’ hot wedding date Long Cool Woman in a Black Dress, I flirted right back.

And thus started a four month stretch of dirty texting —I think the kids call it sexting but I’m not that hip— that reached Biblical proportions.  You all can see how verbose I am, and if you’ve read her blog then you know she is too.  This wasn’t your normal run-of-the-mill “I want to fuck you” texting.  No, this was like a novel.  Within two weeks I had to upgrade to an unlimited text plan.  We were writing in-depth commentaries back and forth, starting with foreplay and usually ending with me cumming in her mouth or on her face.

And along the way a strange thing happened.  We actually started to like each other.  And not just in a sexual way.  Her wit made a nice counterpoint to my sarcasm.  My angry conservo-libertarianism was offset by her kindhearted social consciousness.  And of course it helped that now that she was in New York she had started following my beloved Buffalo Sabres.  She wasn’t exactly a diehard but at least she wasn’t talking shit on them anymore.

As we got to know each other she confessed that she didn’t have a lot of experience with sex.  She hadn’t even lost her virginity until she moved to New York.  (You can read that epic story here.)  But she admitted that she truly loved giving head, and she wanted to get better at it.  When I told her no woman had ever been able to make me climax from a blow job she took it as a challenge.  She wanted me to teach her to deep throat, and she wanted to make me cum in her mouth.

When she came home for the holidays we finally got to hook up.  And so began one of the better weekends of my life.  We had already established that this wasn’t going anywhere, there was no future for us.  I was still in Utah and she was going back to school in New York.  Neither of us wanted a relationship, so this was a hook up and nothing more.

The only drawback was that she was on the tail end of her period, so there wasn’t going to be a whole lot of sex.  The good news was that all she really wanted was to practice sucking cock anyway.  Who was I to argue?

We walked in the door to my apartment and kissed for about five seconds before getting down to business.  And, truth be told, BJ did not need a whole lot of lessons on BJ’s.  She was a very talented girl.  She attacked my cock with a vengeance.  She licked, sucked, kissed and slurped for damn near an hour.  We started on the bed, with me laying back and her crouched between my legs.  Then I sat on the edge of the bed with her kneeling before me, giving her a chance to use her hands more.  Then I hung her head off the bed and fucked her mouth.  She gagged and sputtered a bit at that last one, but she persevered and took it like a champ.  Alas, she still couldn’t get me off (I think I might have issues), so after the marathon blow job I took the reins porno-style and jerked myself off and let her swallow my load.  It was fucking amazing.

Over the next 36 hours I put her through an intensive training course on fellatio.  She sucked me off three more times, each time ending with me jerking off and letting her suck me dry.  My one regret is that I didn’t get around to cumming on her face; her mouth was just too damn good.

We tried having regular sex too, but as she was in her “heavy flow” period, it didn’t work out so well.  We were going at it doggy style, and when she orgasmed she kind of collapsed forward on the bed so my cock popped out of her…completely covered in blood.  Now, I’m no prude.  I’m not afraid of riding the crimson river now and again.  But I’m not just talking a little bit of blood, a little crustiness around the base.  I’ve experienced that before.  No, I mean absolutely covered in it.  My entire cock was glowing bright red.  So what did I do?  Well, I freaked the fuck out, of course.  Jumped off the bed, ran to the shower and used the detachable shower head to hose my poor penis off.

But it was totally worth it.

BJ is back East now, and she now has a boyfriend who apparently has a penis roughly twice the size of mine.  Hopefully my weekend tutorial taught her a few things that will keep her lucky guy happy and coming back for more.  I feel like that guy owes me a drink or two…

 

**On a side note, please go to BJ’s blog and tell her to start posting more often.  If enough people pester her I bet we could even get her to write a rebuttal to this story.**

Ace in the Hole

This is a story my buddy Ace sent me a little while back.  Since the majority of my stories end in epic failure, I thought it’d be nice to read about someone actually hitting paydirt for a change.

It was two days before Cinco de Mayo.  As much as I love Cinco, my fiesta came just a little early this year.

I’d been drinking on and off all day and had a decent buzz goin’ when I went to one of my favorite bars, the Glass Turtle, which has $3 you-call-its on Tuesday nights.  I had rolled there by myself but I knew there’d be plenty of people I knew and I wasn’t disappointed, running into Drew Down and Mr. Never On Time almost immediately.  It had the makings of a good night.

Mr. Never On Time and I were making our way through the bar when we saw this hot red head girl.  She had the body of an athlete, maybe a sexy softball player, but she still looked very feminine.  Great tan, big ass tits and a personality to match.  Mr. Never On Time and I exchanged a few lewd but approving comments as we went past her, and she must have heard them because she stepped in front of us to cut us off.  She said she wanted me to buy her a drink.  I told her there was potential for such but I didn’t just hand out free drinks to anyone.  She then proceeded to offer to do a “trick” in exchange for a drink.  I was intrigued.  Not sold yet, but definitely intrigued.

She started shaking her tits in my face.  Well I’d be a fool if I still wasn’t buying at that point.  She just kept sticking those ridiculously nice breasts in my face.  Call me a sucker, but she had my attention.  But it got better.  Next she proceeded to flex her tits like a body builder.  It was fucking hot!  She even lowered her shirt and let me touch them.  Very nice.  This, in my mind, was going somewhere.  Until…

And then some girl calls my name.  Now, I don’t wanna sound like an ass, but lots of people know my name around here.  It’s not arrogance, just fact.  So this girl calls my name and I have no idea who she is.  She says I may not know who she is but she is “well aware” of who I am.  I was puzzled but very intrigued.  She was blonde with a nice rack poking out from her black shirt and a solid ass wrapped up tight in her jeans.

She said her name was Mandi and she invited me to come sit outside on the patio with her and her friend Candi.  Candi could have been her sister, blonde with a nice lean body and a flat stomach.  I love flat stomachs, not washboard abs mind you, but a nice toned stomach.

So I kicked it with these two girls outside until last call came around.  By this point I was hammered.  I’d been drinking Crown, Kettle, beer and god knows what else since mid-day.  Sometimes I think I don’t do anything different from when I was 16 years old.  But oh well, I was hangin’ with two hot white girls.  Life was good and things were about to get crackin’.

We drank ‘til last call and I was just beginning to wonder how I was going to get one or both of these girls home with me when a friend I hadn’t seen in ages appeared out of nowhere.  We caught up on life real quick (because there were more pressing matters to attend to) and then he invited all of us back to his house for some post-partying.  I made sure he had booze because that was the only way I rollin’ there.  I had a hot chick with me and all I wanted to do was drink and fuck.  He assured me there was indeed alcohol so we rounded everyone up and headed for his place.

His place was really close to the bar, which is a good thing because I don’t think anyone should have been driving that night.  Along with the two blonde girls we had picked up a few of my buds, Reggie and Matty.  Not a good girl-to-guy ratio, but since I already had my target I didn’t mind.

Almost as soon as we walked in the door Mandi started looking for a bedroom.  I barely even got myself a drink made.  I wanted to fuck her just as bad she wanted to fuck me but I suggested we use the bathroom instead of someone’s bedroom.  That’s just rude.

When we got in the bathroom shit got wild.  I felt like I was in a porno movie, it was that good.  The bathroom was newly remodeled and very clean, I felt a little bad defiling it, but as soon as she started taking off her clothes I forgot all about that.  We both stripped down and I started sucking on her great titties.  She didn’t waste any time dropping to her knees and sucking me off.  Then I bent her over the sink and started hittin’ it from behind.  That was cool for several minutes, then I pulled out and had her suck my rod again.  (Yeah, I was drunk and hit it bareback.  Not smart but what’re ya gonna do?)  I fucked that pussy real good and she gave me all the much-appreciated compliments on my dick.  It was awesome.

Then I started getting creative.  I had her sit on the sink, I got a boost from the neighboring toilet seat and started hittin’ it with her right leg over my shoulder and her left leg spread out wide.  That was cool too.  It was fucking hot the way she kept yelling “fuck my pussy!” like we really were making a porno flick.  But then it was time for the rodeo.  I laid down on the fresh new tile and she rode me like a pro.  That was great too.  She rode the shit out of me and kept talking dirty the whole time.

Then she told me to stick it in her butt.

I was totally unprepared for this.  My first thought was, “How the fuck is my dick gonna get in there?”  But this girl was a true professional.  She turned on the sink and used the water as lube, albeit not a very good one.  Once my cock finally went in she was in ecstasy.  My dick, not so much.  I felt like her ass was going to pull the skin right off.  (Thank god I was drunk.)

Now, I had sodomized a girl before, but that was by accident.  (Editor’s Note: Ace, someday you HAVE to tell me how you “accidentally” sodomized a girl!)  The only embarrassing part was that after the butt sex I was so surprised and shocked that I couldn’t nut.  Or maybe that was just the whiskey dick finally setting in.  We’d been going at it for near 45 minutes.  So finally we got dressed and emerged from the bathroom like nothing had happened.

Meanwhile, Mandi’s friend Candi was apparently just as horny, because she was all over my buddy Matty.  As soon as we came out of the bathroom she pulled him into the same bathroom and went to town.

I had gone from seeing some redhead’s tits stuck in my face to sticking my dick in some chick’s ass in a matter of hours, and now my buddy was getting’ some too.  What a night.

But by this time it was getting really late (I was too drunk to know for sure, but it had to be near 4 in the morning) and Tim wanted everyone to get the fuck out of his house so he could go to bed.  I was drunk and spent so I was ready to go too.  Somebody interrupted Candi and Matty in the bathroom and told them it was time to go.  Instead of just leaving and finding someplace else to finish, this crazy bitch wanted to talk shit.  She started mouthin’ off to Tim, saying he was just mad that he wasn’t getting any.  Maybe true, but still way out of line.

Candi just kept talkin’ shit and wouldn’t shut up.  She had a fire in her eyes, probably ‘cause her fuck got interrupted.  She got so worked up she took a swing at Tim!  Popped him right in the eye and made it swell up.  I felt bad for him.  He had invited us all over to his place and now he just wanted to go to bed.  I had no beef with him.  For all his generosity he got socked in the eye by a crazy bitch that he couldn’t hit back.  So he kicked us all out.

And on our way out the door this crazy bitch punched out his window!  Now, when you punch glass, your hand is likely to get fucked up.  Hers was all cut up but fortunately for her it wasn’t too bad, no deep cuts or anything that would likely be permanent.  She got lucky.  We also somehow avoided the cops, which is amazing considering how much commotion we were causing at 4 in the morning.

So we piled in my buddy’s car and took off.  I took off my undershirt and told Candi to wrap her hand up.  She was lucky to have a new friend like me.  And I was already starting to think maybe I could get a threesome out of Mandi and her crazy bitch friend.  That would be fucking awesome.

We ended up back at my buddy’s place, where the crazy bitch was finally able to properly wash her hand out and stop the bleeding.  It was nasty, believe me.  My undershirt was a total loss.

But meanwhile, Mandi reminded me that she wanted to fuck again, maybe next weekend.  I told her that was a fine idea and even suggested she invite her friend Mike Tyson for a threesome.

I sure hope it happens.

Love is a Battlefield: Sex Injuries

I travelled cross country this weekend to see my girlfriend and accompany her to a family wedding.  It was one of those moments everyone dreads in a relationship, meeting the family for the first time.  Only in this case there was no easing into it, meeting the parents one time and siblings another and so forth.  Nope, this was trial by fire, cramming as much family into four days as humanly possible; aunts and uncles, nephews and nieces, brothers and sisters, in-laws, you name it.  And no support or backup for me, no friendly faces besides the girlfriend.  It was a thoroughly stressful experience.

But at least I got to have sex.  A lot.  I mean like a dozen times in 80-some hours.  So that was nice.

But it was not without its price.  I took a beating this weekend.  For starters, one of our favorite positions is with me standing at the edge of the bed, her legs draped over my shoulders.

Normally this is a great position for both of us.  It’s a nice break from one of us being on top and having to support ourselves with our arms for extended time.  By holding her legs it makes her extra tight, and somehow I seem to hit her spots just right, so it’s a win-win for both of us.

The problem, though, is that the bed in her sister’s guestroom was somewhat shorter than either mine or hers.  I didn’t realize it until I went for insertion and had to squat lower than usual.  But I didn’t really think about it too much and just went with it.

The first time was fine.  Better than fine, in fact, it was fucking spectacular, and I was cumming way sooner than I would have liked.  But as the days went on and we repeated the position, I found myself tiring and having to change up positions quicker than usual.  And Sunday morning when I woke up my back was sore as hell and my hamstrings were so tight I could barely bend over.

I never use drugs, I’ve never even bought Tylenol or Advil in my life, but the first flight of my trip home was so miserable I had to pay eighty-seven bucks or however much it was for a tiny bottle of Advil at the Atlanta airport.  I popped triple the recommended dosage and was finally able to sit without pain for the 4-hour flight to Salt Lake City.  I’m still hurting today, but some more drugs and hopefully a trip to the gym for some serious stretching tonight will get me back on the mend.

I suffered another sex injury this weekend.  Saturday night my girlfriend was in a particularly giving mood.  (I guess I had met with the approval of her 30+ relatives at the wedding.)  She has always been hesitant to try 69ing for some reason, but she offered it up without my even asking, and it was pretty damn stellar.  We started off laying side by side but soon she half-twisted so my ass was flat on the bed and she was basically diving straight down on my cock.  She was drunk enough to relax her gag reflex and it was nothing short of amazing.

But then, somewhere along the way she decided to roll me over on top of her.  As soon as her head hit the bed and my cock started to sink into her mouth her jaw closed and her teeth clamped around me.  I yelped like a kicked puppy dog and pulled out as quick as I could without losing skin on her scraping teeth.

I’m still not sure exactly what happened, if she panicked when I started to slide towards her throat or what, but Holy Jesus it was terrifying!  She felt terrible about it too.  After checking to make sure I wasn’t bleeding, and waiting a moment for my heart to stop pounding from the near-death experience, we gave up the 69 for the night and went back to straight sex.  Which was still pretty fucking awesome if I do say so myself.

So today I’m hobbling around like an old man.  My dick feels like it did when I was a teenager who had just discovered porn and whacked off like five times in a day without any lube (those were the days).

Totally worth it though.

P.S.   She wore the Buffalo Sabres bikini this weekend, the one from my last post.  It was fucking awesome.

Random Thoughts

No story this time, just some random thoughts that have been buzzing around in my head.

The Godfather is the greatest movie ever made.  It’s not even close, nothing else is even in the same league.  They should make a new name for what kind of art The Godfather is, because trying to compare it to other movies is like comparing Michael Jordan’s basketball skills to my rec league’s talent pool.  Part II is also in the top 5, and Part III, for all the criticism it receives, is still top 10.  Too bad Mario Puzo died before they could complete the story for Part IV.  Puzo said in an interview that it would have been similar to Part II, with two storylines, one a continuation of Vincent’s story and the other a flashback to Don Vito’s ascension to power during Prohibition.  Who wouldn’t watch that?

–Why are Indian mascots the only ones that are considered offensive?  What about Vikings, Spartans and Trojans?

–Ray Lewis killed a man and still gets TV endorsements.  Maybe Old Spice should change their marketing slogan to, “We can even get the smell of blood off you.”

–No woman has ever been able to make me climax from just a blow job.  And yet, I consider the BJ to be the most important skill a woman can possess in the bedroom.

–I am the Cleveland Browns of fantasy football.  I’ve won a championship but it was so long ago no one remembers it.

Yeah it looks like a shithole, but it's a great place to drink at 3am.

–It’s an insult to call Reno a poor man’s Las Vegas.  An insult to Vegas, that is.  Las Vegas is paradise on earth, a bastion of sin and depravity and debauchery.  Reno is a mid-sized city with a couple casinos.  But if you ever find yourself in Reno, I suggest a bar called Tonic.  It’s an easy cab ride from the casinos and it’s open long past when the casino bars shut down.  One night in Tonic I was witness to an amazing trifecta.  My boss was making out with a guy who wasn’t her boyfriend.  Another co-worker was making out with a guy who wasn’t her fiancee.  And my lesbian friend Shane was making out with a guy who wasn’t a girl.  I’ll let you figure out which of those three lucky guys I was…

–Why are Indian mascots the only ones that are considered offensive?  What about Cowboys, Miners and Lumberjacks?

–How did we survive before cell phones?  I’m not even talking about the convenience of having a phone on you at all times, for emergenices or being able to make changes to your plans on the fly, yada yada yada.  Forget all that crap.  I mean how did we survive before drunk texting?  And before I call send pictures of my penis to girls?  Not to mention being able to avoid assholes at work by simply whipping out your cell phone and pretending to talk to someone?

–I love freckles but moles feak me out.  I know, it’s a fine line, and I couldn’t explain it to you if I had to.  But freckles on a girl are hot, especially on the cleavage.  Moles on the other hand… well, I swear they start talking to me when I’m drunk.

–I was a Jenn Sterger fan long before that douchebag Brett Favre made her famous.

Jenn Sterger

–The first four girls I slept with all had names that started with the letter S.  For a long time I thought I was cursed.  My game is bad enough as it is, if you cut my odds to 1/26th I might as well just give up.

–I’m not afraid of dying alone.  But drinking alone depresses me.

–The only movie I’ve ever cried at is Rocky III.  How could it not break your heart when Mick is dying in the locker room while Rocky is getting bludgeoned by Clubber Lang?  And then after the fight when Balboa, bloodied and beaten, lies to Mick in his last moments, telling him he won?  If that doesn’t get to you then you’re some kind of robot.

–Why are Indian mascots the only ones that are considered offensive?  What about Canucks, Ragin’ Cajuns and Fightin’ Irish?

–I might just be the world’s biggest Jewel fan.  Go ahead, laugh all you want. I’ve heard it all before and I don’t care.  Jewel’s music is magical.  I’ve seen her in concert seven times (and it’d be more if I hadn’t moved to End Of The World, UT), and I have approximately 250 Jewel songs on my iPod.  I know, it doesn’t exactly fit with all my stories of drinking, swearing and attempted fornicating.  What can I say, I’m a complicated man.

–Muhammed Ali is the most overrated fighter in boxing history, and possibly the most overrated athlete ever.  (And no, I’m not just saying that because I hate draft dodgers and Muslim terrorists.)  Everyone talks about how Ali beat Joe Frazier two out of three times, but they never mention that both boxers were pretty much washed up and at the end of their careers for the last two fights.  In the only fight that truly matters, the first one, when both fighters were undefeated, Frazier beat Ali soundly, nearly knocking him out in the 15th round and winning on all three scorecards.  Smokin’ Joe is the greatest fighter of that era, it’s not even up for debate.

–In the first 30 years of my life the extent of my criminal record consisted of one speeding ticket.  That’s it.  But then I moved to Utah.  Within 3 months I had been arrested for DUI (later plead down to reckless driving, thank you very much.)  Then I got a public urination.  Oh yeah, and I’ve gotten another speeding ticket.  If I stay here in Mormonland much longer I’ll have to stop making jokes about Ray Lewis.

–I’m not really into lesbian porn.  I like to see hot girls getting fucked by guys.  Some people might think that’s gay.  But my fantasy is to fuck a busty blonde pornstar, not watch her fuck another girl (not that that would be all that bad either).

–The greatest line in movie history comes from V for Vendetta: “People should not be afraid of their governments.  Governments should be afraid of their people.”

–Why are Indian mascots the only ones that are considered offensive?  What about Friars, Demon Deacons and Crusaders?

The Mormon Stalker

I have a stalker.  A Mormon stalker.  How I get myself into shit like this is truly beyond me.  Back in my younger days I used to joke with friends whenever they’d talk about girls that were obsessed with them, I’d say things like, “Man, I wish I had a stalker, I’d never turn her away.  If you want to come over and fuck me that bad, who am I to turn it down?”  Man have I learned my lesson on that front.

I won’t bore you with all the details of how I met her (for the sake of this story I’ll refer to her as Momo), how she decided I would be the target of her full-on crazy, etc.  I’ll just jump right to the heart of the story.  After about two months of her throwing herself at me with reckless abandon and me making excuses why I wasn’t interested (“I’m not looking for a relationship,” “I’m still hung up on my (imaginary) ex,” “I’m an emotional cripple,” etc. etc.) I finally broke down when she texted me on my birthday and told me she wanted to give me my birthday present.

So I invited her over.  I sat her down on my couch and re-iterated that I was not interested in a relationship; I did not want any emotional entanglements, this would be nothing more than a booty call.  She said she understood.  “I’m going to need you to say it,” I said very firmly, and then proceeded to make her repeat after me, “This isn’t going anywhere.  It is just a booty call.”

And then I titty fucked her.

She had big sloppy D-cup breasts that weren’t much to look at (I’m a shape guy, size is completely secondary to firmness for me) but they felt pretty good wrapped around my cock, though not enough to get me off.  She refused to give me head, said she’d never done that before (damn Mormon girls), and her handjob skills were inadequate too.  The best thing about her, though, was that I could make her orgasm in about two minutes by going down on her.  Tongue, fingers, combination, whatever, she would shake and lose total control with almost zero effort on my part.  It was quite an ego boost; I felt pretty damn proud of myself turning this innocent, inexperienced Mormon girl into a quivering orgasmic mess.

Over the next couple weeks I worked hard to keep it casual, to make sure she still understood that this was not going anywhere.  I kept the frequency of our hookups low and refused to do anything that could be construed as a “date” with her.  I made up a story that I couldn’t sleep in a bed with another person, so she had to leave every night and couldn’t try to cuddle.

Eventually, I decided it was time to hit paydirt and we had sex.  Just like with the oral, she could orgasm with almost no effort, and I was feeling like quite the stud.

And that’s when it all started to unravel.

Glenn Close, the original psycho stalker

All of a sudden she claimed she was looking for a new place to live, and before I even knew what had happened she had moved into my apartment complex.  She now lived in the building directly between my apartment and my buddy Blackout’s; it had been a great situation beforehand, both Blackout and I enjoyed the benefits of living alone, but we were also less than 100 yards away whenever we wanted to get drunk.  But now she was right in the middle, and I felt like she was watching out her window to see when I was coming or going.  I started taking the long way around the complex to get drunk at Blackout’s place.

Meanwhile, she kept talking about this friend of hers who was so fun and so cute and I’d like her so much.  She wanted the three of us to all hang out.  I was confused.  Was she offering me a threesome?  It seemed almost impossible but I had to give it a shot, right?  And her friend (who you all know now as BJ, author of Wordplayforeplay) was indeed much more fun than Momo, much hotter than Momo, and she could take the wrappers off of Starbusrts with just her tongue.  Indeed, one of the biggest regrets of my life is that, after convincing the girls to play a game of strip poker, BJ (who I don’t think had ever played poker in her life) utterly destroyed us and only took her shirt off out of pity once Momo and I were down to just our unmentionables.  Needless to say, the threesome never materialized; BJ went home and I ended up banging Momo again.  In retrospect, I’m pretty sure that was her plan all along.

The next weekend she wanted to hang out on a Saturday night.  I wanted to get hammered with my friends.  Guess who won?  That’s right, alcohol and the guys.  And as I was laying in my bed Sunday morning, hung over as all hell and swearing I would never drink again, she sent me this text:

“Just thought you should know that I’m late.”

Now, the rational part of my brain new this was just a ploy.  She was on the pill (at least she claimed to be), and we used a condom anyway, so the odds were somewhere around 1 in 5000 that she could actually be pregnant.  But, of course, pregnancy isn’t something one can really think about rationally.  Especially not with a clingy Mormon girl that you’re pretty sure is mentally unbalanced.

Thus began three of the longest days of my life.  To this day I still don’t know if she was making the whole thing up, or if she really was late.  And if she was, was she really panicking, or was she fully aware that girls are occasionally late on their period and figured a dumb boy wouldn’t know the difference, so why not make the bastard sweat for standing her up on a Saturday night?

After that incident I told her we couldn’t have sex anymore.  I was a little shell-shocked by the whole ordeal, but more than anything I just thought it made a good excuse to withdraw a little bit on the relationship.

And it was just about that time, oddly enough, that she decided she wanted to try her hand at giving blow jobs.  No woman has ever been able to make me cum just from head, but I still enjoy it immensely, and she showed a great eagerness to learn to give great head and be the first to get me off.  Her enthusiasm for cocksucking, combined with the turn on of her multiple orgasms whenever I’d go down on her, and it wasn’t too long before I broke down and fucked her again.

It was a truly dysfunctional situation.  We’d hook up for awhile until she started to get too close and start pressing for more than just a booty call relationship, I’d break it off, and then in a couple weeks either she’d come crawling back with a text along the lines of “I want to come over and suck you off,” or I’d get rip-roaring hammered and drunk text her something along the lines of, “I want you to come over and suck me off.”  Wash, rinse, repeat.

The final straw came the last time we had sex.  The condom broke.  Now, considering she still claimed to be on the pill I didn’t think this was that big of a deal.  But she flipped the fuck out.  Practically had a nervous breakdown right in my bed.  She was trembling and nearly in tears, rambling incoherently about having to go to Planned Parenthood the next day to get the morning-after pill.

I was leaving town the next day for a vacation, but she wanted me to go with her before I left for the airport.  Now, I’ve never been to a Planned Parenthood before, so I don’t know what they’re like in other, more civilized parts of the United States.  But in End Of The World, Utah, it’s located in the basement of a strip mall.  We sat in the waiting area watching the dregs of society pass through, the meth-heads and illegals, the pregnant teens and the toothless trailer trash.  The whole time she insisted on holding my hand like we were some old married couple.  Once again, the rational part of my brain knew full well that this was just another one of her ploys.  The pill is 99% effective, so even with a broken condom the odds of her being pregnant were miniscule.  But sitting in that house of horrors with a crazy girl clutching my hand, rational thought all but flew out the window and my stomach began to churn at the idea that I might soon be a father.  I started wondering how she felt about abortion; although she was Mormon, she clearly wasn’t very devout (after all, she was fucking a Heathen).  But considering she was in love with me, might she try to keep the kid just to keep me in her life?  I started formulating my strategy in my head.  “Look, there’s either going to be an abortion or a suicide here, because I would rather kill myself than spend the next 18 years attached to you.”

About that time I happened to glance up at the wall where the magazine rack was located.  In a moment of irony I will never forget, I noticed the latest Newsweek with a picture of Sarah Palin on the cover and the bold headline “Saint Sarah.”  Personally, I found this quite amusing.  Can you imagine if you actually were pregnant, wrestling with your conscience and emotions of whether to get an abortion, and as you sit in the waiting room you see Saint Sarah staring down unapprovingly at you?  Seems like poor planning by Planned Parenthood, don’t you think?

So, long story short, she took the morning after pill, and I bolted out of town for about a week, during which time I had to endure daily text messages from her about how nervous she was, how she wished I was there to hold her, how she needed me, etc. etc.  I kept telling her to go take a home pregnancy test but she refused, said she was too scared.  At that point I knew 100% she was just trying to latch onto me, that it was all just so much crazy bullshit.

When I got back to Utah I drug her to the store, bought a home pregnancy test and made her take it.  Negative.  Of course.  We had now had sex five times total and had managed two “pregnancy scares.”  This girl was crazy as a shithouse rat.  It was time to extricate myself from the situation.  But that was easier said than done.  She lived practically next door to me, and she had made it clear before that she was fully capable of wandering outside my apartment to see if my lights were on.  And although we didn’t exactly work together, we were on the same campus and she worked with people I worked with, so she constantly seemed to be lurking in the shadows.

I went to a wedding in Nashville over Labor Day and when I came back I told her I had met a girl and we were going to try a long distance relationship.  (Thanks, Long Cool Woman in a Black Dress, for being my imaginary girlfriend!)  She tried to play it off like it wasn’t a big deal, she even said she had started going back to church and so couldn’t hook up anymore anyways.  But even that didn’t stop her completely.  She would text occasionally, saying she missed me and asking how things were going with my new girlfriend.  Depending on my mood (or how drunk I was), I would make something up, building my cover story with highs and lows, good times and fights.

Meanwhile, her friend BJ had moved across country to New York, and we were texting on a semi-regular basis.  As I promised in an earlier post, someday I will tell you the story of how I taught her to deepthroat when she came home for the holidays.  It’s a story with a much happier ending than this one!  But BJ, whose friendship with Momo has more or less faded away, informed me that Momo is a certified sex addict; she’s been in counseling for it!  So all that shit about never having given a blow job, not being experienced?  Yeah, all bullshit.  The girl is fucking Looney Tunes!

I had one final relapse sometime around November or December.  I hadn’t had any action in awhile, and it gets fucking cold here in Utah, so when she texted me one night I said I had broken up with my imaginary girlfriend and asked if she wanted to come over.  She was at my door instantly and within minutes was naked on my bed giving me a blow job.  But by now I knew it was a huge mistake, and after she failed to make me cum again I sent her home and started ignoring her texts.

Now that I have a real-life girlfriend I donn’t even have to lie.  I told her I had moved on and she needed to as well.  The messages still haven’t stopped, but they are becoming less frequent, and I think as long as I don’t wake the bear she will eventually move on.

Or maybe she’ll cut off my penis in my sleep…

Halloween in Utah

-I’m going to Vegas next week, for four days of debauchery.  God willing, I’ll be too busy, too tired, too drunk and having too much sex to post anything.  So to tide you over for the next week-plus, here’s a novel-length story of life in End Of The World, UT.  Enjoy!

Halloween.  Those of you that know me know I’m not a fan.  I don’t like most of the big party holidays.  New Year’s, St. Patrick’s, Cinco de Mayo, they’re all what I refer to as “amateur night,” the couple times a year where the faux-partiers go out and get stupid and pretend like they’re real professional alcoholics like us.  I have 52 Fridays and Saturdays to get drunk, I don’t need some silly holiday.

But, that being said, I had hit a drinking funk in End Of The World, UT, of late.  It had reached the point where it just seemed pointless to go out and spend money to drink with the masses.  There’s no girls, no fun spots, the drinks are overpriced and watered down.  So my buddy Blackout and I had taken to just staying in, knocking back a boatload of beers in his apartment, maybe calling some girls over, but generally being reclusive alcoholics.

So Saturday night I went over to Blackout’s and we started havin’ a few.  There was talk of a party at this place called Hamilton’s, a high end (for Utah) steakhouse that apparently was turning into a nightclub for Halloween.  We had heard of quite a few people going, and since the prospect of spending another night staring at each other seemed downright depressing, we decided to give it a shot.  “But I’m not dressing up,” I said adamantly.  Blackout concurred.

We knocked back a few more while we tried to find someone to drive us, but it wasn’t looking good.  So I suggested we take a quick shot of vodka, hop in the car and drive over, and worry later about how to get home.  Good plan, right?

I was just starting to feel my buzz by the time we got to Hamilton’s, and we could immediately tell we had made a good choice.  Even the parking lot was cooler than just about any night at the bars we’ve ever seen in this shithole we call home.  There was giant pickup truck next to us and some drunken rednecks in full on costumes hollered at us, “Hey!  Y’all wanna do a whipper??”  I politely blew them off and started towards the bar when the drunkest one of the bunch got downright indignant that we were turning him down.  “Well what the hell kinda man passes on a whipper?!?!”  There was a look in his eyes (beneath the makeup) that actually made me think we might have to fight about this.  Blackout was a little more tipsy than me, and so he sauntered over towards the guys and asked, “What’s a whipper?”

I must admit, I thought the guy meant a “whippet,” y’know, like when you take a can of whip cream and snort the compressed gas in the can?  (Check out Denis Leary’s first album if you don’t know what I’m talking about.)  But apparently a “whipper” is a hidden cooler-full of booze that you keep in the back of your souped-up, jacked-up 4-wheel drive pick-up truck and hit before you go into a bar.  In other words, free booze!

So I made my apologies, put my arm around the belligerent redneck and claimed I was just a dumb city boy who didn’t know such things.  One of the guys handed Blackout a bottle of Bacardi, which he started to take a swig of, when the belligerent one yanked it away from him and hollered, “No, no, no!  Give him the good shit!”  And out came a bottle of chilled Jager, which we all passed around and took giant swigs from.  The Jager didn’t even burn on the way down.  It was going to be a good night.

On our way in we ran into Hailee.  (Hailee works with us.  She has the best breasts I’ve ever seen, with eraser tip nipples that stick out like a full inch, but she has a face that could stop traffic.  One drunken night this girl took her pants off in Blackout’s apartment, we think in attempt to get tag-teamed by the two of us.  We didn’t take the bait.)  She was dressed up as Matt Hasselbeck, minus the herniated disk and broken ribs.  Apparently her friends were all inside already, but she had been turned away for trying to sneak a flask in.  You gotta admire the girl’s intensity.  She claimed the bouncers weren’t frisking guys, just checking bags, so she asked if one of us would sneak her flask in.  Blackout looked at her skeptically, but I figured it would get me a free shot so I stuffed it in my pocket.

The cover to get in was $15 apiece.  Outrageous in End Of The World, UT.  Blackout had no cash on him and I had exactly one dollar.  So we agreed that Blackout would put our covers on his card and I would open a tab at the bar.  (It seemed like a good idea at the time, it’s pretty rare that we can spend much more than $30 on a bar tab here, especially seeing as it was almost 11 and most places in town have last call sometime around 12:30.)

Inside it was a madhouse.  Imagine a nice restaurant, with all the tables hauled out to make room for dance floors, hanging out areas, even a “Mormon room” (where they were handing out free soda and water).  It was pretty cool, except for one problem: besides the regular restaurant bar (which was probably designed to seat 20-30) there was no place else to get real drinks.  There had to be 150 people trying to claw their way to the bar.  There weren’t enough bartenders, and the feeble attempts at creating lines had broken down into total chaos.  As we were trying to fight our way up to the bar I took a quick shot from Hailee’s flask before returning it, then dove headlong into the crowd.  Scrawny Blackout got lost in the mass of humanity, but before he got too far back we decided we needed shots as well while I was up there.

Unfortunately, the state of Utah doesn’t like to make things easy.  So when I finally got my order in 10 minutes later, the bartender told me he couldn’t legally give me two shots unless there was a second person present.  So I had to stand up on the foot railing of the bar, crane my neck around to find Blackout in the chaos, wave frantically to get his attention, then mime to him that he should wave at the bartender, who reluctantly gave me the shots.

Blackout was still trying to pace himself at this point, drinking beer, but I had decided to move on to vodka on the rocks.  We knocked back our shots (Jager, in keeping with the spirit of our redneck parking lot friends) and started doing a lap of the restaurant.  I had known this would be a tricky night, that many of our athletes would be there (I work for an athletic department, and it is somewhat frowned upon to be out drinking amongst the “impressionable” young athletes), so I had worn my floppy bucket hat to stay relatively incognito.  And thank God I did, because our entire gymnastics team was there (slutted out to the max), along with most of the basketball team (including our 7-foot bank robber freshman), and by the end of the night most of the football team as they got back from their road trip.  I just kept pulling my hat lower and trying to avoid recognition.

After an unproductive lap (I wasn’t nearly drunk enough to hit the dance floor yet) we found ourselves back in the bar, where if possible it had gotten even more crowded.  I didn’t see any way I’d be able to push my way to the bar, and considering it was getting to be about 11:30 I wasn’t even sure we would get another drink tonight.  And then an odd thing happened.  I was bitching to Blackout about how I’d have to go up there at least once more to close out my tab, when a pretty blonde girl overheard me and came right up to us.  “Did you say you have a tab?  I can go up and get you drinks if you’ll get a round for me and my friends.”

I eyed her suspiciously.  She was quite good looking by End Of  The World, UT standards (probably an 8 in Logan, which would make her about a 6.5 in the rest of the world).  This seemed like a sure disaster waiting to happen, but by this point my vodka was gone and I didn’t see many alternatives.  I glanced briefly at her friends.  One was very average but friendly.  The other was an absolute knockout but almost painfully shy.  But the best thing about the girls was that, as far as I could tell, they were the only three people in the bar besides me and Blackout that were not wearing costumes.

The gears started turning about as fast as mine can when liquored up.  I gave Blackout a glance and he had a devilish twinkle in his eye, so I turned to the girl and said, “Sure!  But make sure you get a round of shots too!”

Next thing I know the girl was at the front of the bar (actually halfway around behind the bar, practically holding the bottles for the bartender), shouting back at me to get my name for the tab, then making me wave at the same prick bartender who had refused to give me two shots without a partner.  And then drinks started getting passed back to us.  Five drinks, five shots of tequila.  Ugh.  But this hardly seemed like an appropriate time to start admitting that I’m a little bitch when it comes to tequila.  So I threw my lime on the ground, cheers’d our new hero, said a silent prayer that I wouldn’t puke, and knocked back the tequila.

And like that, the girls were gone.  Not that Blackout and I cared.  It was an expensive round, to be sure, but at least we were drinking instead of standing in line.  We left the bar and wandered out to the waiting area of the restaurant, which had become the hangout for those who didn’t want to go clubbing in the main room.  Ran into Hailee and her friends, ducked my head at a couple of athletes, and basically pounded my vodka rocks like it was water.

As if by magic, at the very moment my drink went empty and I turned longingly toward the bar, those three girls appeared out of nowhere.  I flagged them down, caught the aggressive one, and sent her back up to get another round.  By now she knew my whole name (from my yelling it across the bar to her), so she said, “Hi, Single White Alcoholic!  Want another round?”

I held my empty drink aloft.  “Well yeah!”

“Shots too?”

“Is the Pope Catholic?”

It took her a minute to get that one (damn Mormons), but at last the light bulb went off, she smiled and said, “Ok, Single White Alcoholic, be right back!”

Now, at this point I must give my usual disclaimer that my blackout was beginning to take hold, so details get a little sketchy.  As does my ability to decipher reality from drunken hallucination.  I must also admit that my judgment was probably somewhat impaired, so these girls may not be quite as hot as I think they were.  And Blackout, God love that kid, is part Native American and can hold his liquor about as well as a freshman sorority girl, so he can’t be counted on as a reliable backup witness.  So everything from this point on must be taken with a grain (or maybe a whole shaker) of salt.

But, having said that, I’m telling you the shy girl in the group was a stunner.  I’m giving her a full 10 on the Utah Hot Scale, which makes her at least an 8.5 in the real world.  She was average height, but very petite, and blonde with a rockin’ body.  It was mind-boggling that someone that hot could be so shy.  Blackout started talking up the very average one, who was quite friendly and outgoing.  I should have probably gone after the extremely outgoing one, the one who clearly wanted alcohol and wasn’t ashamed to admit it (and who already had access to my credit card!).  But again, we all know I’m not very smart when I’m sober, and downright stupid when I’m drunk.  So I started working on the shy one.

And then a truly odd thing happened.  She responded to me.  She came to life a little bit, opened up and started letting her guard down.  In a stroke of good fortune, the restaurant was staying open later than the usual bars here, so we even had a little time to get to know each other.  The five of us requisitioned a tiny table in the corner of the bar and just hung out the rest of the night.  Every once in awhile the forward one would go get us a round of drinks, always accompanied by a round of shots.  We discovered all three of the girls had kids; the forward one (Nicole) had four (and yet was still pretty good looking), the friendly-yet-average one (Felicia, I think) had one (and was also the only one still married), and the super hot girl (Jen) had three.  She had been raised Mormon, gotten married around 19, had her first kid at 20, and was now 28.  I choked down my fear of children and pretended like I was interested in her ramblings about the kids.  I’ll admit, I was a little mesmerized at her beauty.  (I was also insanely drunk by this point).  Even her friend Nicole noticed our vibe, and when she had a chance she pulled me aside to feel me out for her friend.  I have no recollection of this, but at some point I pulled my usual drunken bitch move of giving the girl my card and telling her to call me some time.  Because we all know I’m too stupid and too much of a pansy to go straight for the digits.

As the night wore on more and more people started showing up.  Our assistant tennis coach was hammered with his friends and good for a few laughs.  Our favorite waitress from the local sports bar, Jasmine, and her roommate (who we’ve had quite a few drunken nights with) showed up late and joined us.  As the crowd grew, it became harder and harder to keep the lovely Jen to myself.  Blackout was beyond drunk at this point, so much so that he was still hitting on the married Felicia.  There were a ton of athletes too, who I had to hide from.  At some point I lost track of Jen and Nicole, and when I saw them again Jen was flirting with this guy I kind of know.  He’s a notorious scoundrel and always getting in fights.  And he was hitting on my girl.  Worse yet, she seemed to be responding.

I was devastated.

And we all know what the Single White Alcoholic does when he’s devastated.  He drinks.  (Ok, ok, so that’s how I respond to all situations and emotions.  But this time it was because I was devastated.)  By now it was sometime after 1am and the crowd was beginning to thin out, so I could actually get to the bar, and I was pounding vodka rocks like they were water.  The night was beginning to fall apart, despite my best efforts to keep my spirits up.  I was pissed at my foolishness at thinking I had a shot with such a hottie, but I was even more pissed that I would allow my failure to affect my good drunken spirits.  So I drank harder.

By now the combination of drunkenness and bitterness was fermenting into a devastating cocktail of dark thoughts.  I considered picking a fight with the guy who was working on my girl.  He’s a small guy but likes to mix it up, so I figured I could both draw him into a fight and whip his ass.  I also knew the bouncer so I figured I couldn’t get beat up too bad if I was drunker than I thought (which I assure you I was).  But those were merely peripheral thoughts.  My main focus was on how much my bar tab was going to be.  It occurred to me that I would have no idea if Nicole had been buying drinks all night for everyone in the bar on my dime.  She seemed like a trustworthy sort, but now doubts were starting to creep in.

At last call the bar quickly filled back up to overflowing.  Nicole said she would go close out my tab, but then she never brought it back to me, just signed it and didn’t even bring back a receipt.  I interrogated her about my receipt, how much she had tipped, the total, everything.  She said the bill was about $140.  I was too drunk to figure out if that was too high (we do live in End Of The World, UT after all), or too low (did I mention how many shots of tequila we did?).  I just decided to roll with it.

Outside the bar, the parking lot was a mob scene.  All the people we knew had combined with everyone they knew, so there were something like 30 people milling around trying to figure out where to go next, who was driving, all that.  I finally found Jen again, and by this point I was so drunk I honestly have no idea what transpired between us.  I’m pretty sure we kissed in the parking lot, but I don’t think it was anything spectacular, not one of my usual drunken make outs that would make me the butt of jokes for weeks to come.  But I have no idea what I said to her.

Once Jen and her friends were gone, there was still the problem of how we were going to get home.  I swear there were 30 people trying to figure out how to fit in 4 or 5 cars.  I was feeling a little better about myself after getting some action in the parking lot, so I wasn’t pissed anymore, but I still didn’t have the patience to stand around trying to figure out whose clown car I was going to have to pile into.  “Fuck it, I’m walking home,” I announced.  Blackout argued with me briefly (he had been arrested about six months earlier because he drunkenly wandered off one night and got picked up passed out on a slide in the park), but I assured him I knew where I was going and I’d meet him back at the apartment.

It’s about two miles from Hamilton’s to my apartment, and it was probably mid-40s out, but fortunately I was drunk enough to feel no pain.  I’d guess I got about half a mile before Blackout called and said he had us a ride, our friend Jasmine was on the way.  I kept walking until the car showed up, and though I can’t remember who all was in the car I remember being pleasantly surprised that it wasn’t too too crowded.

Back at Blackout’s place, things were a total blur.   I have no idea how many people were there or how long they stayed, but at some point Jasmine and everyone else we knew left, so that all that remained were two girls I had never seen in my life.  The four of us started playing drinking games.  Beers were flowing like water.

Nicole started texting me sometime after 2.   She said, “I’ll give you Jen’s number but if you treat her badly I’ll kick your ass.”

According to my phone (which is the only evidence I have that all this took place) we exchanged texts for nearly an hour.  If I had the time and patience to retype the transcripts you would laugh your ass off at the stupidity of us two drunken idiots.  I was saying I didn’t want her number if she didn’t want to give it to me, Nicole was saying I was going to have to do the work; I said I’d do the work, I just needed a sign; Nicole answered “I am your sign!”  And that loop more or less repeated itself a couple times.  At some point she said “I have a good feeling about you, Single White Alcoholic,” which I found comical to the max.

At this point, in addition to my own drunken blackout, some of the clocks began to change with the daylight savings, so there is a span of several hours where I was in total confusion as to what time it actually was.  Some cell phones were changing, some were not.  Wall clocks were not, I don’t think.  I have no idea if Blackout’s cable had changed, so in short I have no idea what time it was.  While being retarded drunk, this was almost too much to bear.  My head was spinning.  And like I said, the only two girls left in the apartment were total strangers.  And they were chain smoking, adding to the cloudy timeless drunken haze.  I was a complete mess.

The evening kept going.  Somewhere along the way the card game became strip poker.  Now, the two girls weren’t hot by any means, but they were respectable.  Or so I thought.  Have you ever met one of those girls that looks a lot better with her clothes on than off?  Yeah, one of those.  But more on that later.

I have never played strip poker in my life.  Actually, the game kind of offends me.  Real poker is a game of skill, with bets and bluffs and all sorts of other strategies to win that are not entirely dependent on the cards you are dealt.  Strip poker might as well be “strip coin flip.”  But when in Rome, right?  (Or when intoxicated, right?)  So I did my best to invoke some strategy.  Since we were playing worst hand loses an article of clothing, it wasn’t about winning but simply not losing.  So no chasing straights or flushes, with four people playing a simple pair would usually be enough to not lose.  With everyone else chasing the big hand, I was sitting pretty.

One of the other issues I have with strip poker is that women have more clothing to begin with; bras, necklaces, earrings, it’s really a stacked deck against the dudes.  I hadn’t worn an undershirt or a jacket, so I was at even more of a disadvantage.  Looking back on it as best I can, I’m pretty sure I only had nine articles of clothing to work with, while the girls had somewhere in the neighborhood of 13 with jewelry and such.  Thank God for my floppy hat!  That one item saved me from having to show the goods!  Poor Blackout got knocked down to his boxers in a matter of minutes, but then I discreetly told him my strategy, and that combined with a hot streak kept him from having to “free willy.”

                **WARNING!  Things begin to get graphic at this point.  If you do not want to read about my sexual prowess (or lack thereof), stop here.**

So as I said, both Blackout and I made it to the end with our drawers still on.  The girl to my left (we’ll call her Blonde, because I have no idea what her name was) had looked alright while fully clothed, but as items began coming off she began to look more and more like a meth addict.  She was skinny, I’ll give her that.  But she clearly didn’t work out.  She had stretch marks from childbirth (what is it with broads in this town???  They all have fucking kids!), and her breasts sagged at an almost unnatural angle.  It wasn’t a pretty sight.  And of course, she was the one who lost everything first.

Her friend (we’ll call her Brunette) was a little better.  She was a little bigger, not meth-skinny like Blonde, and had a pretty nice rack.  She had been dominating the poker game early on, so I hadn’t even paid much attention to her as she was sitting fully clothed while Blonde was losing piece after piece.  But it didn’t last long.  Once I gave Blackout some tips on how to play and he hit his hot streak, the clothes started falling off her.  The girls even accused us of cheating, it was that good of a run.

Once Blonde was completely nude, we played one more hand, which she again lost.  I had one of my only truly good hands (since I’d been playing not to lose all night), and Blackout immediately announced that that meant naked girl had to give me a lap dance.  In retrospect, this all seems a little awkward.  Me in my underwear, a naked meth head giving me a lap dance to Blackout’s bad hip hop music while a nearly naked Blackout and Brunette watched and cheered.  But soon his plan became clear, because the girl couldn’t have been more than a minute into her dance when he put his arm around Brunette and said something along the lines of “Well, that’s our cue,” and hauled her off into his bedroom.

Clever bastard.

I won’t sicken you with too many details, but let’s say it took about one more minute before Blonde was on her knees giving me head.  (Moderately good head, she lacked deep throat skills but did a solid job with what she could fit in her mouth).  I was still hammered at this point, and frankly I’m surprised my guy was still working, but he was up to the challenge.

After a bit of that she said she wanted to fuck, and asked if I had a condom.  Of course not.  So I went to go see if I could scavenge one from Blackout’s bathroom.  But as I passed by his bedroom the door was still wide open and I saw him, now wearing nothing but my floppy hat, going to town on Brunette.  It is an image that will forever be burned in my brain.  My poor hat!  So I grabbed Blonde and told her we needed to head over to my place.  We quickly dressed enough to make the 100 yard run to my place.  As we stepped outside I saw the sun was starting to come up.  I still had no idea what time it was, but it had to be sometime around 7.  We hustled to my door, I put the key in the lock, turned and…

…Nothing.

My key wouldn’t work!  I twisted it back the other way, tried again, still nothing.  I stepped back, took a look at the apartment number to make sure it was my place, tried to turn the key again, still nothing.  I tried to pull the key out and it wouldn’t come out, it was stuck in the lock.  If I had been sober I would have been completely embarrassed, but since I was still a trainwreck I was just angry and confused as I assured Blonde I did indeed really live here.

Totally befuddled, we went back to Blackout’s place, where he was still going at it with Brunette.  I pulled his door shut and tried to collect my drunken thoughts.  How to get into my apartment?  I told Blonde I would be right back and ran back over to my place.  I tried the key again, still no luck.  I tried the patio door, locked.  I tried to pry open my bedroom window (my DirectTV wires go through the window sill so it’s not entirely secure), but I couldn’t get my fingers wedged in deep enough to pry the window open.  I must have spent 10-15 minutes trying to break into my apartment, and by the time I came back to Blackout’s place Blonde was nowhere to be found, and Blackout and Brunette had finished their deed and were passed out.

I dug into Nash’s toolbox, found a pair of pliers and went back to my bedroom window to try and pry it open again.  It must have taken me ten more minutes with the sun rising at my back to finally get the window open enough to get my fingers inside and pull the window open, climb through into my bedroom and pass out.

Epilogue:

-Sometime around 2 in the afternoon Nicole texted me and said she had talked to Jen, and she promised to give me a chance if I called her.

-I couldn’t get out of bed until 5.

-Around 6 Nash took me to get my car.  I think he was still drunk.  He had no recollection of hooking up with Brunette.  When I pressed him for details he couldn’t be sure if he had used a condom.  He has since scheduled an appointment to get tested.

-Neither of us could recall the girls’ names or how they had wound up at our place.

-I washed my hat Monday.

-In retrospect, that broken door lock might be the surest sign of a higher power I’ve ever seen in my life.  Someone was looking out for me and making sure I didn’t hook up with a meth addict!  The Lord works in mysterious ways, but for one night at least he did indeed work for me!

-Nearly a week later, we discovered the girls were co-workers of Jasmine’s roommate, so we at least know how they wound up back at Blackout’s place.  We still don’t know their names.  We also heard through about a five-person phone tree that one of them lost an ID that night, but a search of Blackout’s apartment turned up nothing.

-Monday, when I could finally get someone from the apartment complex to take a look at my broken lock, they told me, “Yeah, we’ve been having this problem with a lot of the doors.  We’re replacing them as they go bad.”  Thanks, assholes.

-Tuesday my tab finally posted online, and Nicole was good to her word.  It was $142.66.

-Blackout also had a tab of over $100.  He has no recollection of ever opening a tab, or even ordering a drink.

-I called Jen Sunday evening.  It was a debacle from the start.  She was indeed as hot as I remembered her, but she was luggin’ around more baggage than a Southwest Airlines flight.  Between a failed marriage (I’m no expert but it was pretty clear he had abused her), three kids and a Mormon upbringing she was a complete mess.  I waivered between trying to be the nice guy (because the poor girl clearly needed emotional help) and trying to get her in the sack for a meaningless romp, and in the end wound up giving up on all accounts.  Too much effort for this guy.

An Innocent Girl

My friend BJ wrote her first blog not too long ago:

http://wordplayforeplay.wordpress.com/

I tell you this because there will be more from BJ in the near future.  You see, BJ and I go way back.  In the near future I will tell you about her friend the Mormon Stalker, who I made the dreadful mistake of sleeping with.  And, if you read BJ’s blog, you’ll see that she is quite a sweet and innocent girl from Middle of Nowhere, Idaho.  But unlike most sheltered, innocent girls, BJ isn’t afraid to try new things.  In fact, she approached me once about wanting to learn to deep throat.  So, being the kind and gentlemanly guy that I am, I offered up my penis for her to practice on for a weekend.  Helluva guy, huh?

But more on that later.  For now, just enjoy her blog.  Who knows, maybe someday I’ll give her a guest author spot….